“Yep.” I was flustered and hot with embarrassment. My face probably resembled a tomato.
Dean pressed his lips together and nodded once, then released my arm. He continued down the rest of the steps while I took a moment to compose myself. And regain some dignity.
His emerald-green Cadillac was parked on the curb in front of the house. Glistening in the sun with its black soft-top up, the car was long, low, and exuded class and sleek sophistication. If it weren’t for my current situation, I would be a little more excited about riding in a vintage car (since I couldn’t remember much of it the first time) but my stomach was in knots while a nagging pull urged me to just get home before Mom did.
Dean opened the passenger door for me and walked around the front of the car to get in himself.
I climbed into the front quickly, sliding a little on the subtle angle of the seat until I was flush against the back of the bench seat. The interior smelled of leather and timber, thanks to the black leather seats and smooth, dark wood that made up the dash and several fixtures throughout the car.
Bringing my eyes from the interior of the car, I pulled my phone up to check my location. At the same time, Dean turned the keys over in the ignition before the car rumbled to life beneath us, sending soft, deep vibrations through the seats.
I clicked my belt on as I read the screen of my phone. We were in Bensonhurst, a ten-ish minute drive from my apartment in Bay Ridge. It would cut it close, with Mom possibly 15 minutes from my home, but it was doable. I just prayed the traffic was flowing. Or maybe Dean knew a shortcut since he knew where I lived anyway.
The Cadillac was a head-turner, to say the least, as we cruised through the neighborhood. Whether because of its engine or its vintage appeal. People didn’t just look casually but stopped and stared. If Dean cared, he didn’t let it show. His face was neutral — relaxed as he drove on with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on his thigh. It was refreshing to see him so unbothered.
“Are you a carer for your mom?” Apparently, my mouth thought that was a good subject for small talk. I cringed when he raised his brows, his eyes still on the road. “Sorry. That’s none of my business.”
“No, uh, it’s fine.” He paused as he turned at the next intersection. “I’m not a carer. Just a helpin’ hand.”
Multiple questions whirled through my head, but I bottled them up before they spilled free. All of them were too probing. I was definitely my father’s daughter when it came to curiosity, but I also wanted to respect boundaries.
I rerouted the conversation instead, staying on the topic of his helping hands but taking a different path. I hesitated briefly, and then said, “Is it true what Seb said? That you might’ve broken that man’s jaw?”
“I only dislocated it.” He made it sound like a dislocated jaw was as simple as a papercut. Then flicked the indicator up as we slowed at another intersection.
I had almost felt disgusted by the memory of last night until my eyes snagged on his hands. Lightly veined and decorated with intricate tattoos on the back of both, they looked reliable. If that was even something hands could be.
A tendon feathered in the back of his right hand as he made a left turn, and then curled his long fingers around the steering wheel again, displaying the faint scars that littered his knuckles and cut across the faded letters that read Game Over.
I had almost forgotten we were in the middle of a conversation before Dean spoke again.
“Don’t worry, he got to a hospital.” He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “Still deserved what he got.”
I nodded in silence, bringing my eyes to the road ahead. Even if what Dean had done might’ve been the wrong way of handling the situation, I didn’t want to think about what might’ve happened if he hadn't stepped in last night.
“Are you fighting tonight?”
He raised his brow again, possibly because he hadn’t expected me to be curious about his fighting schedule, and breathed deeply through his nose. “No, but Seb is. He wants me there as moral support.”
“Are you ever not at The Den?” I half smiled, still a little hesitant. We didn’t know each other, and it was hard to gauge what was safe to ask about or say.
“Believe it or not, yes.” The corner of his mouth had barely lifted before he rubbed a hand over it and cleared his throat. “Roxy has given you tonight off.”
“She knows about what happened?”
“She wanted to know why she saw you leave with me last night.” He glanced at me quickly with those striking eyes. “I told her you weren’t feeling too good.”
I remembered what Xavier had said about Roxy being jealous of me helping Dean on Saturday night. Now that he had returned the favor, and she had witnessed it, I wondered how much more she would despise me for it. Or what else she might assume.
We pulled up in front of my apartment with five minutes to spare. My mother’s Volvo was nowhere to be seen and Kira was already waiting by the front door with her yellow bicycle. She was eyeing Dean’s car, unable to see me through its tinted windows.
Dean let the car idle.
“Thanks again. For everything,” I said earnestly as I quickly unclicked my seatbelt and popped the door open.
“No problem— Hey, uh, listen...”
I stopped on the edge of the seat, one leg out the door, and looked over my shoulder at him expectantly. “Yes?”
