Page 15 of Ms. Lead

Sticking to my guns, I just nod. “Yes, I’ve been there.” I keep my attention on the road ahead and the traffic around us. This is a job, just like every other person I’ve driven around. Other than him sitting up front with me, this is no different. It’s becoming a mantra I need to keep repeating.

“And how did you find it?” He’s not dropping it. A for effort, I guess, though I don’t understand what’s changed from yesterday.

“You mean, how was it?” I ask, and he nods. “I don’t know. It’s a typical museum. Since you’re writing about it, I’m sure you’ll find it more interesting than I did.”

“It was boring, huh?” he chuckles, and the sound twists something in me, making me want to make him laugh again. It sounds like music to my ears.

Okay, he wants to banter. I can banter.

I shrug, relaxing a little. “There’s now a speakeasy in the basement where I’ll be waiting for you. That part is interesting.” My lips twitch into a smirk, and his laughter does continue, forcing me to smile.

“Does this mean I’m going to need to drive you home?” He tries to sound stern, but his smile is devilishly wicked as if he’s having inappropriate thoughts. No. I’m sure I imagine that part.

He’s an entirely different person when he’s like this. Charming, engaging, irresistible, and sexy as hell. I can feel the ice around my emotions melting, but I’m cautious. I know how quickly he can switch his mood.

“No. I don’t drink on the clock, so no worries there.”

He lets out a long breath as if relieved. “Oh, good. We wouldn’t want me behind the wheel. Even sober.” His laughter trails off.

That sounds interesting. “Oh? Are you a bad driver?”

He suddenly grows serious, and there it is. The switch I was predicting. I knew it would show up eventually. He doesn’t answer but instead kind of nods to himself and turns to look out the side window, so I can’t see his face. I’d swear he’s purposely hiding.

“Oliver?” I get the sense we touched on something sensitive with him, but I can’t figure out what for the life of me. All we talked about was driving, not anything earth-shattering. “Are you okay?”

It takes a second, but he eventually realizes I’ve been talking to him.

“What’s that? Oh. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” The dismissive way he says this clues me in that our conversation is over, and I shouldn’t ask him any more questions. That’s fine. I don’t need to talk to him at all. I was just responding to him in the first place.

We pull into the parking lot of the mob museum, which used to be an old courthouse, and find a spot easily since it’s still early. When I turn the car off, we both hesitate, as if something needs to be said, but neither of us says anything. After another long moment, I open the door and get out.

I’ve heard of the term ‘emotional whiplash’ and can now say I’m experiencing it in real-time. I could really have done without this life experience.

Chapter Nine

OLIVER

GHOST

My leg has gone numb. My fucking leg has pins and needles shooting down my right calf. My initial instinct is still to massage it or pound my leg to wake it up, but I know damn well that won’t do a thing. What I don’t know is what will happen if I try to step out of this car and walk to the entrance, but I can’t stay in this increasingly hot car, either.

Bianca is staring at me curiously from the sidewalk, probably wondering what the hell I’m doing just sitting here. My fists are clenching and unclenching automatically, and panic is winding its way up from my heart to my brain. I’m starting to break out in a sweat, and I need to do something before I overheat.

God damn it.

This is precisely what I was afraid of. This helplessness. This soon-to-be felt humiliation. Maybe I can play this off as the typical falling asleep pins and needles that ordinary people get. Who cares if we’ve only been in the car a few minutes. It could happen.

Sure. Lie to yourself some more.

Taking a deep breath, I pull on the handle and swing the door wide so I can turn in the seat and use my left leg to stand. Bianca’s gaze is piercing through me, straight into my embarrassment. I can feel it. The sun beats down on me relentlessly, making everything feel even worse.

After I shut the door, I lean my hand on the car while I navigate walking with a leg that feels like it’s wrapped in cement. It’ll take a few steps, but I should get used to it.

“Everything okay?” There it is again. That bloody concern. I can’t even look at her, not just because I don’t want to see her expression; I have to concentrate on walking.

“Yeah, just a bit of a dead leg. I must have sat awkwardly. I’ll be fine in a minute. Just need to walk it off. Nothing to worry over.” I overexplained that, but to hell with it. I don’t stop walking and pass her to limp up the stairs and enter the building. This time I’m able to hold the door open for her. She bestows me with a nod and a smile, accompanied by a blush on her cheeks.

Once in the lobby, I glance around, looking for the Chair of the Advisory Council for the museum, who is also the former agent in charge of the FBI's Las Vegas division, whom I will be interviewing today. I don’t see her yet. We are very early.

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