“C’mon, man. Nobody’s a joker twenty-four seven.”
He munches thoughtfully on the gummy worm. “True. If I’m your surgeon or your field medic, I promise you’ll see something different. Otherwise, I’ve seen too much to be too serious about anything. Life is short, and I refuse to spend it mourning the things I cannot change.”
He grabs my salad and my green juice and has the lady at the counter run them through with his food.
We get to the car, and before I’ve even got the door unlocked, he has the bag of Beaver Nuggets open and is tipping it toward his mouth. I haven’t had anything overtly sweet in years, and the scent of those nuggets is out of this world. The caramel aroma drifts in the night air, mixing with the smell of gas and ozone and pine trees.
He looks over at me, his lips tilted up in a smirk. “They get you with the smell, don’t they?”
“Whatever.”
His smile broadens, and he shoves his hand into the enormous bag, popping the entire handful in his mouth, crunching with loud abandon. He smiles midcrunch, letting the half-chewed nuggets spill out of his face. I roll my eyes and hit the fob on the car.
He rounds the car and holds out his Beaver-Nugget-dust-covered hand. “Here, let me drive. Salad isn’t exactly road food.”
I do not find him charming. Fuckable, but not charming. Stop looking at his dimples, Omar.
Also, he’s not wrong about the salad.
I reach into the car and find a Handi-Wipe, which I shove at him. “Clean your hands first. I don’t want your sticky beaver hands on my steering wheel.”
He snorts, thoroughly wiping his hands and holding them up for my inspection. “Just keep digging that hole, hoss.”
As he settles into the driver seat, I give myself just a second to let out the smile I’ve been storing up since we stopped here.
Fucking Anders Bash.
As he’s pulling onto the highway, I’m not paying attention and he shoves one of the nuggets in front of my mouth. I reflexively take it and immediately hate him even more. It’s probably the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth, and without meaning to, I let out a small groan of pleasure.
“Not bad, huh?”
“It’s fine,” I say, my lip twitching.
“Uh-huh,” he says, looking very smug. “Here, have some more.”
Keeping his eyes on the road, he holds out another single nugget in front of me. I could obviously either ignore the offering (not a chance, that shit is amazing) or take it from him like a normal person. Instead, I use my mouth—and a little bit of my tongue—to take it from his fingers, but I tell myself it’s okay because I’m careful not to let my lips linger.
Oh, hell.
I could sob at how good these stupid Beaver Nuggets are.
Also, just being honest here, I can’t tell if it’s the taste, or if it’s the fact that he’s feeding me, but a little more of my annoyance with him—just a very tiny bit—goes away.
I sneak a look in his direction, and he is happy as a clam, shoveling the sweet goodness into his mouth as he speeds down the highway, enjoying the moonlit view. What strikes me in this moment, after months of knowing him, is the honesty of it all. He hasn’t hidden a thing from me. Even though I don’t know what he gets up to in Wimberley, he’s honest about what he’s not disclosing.
He has zero poker face, which means there’s no denying this guy makes joy a priority. And that fact makes him far more intriguing than annoying because I don’t think I’ve ever been around somebody who does that.
And the source of his happiness varies widely. The Beaver Nuggets are a clear winner, and hanging with his quieter brother makes him smile. But he also derives a great deal of joy from making shitty people pay for hurting other people. The more pain they’ve caused, the more pain he causes, and something about that balance seems to bring him peace.
It hadn’t occurred to me until just this moment that there could be peace in murder.
Still looking out the window, he smiles broadly, and I wait for the inevitable teasing. He’s caught me staring at him, and I brace, just knowing he’ll have something smart to say. Instead, he continues to focus on the road ahead and simply tilts the bag of sweet goodness in my direction. I grab a handful and look forward, letting him drive us into the night.
9
Anders
For the first time in a long time, I don’t actually know what to say. I’m sitting in a car, enjoying the quiet with Omar. The silence isn’t heavy, or filled with judgment, it simply is. I tried to be sneaky about it, but I don’t know how successful I am at hiding the quick looks I’ve been sending in his direction.
