Page 15 of Play Fast (Brooklyn Dawn 2)

Daisy didn’t acknowledge my response. I almost apologized, but something held me back. There was no point in pretending to be someone else. I wasn’t trying to charm her. She knew me in a way few others did. No matter how much I’d changed in five years, deep down I was mostly the same. The path to get there was just scarred over and brittle.

Other than a few quick questions about the route—which I could barely answer without access to the map currently growing hot under her thigh—we didn’t speak for a good hour or longer. By then, my stomach was growling and I was thirsty as fuck.

I motioned to a sign for an upcoming rest stop. “Stop there.”

“Please,” she said primly.

I grinned.

She must’ve sensed it because she turned her head toward me. “Wow, you do know how to smile. I’m surprised.”

“I used to smile plenty.”

“You did. So did I. We should fix that, don’t you think?”

“Got any ideas?”

Bad question to ask. I knew it as soon as she leaned forward in her seat. “There’s no one on this road right now.”

“There will be in a second. Do you know how many people travel the Thruway every day?”

But she wasn’t paying attention to me, because she’d slammed her probably tiny ass foot on the gas and sent us bulleting forward.

“What the hell are you doing? Do you want to get a ticket?”

“Not particularly, but I want to go fast.” She cranked down the driver’s side window all the way and let out a screech as the wind blew her ponytail straight back from her head. The next gust pulled pieces free and teased them around her face. She laughed as she unexpectedly switched lanes, making the old truck sway. “We need music,” she shouted over the wind. “Give me something good.”

I could’ve said no to her. In fact, I should have. Then again, I didn’t much like this role reversal. I was the crazy rockstar. Right now, she was out-maneuvering me by a mile.

So, what did I do? I gave her some good music.

I scanned to the hair metal channel and turned up the volume as high as it would go. Daisy let out a whoop and stomped on the gas.

Fuck, I was never getting to my cabin. We were going to be spending the night in lockup somewhere.

But some part of me didn’t care. I was having fun with Daisy. Sort of. In between looking for the cops and formulating what I would tell Lila when we got arrested for going—I leaned over to look at the speedometer and let out a low whistle—over one hundred miles per hour.

“I love Whitesnake,” she yelled. “David Coverdale’s hair was so fuckable.”

My jaw tensed. Went well with the hand clutching my denim-clad thigh for dear life. “He had a perm.”

“He did not.” Her voice was indignant.

Without warning, she signaled for the rest stop I’d forgotten all about in my jealousy over eighties’ hair gods and shot down the exit ramp.

We slid into a space, and she leaned over the wheel dramatically. “What a rush.”

“Yeah, so’s stop and frisk.”

“I think you’re mad because David had better hair than you do.”

I nearly said he so did not before I retained hold of my man card. Narrowly. “What do you want to eat?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Roy Rogers. Two chicken sandwiches with extra pickles.”

I unsnapped my seatbelt and cocked a brow. “For you and who else?”

She rolled her eyes and undid her own belt before climbing down from the driver’s seat. “Whatever.”

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