He bursts into hearty laughter, tilting his head back, making his glasses almost fall off. He tosses them onto the dashboard, then turns his attention back to me, his face illuminated by a broad grin. His tanned complexion and dark scruff make his dimples stand out even more. “So, what happened that lead to that?”
I sigh and toy with my chocolate bar, debating how honest I should be. I would fucking hate it if he turns out not to be that easygoing as he seems. But shit, rather find it out now than when I’ve invested more in this friendship. “Let’s just say that the last guy was very fond of me modeling, until his homophobic friends found out and he rather made sure I couldn’t work as a model anymore.”
I emphasize my point by lifting my shirt and showing him the jagged, ugly scar on the lower right part of my stomach. “Fucking had to take my appendix out after the stabbing,” I mutter when Tyler’s eyes widen. I quickly drop my shirt, making him focus on the road again.
He’s quiet, his laughter has died down for obvious reasons. So I look over to find that he has a deathgrip on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.
Nerves flutter in my chest. “Tyler?”
“Yeah, sorry. That’s really fucking fucked up.” He shoots me a concerned look, a furrow marring his gorgeous face–which, I suppose, I shouldn't be noticing as much since I'm aiming to be friends here–before refocusing on the road.
“It’s part of why I moved here,” I offer, to hopefully start the conversation again.
“What’s the other part?”
I blink and take in his perfect profile and strong nose. Here I am, spilling my guts to a guy I barely know. I’m not sure if I should elaborate or not. Normally, I don’t share a lot of personal stuff to people–except for Missy and Ava, that is–but there’s something about Tyler that feels comfortable. He’s very easy to talk to and, as far as I can tell, he’s genuinely trying to be my friend. Still…
“It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me,” he says, one of his dimples making an appearance, popping out as he grins.
Shit, those stupid dimples absolutely do it for me, obviously, and I find myself almost unwittingly spilling the beans about my past band in The Netherlands. How we were really talented, how we came close to signing with a major record label there, and how I fucked it all up by fucking around with the lead guitarist who founded the band.
Turns out he was a closeted bigot.
Because when the others walked in on us when we were getting into it in the dressing room, he pushed me away, punched me in the face and told them in a panic that I forced myself upon him. Fun times.
It led to the most brutal beating I’ve ever endured, somehow ending with me getting stabbed by a blunt peeling knife which I was cutting an apple with earlier. I spent nearly a week in the hospital afterwards. Not that anyone aside from Missy visited me–given she was staying with her grandparents at the time–but hey, I leave that part out of my story.
As I finish sharing, I gaze out of the window, finishing off the chocolate goodness, looking at the ocean as it passes by. The water’s much bluer here than back home, and I’m grateful for it. Because right now, I'm eager to distance myself from that place as much as possible. Half the world seems barely enough.
“I'm sorry about that,” Tyler eventually offers.
“Why? You didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah, I know.” He reaches back to scratch his neck before flipping his cap forward again. “But it's just unjust. People can be real assholes sometimes.”
“They certainly can be.” I tap my knee to the soft rhythm of the country music that’s playing through the speakers. “I’m all good now. I just didn’t anticipate it at the time. It’s Amsterdam, you know? Lots of open-minded people there. I guess there are rotten apples everywhere, right? I'm more of a banana fan anyway.”
Thankfully, my remark earns me another round of laughter from him, so I can stare some more at those dimples.
“Speaking of rotten apples,” I continue playfully, “what’s with this rotten music anyway? Do I need to teach you a thing or two about music?”
He grunts and tosses me his phone. “Be my guest, enlighten me.”
I scroll through his playlist and bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.
“Come on, say it. I know you want to.” Tyler practically grumbles.
“That’s a whole lot of Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber.”
“I share an account with Kaylee.” He taps the steering wheel with his left hand. “I just listen to whatever.”
“Who'd have thought Lady Gaga was your most-listened-to artist last year?”
His lips curl into a half-smile. “She's talented.”
“I’m better.”
He gazes at me skeptically. “Nobody’s better than Gaga. Are you that self-assured?”
