The road noise quiets with every mile we decelerate. Cecily runs her hands over her head, smoothing her braid.
"You look good," I tell her, and when her eyebrows raise I hurry to add, "Your hair. It's windswept, but not in a bad way." Sort of in a romantic, older movie type of way, but I'm not going to say that.
Cecily eyes my hair. "Well, you, Dominic, should have chosen a braid, because you are giving the Bride of Frankenstein a run for her money."
I go still as her hand reaches for me, fingers running through my hair. Swallowing a groan as her fingernails lightly scrape over my scalp is probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do.
She takes back her hand, and to save myself from putting my head in her lap and begging for more, I tell her, "I spaced getting a haircut before leaving New York City a few days ago." I've been seeing Natty the barber ever since I landed in the Big Apple, and the idea of trying a new barber puts fear in me. How could anybody else do a good job with these waves? Natty knows just what I want, to the point that I no longer have to utter a word. A man's relationship with his barber is not easily replicable, but three more weeks of this rat's nest might have me desperate enough to go for it. I can't walk around having bad hair day after bad hair day. Not when...what, exactly? Cecily doesn't care. I'm almost positive Cecily is physically attracted to me, but she doesn'tcare. About me, or my hair.
"I'm thinking of growing it out," I say, bringing the car to a stop.
Cecily turns to me, her first full-on gaze since we left Phoenix. "You should grow it out so long that it tickles your ass."
Stone-faced, I say, "I do enjoy ass-tickling."
Cecily's eyes crease like she wants to laugh, but she's so good at remaining stoic. Too good. I've learned the best way to infiltrate these walls of hers is to surprise her. With words. Withtouch. I nearly put my hand on the small of her back when we were leaving the coffeehouse this morning, but decided against it. It felt natural to reach out and touch her, something I would do if she were really mine.
"I guess I know what to get you for your birthday," Cecily says, flipping down the car's visor.
"A voucher for a session of ass-tickling with none other than yours truly?"
Cecily wipes under her eyes, unperturbed. "If you present your bare ass to me, tickling will be last on the list of things I'll do."
My eyebrows bounce twice, for good, pervy measure. "Kinky."
She blows a hard breath and makes a sound like she's had it with me. "You're disgusting."
I resist the urge to celebrate. I finally got her. Lifting my hands in innocence, I say, "You're the one who said?—"
"I know what I said," she mutters, throwing open her car door. "Come on, Errand Boy."
Back to Errand Boy? Interesting.
Grabbing the pump for premium fuel, I insert the nozzle into the car. Cecily waits for me beside the trunk, examining her nails. Without looking up, she asks, "Do you want to grab a snack or drink inside? Road trips aren't complete without snacks."
"Sure. Let me put Bernice's top on."
Cecily laughs.
I palm my chest. "Forgive my heart attack. I wasn't expecting you to permit yourself to laugh at a joke I've made."
Cecily's head cocks sideways, a tendril of escaped hair sweeping the creamy expanse of exposed neck. "When something is funny, Dominic, I laugh. Perhaps you're simply not as funny as you think."
"Perhaps," I concede. "Or maybe you're too fucking ornery to let me think making you smile is in the realm of possibility."
Instead of waiting for a response from her, I slide into the driver's seat, locate the convertible top switch on the center console, and hold it. When the top is secure, Cecily and I walk into the convenience store that appears to be in the middle of nowhere.
"This place is cute," Cecily says when she finds me standing in front of a wire display rack of desert-themed postcards.
The place is kitschy, the walls decorated with old license plates from various states and Mexico. In the spaces where there aren't license plates, there are shiny silver hubcaps.
Cecily lopes across the place, stopping in front of a wall of machines churning bright, artificially colored Icee drinks. My eyes remain on her. She wears cut-off jean shorts, frayed at the edges, and a white tank top. On her wrists are those gold bracelets she favors. In her ears, she wears simple gold hoops. Yes, I studied her on the drive. I can't help it. She's gorgeous.
I glance away, in case she catches me staring and gives me grief about it, and my gaze lands on a man walking through the glass double doors. I watch him register Cecily's presence. Watch his eyes indulgently peruse her body. My blood heats the longer his eyes remain on her. Back turned, she is none the wiser.
The man is average height, soft around the middle, a sweat-stained trucker hat clinging to his hairless head. I'd place him inhis mid-forties. I'll also place him in a grave if he does anything to hurt Cecily.
"Pretty little car for a pretty little woman," I hear him say. He sounds as slimy as he looks.
