He tilts his head in the other direction, measuring my words.
“If you say so. But I think this will be pretty functional,” he says, pausing. “Also, I’ve had stitches many times before, but never as neatly done. Thank you for your attention to detail.”
I preen at the compliment and resolve to do my very best not to annoy Omar on this trip.
I mean, I can’t promise anything, but I am definitely going to try.
8
Omar
Swear to you, I’m going to kill this man.
We are maybe an hour and a half into this trip, and I want tostranglehim.
First of all, and I cannot overstate this, my car smells like a leather shop that’s been burned to the ground and put out with Kool-Aid.
Second of all, he sings along with the songs on the radio. Badly.
“Oh, where were you? Ooo-oo. You make-a my dreams come throughhhh, ooo-oo.”
I pinch the top of my nose so hard, I’m sure I’ve bruised it.
“It’s you make my dreams cometrue.”
That gets his attention. “Really? Not through?”
“No. And for the record, the Saweetie song isn’t about an eight-inch bagel.”
“Okay.” He shrugs, unconcerned. Pausing, he pulls my hand away from pinching my nose. “You know, it’s really easy to break your nose that way. You should probably let up a little,” he says breezily, as though maybe this is a conversation he’s had before.
Like maybe this level of frustration is a common thing for people to feel around him.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather appreciate the vocal stylings of Hall & Oates without your amateur attempts at singing?”
He laughs as though I’ve said the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Naw, dude. Singing is my life.”
I stifle a smile. He’s so goddamn ridiculous. “I thought killing bad guys was your life.”
He stretches up, revealing a bit of toned and tanned belly with a blond treasure trail. He cracks his neck and his fingers, which makes the back of my neck tighten up.
“Nah, that’s just a fun hobby. Put a 10 blade in one hand, a karaoke microphone in the other, and you’ve got yourself a happy Anders.”
Ha.
Put a ball gag in one hand and his upturned ass in the other, and you’ve got yourself a happy Omar.
Er…
Scratch that.
Not quite the imagery I was going for.
“I doubt that very seriously,” I say, trying to get back on track. “I’ve seen how giddy you get when you kill someone.”
“True, but that’s got nothin’ on how much fun it is to sing ‘Proud Mary’ while very, very drunk.”
I bite my lip, irritated that he’s successfully made me less annoyed with him. “Could you at least try to match either the actual words or the melody?”
