Текст книги "Uncaged"

Автор книги: Emilia Kincade

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter Thirty Seven

Three weeks later...

“Where the hell is he?” Dad asks. He’s nervous. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, and he wipes his upper lip. “Damn it, he’s late. Everybody is seated.”

“I don’t know!” I hiss. I suddenly feel awkward and defensive. Does Dad… know?

“You haven’t been in touch with him at all?”

“No!” I lie. “Why would I?”

The truth is that I left Pierce naked in bed this morning. He was still sleeping, utterly still on his back, while I watched the news. Fallon and the Russian gangster Mogilovich were sentenced to jail for possession of illegal firearms as well as drugs. There was also blood in the trunk of the Jaguar that matched the DNA of a murder victim.

Thank God that Jag was locked…

I had left Pierce to go get my hair done. Now I’ve got my hair smooth and straight and looking the best it ever has, and Pierce is nowhere in sight. I left him a note reminding him not to be late… I don’t know what I expected, honestly.

“Damn it,” Dad says, fidgeting. He looks around at the small gathering, mostly just some friends. He was right when he said that neither him nor Isabelle had large extended families.

This would be a modest wedding turnout by any standard. That’s not a bad thing, either. I’ve always hated the idea of having a huge wedding. All that excess for what? Love isn’t about putting on a show for the extended family. It’s about a promise to one person. That’s all it should ever be about.

Isabelle looks beautiful and elegant today, but as severe as ever. Sometimes, I wonder if she ever smiles. Of all the times I met her back home in Chicago, it never seemed like she was having much fun.

There’s a small prick of guilt in me, and it reminds me that this is a woman Dad loves. I should at least try my hardest to approve.

But after what Mom did to him… how can I expect this to turn out any better? She doesn’t strike me as the overly affectionate or loving type, and if I know Dad, I know that’s what he needs…

“Where is that boy?” Isabelle snarls, before giving me a polite smile. “I’m sorry. He’s always been like this. Impossible.”

“It’s fine, Issy,” Dad says. Again, he looks out at the small crowd. Everyone is seated, ready for the ceremony. We’re back inside the cottage that Dad rented – along with its lush back garden. The seating is arranged in two narrow columns outside, and there’s a runner leading up to an altar on a raised platform.

“For heaven’s sake,” Isabelle says. “We’re not going to wait for him.”

I turn wide eyes on Pierce’s mother. “Are you sure? I’m sure he won’t be much longer.”

“Oh?” she asks, lip curling. “How can you be sure? You hardly know him. I do.”

My voice fades. The irony of it all? I do know him. And him being late is just the sort of Pierce thing to do.

“Yes,” she says, nodding at Dad. “I’d like to marry you now.”

Dad’s mouth pulls into a broad grin, and I swear I see his eyes go liquid. He nods, and takes her hand. “Okay.”

“I thought the groom wasn’t supposed to see the bride before the actual wedding,” I tease.

“At my age, Penelope,” Isabelle tells me. “You just don’t give a crap about arbitrary tradition.”

She motions for me to go outside and take my seat, and when I’m seated, I still can’t believe that Pierce is late to his own mother’s wedding.

He’s never going to change…

The hushed whispering around me is quieted when the ceremony starts, and Isabelle begins to walk up the aisle. It’s a white runner, and on both sides rose petals have been sprinkled.

Dad seems genuinely happy, and definitely nervous. He’s already done this once before, but I guess you just never, ever get used to it.

That’s when I see him, Pierce. He strutting out of the house, leaving the French doors open behind him. He’s got a cigar in his mouth, a swagger in his step, and his tie loosened and top button undone.

Unbelievably, his sleeves are rolled up, and he’s got his jacket slung over his shoulder as if he was posing for a freaking modeling shoot.

I can only shake my head and grin.

Pierce joins his mother on the aisle, and she gives him a disapproving look. He holds his arm out, and she slips hers into it, and together they walk up, his cigar still smoking, leaving a grey trail behind them like a coal train.

When they get to the altar, I hear him say, “I give you away, Mother.”

And then I hear her say, “I’m a woman. Nobody is going to give me away for dowry.”

Pierce laughs, and kisses his mother on the cheek. “Tradition be damned, right?”

“Right.”

“Then I wish you happiness.”

“Thank you for showing up,” she says. I swear, for a second, I see a smile.

Pierce sits down in the empty seat next to me, and gives me an innocent ‘what?’ look.

“Did you have to be late?” I hiss, bunching my brow.

He doesn’t reply. He looks me up and down, and then sucks in a deep breath of air.

“God, you look fuckable in that dress,” he says.

“You’ve got cigar breath.”

“I’m going to fuck you in every room of that house,” he says, jerking his head behind us.

I cover the smile on my mouth with a hand. “We’ll be eating in there later.”

“We’ll find a way to do it in the dining room.”

The only thing I can do is shake my head.

At the altar, Isabelle says, “I do.”

The priest says, “You may kiss the bride.”

My father and my new stepmother kiss.

My new stepbrother’s fingers sidle over my thigh, leaving tingles and buzzing in their wake.

“Stop it!” I whisper, slapping his hand away.

He just grins, gets up, and swaggers off.

I watch him over my shoulder. The ceremony is not even fully finished, and already he’s disappeared into the cottage. Moments later his figure appears in one of the upstairs windows. He beckons me through the glass.

Everybody is starting to chat and mill about now, and so I use the opportunity to sneak away. Nobody notices me as I recede slowly from the congratulating crowd.

I enter the cottage, walk up the creaky steps, and into the room that Pierce is in. It’s a small bedroom, fully furnished, though no doubt it’s all for show. A four-poster bed lies against the wall; it looks old, a little too grand for this small cottage. A folded card sits on top, and it reads: Do not sit.

“What do you want?” I ask. Pierce is standing at the window, leaning out of it, smoking cigar clasped between his thumb and index finger. “Why did you come up here?”

He turns around, a smirk prying his lips apart. “Why do you think?”

“Gross,” I say, grimacing. “God knows when this place was last properly cleaned. God knows who last… you know, did it in this bed. I’m sure somebody has.”

“I’m sure, too.”

“What did you really ask me up here for?” My eyes go to his cigar. “What does it taste like, anyway?”

“It’s difficult to describe. I don’t think you’d like it.”

“Can I try?”

“Sure, but don’t inhale.”

He holds the cigar out, and I take a puff, let it out of my mouth, and make a face. “It’s so bitter.”

“Truth be told,” he says, and he stubs it out on the windowsill. “I don’t know why people even smoke these things.”

“Pierce!” I hiss, going to the window. The wooden sill has been burned, and black ash is smudged in a faint circle. Some of the old off-white paint is now chipping.

“I think we should tell them.”

I spin around, blinking. “No, we shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” he asks. “Don’t you think it would be fun, Pen?”

“They’ll be gone from Melbourne in a couple of days for their honeymoon, and then they’ll be gone from this country in two weeks.”

“So you just want to let them leave without knowing? And we continue our little forbidden tryst in secret?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

He leans against the wall at an angle, and puts his hands into his pockets. “Sounds like a plan, Pen.”

We don’t speak for a moment. He’s staring off into the middle distance.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I was serious, you know.”

“About what?”

“Getting a Prince Albert.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” I say, heaving a dramatic sigh. “No you weren’t. You were just trying to annoy me.”

“I was,” he admits. “But I’ve thought about it a little more. Could be fun, you know?”

“I can’t believe we’re talking about this again.”

“Think you’d like it?”

I widen my eyes in disbelief. “I honestly haven’t thought about it before.”

“Well, think about it.”

I give him a shrug and a head-shake. “I don’t think that I care.”

“Think Tina will branch out into piercings? Hire someone good?”

“Ew, no,” I say. “And besides, I don’t think I’d be comfortable with you getting it done at our shop.”

“Our shop?”

“Tina’s letting me take on more clients now,” I say, grinning. “In fact, I’m starting to bring in business!”

For a moment, Pierce almost beams at me. “That’s great, Pen. I knew you’d make it.”

“I haven’t made it yet. But I’m getting there.”

“How long will you apprentice for her?”

“The full year, if I can.”

“And then?”

“Then I’ll talk to her about starting my own shop. Or I’ll work for her for a little longer, you know? Get more experience.”

“I was thinking about getting a new tattoo,” he says.

“Oh, yeah?” I ask, grinning. I go to him, take his hand. “So was I, actually.”

“Where?”

“I want a half-sleeve. I’ve been sketching up some designs.”

“In your top-secret sketchbook you never let me look at?”

“I’ve got it with me now,” I tell him. “It’s in the car. Want to see them?”

“Hell fucking yes, I do.”

“Then come on. We’ll get them and go sit in the garden. It’s a nice day today. We’ll let all the adults mingle.”

We leave the room together, hand-in-hand.

“You know, I’m glad you’re not fighting anymore. When is the grand opening for the gym?”

“Not set yet. There’s still some work that needs to be done, and I need to get a practice cage in.”

“Ballpark?”

“Sometime next month.”

“So you’re really going to teach, huh?”

Pierce shrugs. “Why not? Man’s got to earn a living.”

“Well, just as long as you don’t teach them how to get into underground fights. Have you got students yet?”

“They’re lined up twice ’round the block. What can I say?” he asks, smugly. “They’re learning from a legend.”

“Oh, shut up.”

As we’re walking down the steps, he leans into me and smells my hair. Then he whispers, “I’m still going to fuck you in every room in this house, you know. We’ve got all afternoon.”

“No you’re not,” I tell him. “You couldn’t do it that many times in one day, anyway.”

In his eyes I see a blaze of competitiveness.

“Want to bet?”

The End

Afterword

I would like to thank you for making it this far into Uncaged. It is my sincerest hope that you enjoyed reading this book.

Penny and Pierce are, to me, extremely similar, even if they themselves don’t realize it. But… that’s not entirely true; at one point, Pierce does consider Penny’s competitive fire, and how it drives her to succeed in life. He compares it to his own, and respects, even admires, that she is chasing her dream.

They are both control freaks, also, though the habit manifests itself in different ways. Penny likes to feel in charge, likes to control for every variable. She’s not a fan of risks, and when Pierce’s capacity for attracting trouble starts to catch up with her, she finds it very difficult to deal with. I think most people can sympathize with her.

Pierce also likes to be in control. He bets on his own fights, and picks and chooses when and where he fights. He’s not as risk-averse as Penny, though – not in the slightest. He often feels he can control a situation, even if logically it doesn’t seem he should be able to. Where Penny only tries to control situations she can, Pierce thinks he can control those he can’t.

I liken Pierce to someone I used to know when I was in school. This person’s life always seemed to just work out, no matter how much trouble they found themselves in, and they often found themselves in a great deal of trouble.

Pierce is like that; he can find himself in unavoidable, inescapable straits, and yet still find a way to worm out, much like how he can slip out of an MMA submission hold. He likes to think that he’s responsible for all of this, but really, I think he might just be an extremely lucky person.

It’s a well-worn cliché, and I’m sure you’ve heard or read it a thousand times before, but the truth is that characters really do write themselves, and even I was mildly surprised to learn very little about Pierce’s father. While I have a character outline jotted down, an intent, it was Pierce who prevented me from putting it into the story.

Penny was a much easier character for me to relate to. She was driven, but conflicted, often times appearing a contradiction. Her young mind, while confident in the type of future it wanted for her, was unused to dealing with sudden complications. Pierce ranks top among them.

She took great inspiration from her father, an architect she considered an artist first and foremost, and while, when she gets older, she may regret the resentment she harbors toward her mother, I feel it made her a stronger person. At a young age she took on a sense of responsibility that she needn’t have, and her own precocious nature made her into the person she is, but likely made the journey there a lot tougher.

But all of this is neither here nor there; these are just my idle reflections. After all, Penny and Pierce only really exist in the pages of this book, though they will make cameo appearances in future books.

I’d like to thank you again for reading Uncaged, and for giving an indie author a chance. I’m always eager to listen to feedback, good or bad, so if you’re feeling inclined, do write to me by email or get in touch with me on Facebook.

My next book, Unleashed, will follow the story of Chance Hudson and Cassie Shannon, both of whom made a brief appearance in this book.

Chance is an amateur fighter looking to possibly turn pro, and Cassie is an aspiring political scientist seeking to carve out a career in academia. They find that their paths cross unexpectedly, and when their parents announce a surprise wedding in Las Vegas, everything is thrown into turmoil. You will find a brief excerpt at the end of this book.

If you’d like to be notified of when Unleashed is released, you can sign up for my newsletter. I won’t flood your inbox, and will only be in touch for new releases or opportunities to receive review copies.

Wishing you happiness and health,

Emilia

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Excerpt:

Unleashed

An MMA Stepbrother Romance

“Great speech.”

I look up and am too slow to stop the gasp from leaving my lips.

It’s Chance Hudson. What the hell does he want?

His gorgeous hazel eyes bore straight into mine, and I find it hard to maintain eye-contact. He’s been teasing and tormenting me for a whole year. Somehow, he was in nearly all of my classes.

He wipes his chestnut-brown hair to the side, and his golden-tan seems to shine in the afternoon sunlight. His huge body, all muscle and not an ounce of fat, towers over me. I’m literally sitting in his shadow.

“Oh God,” I groan, looking away.

It’s warm, and I’m tired, and I shook like a wet puppy on the stage. There were hundreds of parents there, and the red lights of camera-phones recording me had done nothing to quell my nerves. My voice had hitched, my lips had trembled.

Really, the speech was anything but great. It wasn’t even good.

I think to my ending:

And so this new generation sets off into the world, wary of the conventions set down by the old. We hope to improve, but betterment so often comes in the form of subversion, of questioning. We hope that you don’t judge us for our life decisions. The world is forever in flux, and so let us be different. Let us look at your methods and adjust them, or strike them out so that we might forge newer, better ways.

Let us change. Support our change.

Because when you were our age, that’s what you would have wanted.

 

I groan. It sounds so trite in my head, so vague and so boring. All the typical clichés. All samey, no punch.

“No, it wasn’t a good speech,” I say to Chance.

I keep my eyes off his, on a bright red car in the distance, but soon it turns a corner and disappears out of sight.

I’m sitting on a bench waiting for the bus to take me home – Dad left for Las Vegas yesterday – and in my gown the sun is making me feel more than a little warm.

Chance is standing right in front of me, though, so it’s practically impossible for me not to look at him eventually, and when I do, he’s got his hands on his hips, his head cocked to the side, and an amused grin pulling at his lips.

So I look at his body because I don’t want to look into his eyes. He’s wearing a tight t-shirt that fits him too damn well, and a pair of dark jeans. It’s unfair really how good he can look in casual clothing.

I hate that I’m attracted to him. I can easily see the shape of his body through his clothing, from his muscular chest to the way the sleeves wrap around his veiny, defined arms. He’s lean, like an athlete… well, he is an athlete. Well, he was an athlete.

He barely graduated, from what I heard on the grapevine.

But still, school wrestling champ? And from what I hear, a bit of a local legend in the amateur boxing and MMA leagues? I wouldn’t be surprised if he had scholarship offers lining up.

That’s our country. Sports. Money. Fame.

“What do you want, Chance?” I ask, impatience in my voice. I don’t bother playing nice or blunting my attitude. We’re not friends. We never have been. I dislike him intensely. He’s everything I’m not. He’s everything I don’t like. Chance never worked hard in school a day in his life, and yet he’s destined to go to college, destined to graduate as they give him dummy courses with low standards.

It’s like that with all athletes. He’s nothing like me.

“Nothing that you’d give me,” he says. “Yet.” He smirks at me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why are you so sensitive all the time?” Still his lips are pried apart, almost nastily. He thinks he’s such hot shit. I can’t understand why he behaves this way. He’s so repulsive.

“I’m not sensitive. I just don’t like you.”

“Why? Because you want me?”

He doesn’t move. His hands don’t move. He doesn’t fidget. He’s just so damn comfortable all the time. I find my eyes going to his lips… and I hate that I like the shape of his lips. They are full, kissable, set within a strong and defined jaw.

They’re soft, and when his tongue wets them, I find myself momentarily mesmerized.

I just can’t see why the most attractive boy in school is also the most assholish. It bothers me. Is there some kind of script we all adhere to? Why does it happen so often that it’s become a cliché?

What cliché am I? The nerdy girl who did well in school? The geek girl who never had a boyfriend, who was hall monitor and a teacher’s pet?

Well, I wasn’t a damn teacher’s pet. I wasn’t anybody’s pet.

“I don’t want you,” I tell him. “Leave me alone please.”

“Sure you don’t,” he says, sitting down next to me on the bench. He spreads his arm out on the backrest behind me, and pokes my shoulder with a finger. “So, why are you waiting for the bus, then?”

“My dad is away. He left the car at the long-stay parking at the airport, and we only have one car.”

“He didn’t come to your graduation?”

“No.”

“My mother didn’t, either.”

“Really?” I ask, looking at him. For the first time, I feel there might be a thread of similarity between us, but he ruins the moment.

“But it’s not like I give two shits. I couldn’t care less.”

I balk. “You don’t care that your own mother didn’t attend your graduation? Figures. You must be dumb.”

“Oh, I’m certainly not as smart as you.”

“Hey, I worked hard for this. We’re in a weighted-GPA school. Do you know what that means?”

He shrugs. “Jack shit, truthfully.”

“It means that you are awarded more for harder courses, and less for easier courses.”

“So?”

“So?” I echo, exasperated. “It means that I’m not just any little-miss-smart or whatever. I worked for this. I took the toughest courses and I aced them. I did extra credit.”

“So? So what?” He looks at me and grins. “What’s it going to get you?”

“Well, it got me into LSE. That’s the London School of Economics, in case you weren’t aware. It’s one of the best universities in the world.” I peer at him. “You probably weren’t.”

He grins, like he’s enjoying this, and it just pisses me off.

“You’re a bit of a snob, aren’t you?” he says.

“I’m not a snob. I’m just telling it how it is.”

“What’s that super-prestigious degree going to get you, then? Run through your plan with me.”

“Why should I?”

“Well, the bus isn’t here yet, and you’re enjoying talking to me.”

I make a face.

“So, what’s it going to get you?” he pushes.

“I’ll graduate with honors in political science.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll do my master’s.”

“And then?”

“I’ll teach.”

He scoffs. “You’ll teach? That’s it? That’s your sole ambition? That’s the final step in your plan?”

“Hey,” I say. “The world needs more teachers. Good ones. Smart ones.”

“You’ve got this little plan all worked out. You think that it’s all going to depend on how well you do in your classes, what grades you get. Let me ask you, we go to a good private school, right?”

“Yes,” I say, nodding.

“What do you think of Dunham?”

“He’s my history teacher. He’s—”

“A fucking idiot.”

“No he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He’s got a doctorate, he’s written books on the first and second dynasties of Chin—”

“And this is where he is! Why do you suppose that is, if he’s so accomplished?”

“No shame in teaching in a good school.”

“Why don’t you ask him if he wanted to teach a bunch of stuck-up teenagers all day?”

“You’re in this school too, you know.”

“Not by choice.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you even know the point you’re trying to make, Chance? We happen to go to a very good school. You’re kind of undercutting yourself here.”

“He doesn’t know anything about anything useful. Is that what you want to be? In some stupid little corner, some narrow field of study, that nobody else gives a shit about? You want to go into academics? You want to live and die by what you publish? Have your work peer-reviewed by a bunch of cliquey circle-jerkers? You know they all just suck off their friends, don’t you? You know it’s all one big boy’s club.”

“Can you not be so vulgar? And, anyway, political science is not a narrow field, and my options will be open. I could go into academia, or I could go into, shock horror, politics!”

“Politics?” he blurts, laughing. “God, you’re precious.”

“And I can float between the two. I can always go back into academics anytime I want. What kind of prospects do you have?”

“You’ll be encouraged to specialize over and over again. They will push you into a narrow corner, where you can be the master of all you can see – nothing. You will be a big fish in a tiny, brackish pond.”

“Like you would know anything about academics, Chance. You barely graduated from what I hear.”

He laughs. “Surprised me, too. I hardly went to class.”

“I thought you got caught for cutting last year.”

“I did,” he says. “But this year most of my teachers were women, so of course I made attendance minimums.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re so gross and up yourself.”

“Hey, I ain’t lying. Apparently I’ve attended the minimum number of classes required this year. That’s how I could graduate, but I know for a fact that I didn’t.”

“That’s so much bullshit.” I frown and I’m sure my expression darkens. It isn’t fair.

“Don’t be so upset, Cass. Why does it matter to you what happens to me?”

“Don’t call me Cass.”

“Don’t tell me you never saw a girl hitch her skirt up just a little, pull those puppy-dog eyes to get out of trouble? Don’t tell me you once never saw Nicole Stansfeld or Alice Ortiz get away with not doing their homework? Or get caught smoking in the changing rooms only to be let off the hook because it was a male teacher that happened to walk by and smell the smoke? Those two got away with far more than I ever did.”

“That’s wrong, too.”

“So what if you don’t get accepted into a master’s program?”

I fold my arms. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Cass, Cass, Cass,” he says, shaking his head. He adjusts his belt, and I can’t help but watch as he does it. For a fleeting moment, his t-shirt comes above his jeans, and I see the beginnings of his trimmed buzz of pubic hair.

I snap my eyes away, breathing a little quicker. God, when is this bus going to come?

“You think you’ve got it all figured out. Life isn’t like that.”

“How would you know what life is like?” I say, glaring into his eyes. I notice, then, that embedded in his hazel irises seem to be bits of silver pigmentation. It’s like his eyes are shining. He doesn’t even blink that much, he just meets my glare with a slightly-amused look.

“Trust me, I know much more about life than you do. You spend all your time with your nose in textbooks, never once asking if what they are teaching you is accurate, or why it is accurate. You memorize the tests, rote learn, regurgitate paragraphs from books you read the night before. So what if you did well in school? How’s it going to prepare you for real life? I mean, have you ever even had a job?”

“Yes, actually,” I say, feeling indignant. “I worked as a barista. And rote is a pretty complex word for an idiot like you, Chance.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’m an idiot. But at least I’m enjoying myself.”

“You enjoy being a total dick to everyone? You enjoy getting all sweaty with another guy and beating him up?”

“I enjoy winning my fights, yes. And I’m not a dick to everyone.”

“Oh, I mean, except for your stupid group of friends who follow you around like dogs.”

“Hey, I don’t give a fuck about them. I was talking about the girls, actually.”

Don't start, I think to myself. His reputation is known in this school, and the one the next county over.

Chance Hudson has slept with more girls than ten men will in their lifetimes, they say.

Chance Hudson has slept with half the female staff, they say.

I don’t care. It’s disgusting. He’s a dog.

“You’re a dog,” I say. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins, eyebrows flashing up. “I am, aren’t I?”

“You’re proud of it?”

He thinks for a moment, pushing his lips together, and brown eyebrows pinching together like two caterpillars meeting.

“Never really thought about it that way. It’s just what I do.” He smirks at me again, before getting up off the bench. “Come on,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“Come on. I’ll give you a ride. You know you want one.” He doesn’t even smile, he just plays it straight.

“Yuck. You’re gross,” I say, shaking my head. “No thanks.”

“The bus isn’t due for an hour. You know that right?”

“An hour?”

“What, you didn’t check the timetable? I thought you knew everything.”

“I thought you knew nothing.”

“Well I know you can either sit out here for an hour, or I can drive you home.”

“Why would I get into a car with you?”

“Come on, Cass, are you really asking me that question? Why does anybody get into a car with me?” He extends his arm, all lean and muscular, but I just ignore it. He really is such a pig.

“You’re so wrong, you know, with how you approach everything. You can’t talk to people this way. You’ve got a one-track mind.”

“This one-track mind is about to give you a free lift home.”

“No, this one-track mind is about to piss off.”

“Are you sure?” he says. “Don’t worry, I may be a dog, but I won’t bite.”

I snap the book I was reading shut, and get up, sighing. I don’t want to wait for an hour.

“Don’t try anything.”

He laughs, and puts his hands up. “You’ve got a pretty inflated opinion of yourself, don’t you?”

“Just shut up, okay?” I say, irritated. “Just, don’t talk to me. Where’s your car?”

“So you do want a ride?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Where’s your car, Chance?”

“Alright, alright,” he says, falling into step with me. My shoulder rubs against his, but I pull away. Still, it leaves my heart beating quicker.

“Over here,” he says, and we walk to the street. There I see what looks like a sports car. “Mazda RX-8,” he informs me.

“I don’t care about your car.”

“Well, to be fair, muscle was always my thing, but this was a gift. I can’t really complain.”

“Someone gifted you a Mazda?” I cry, flabbergasted. I realize it’s not exactly uncommon around this area, but still, it looks expensive, and who would like Chance enough to give him a car?

Who would trust him enough to give him a sports car?

He unlocks the car and walks around to the driver’s side. “Well, get in!” he says. “You don’t think I’m going to open the door for you, do you?”

“Piss off, Chance. Just don’t talk, okay?” I snarl, climbing into the car.