“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His eyes were brown and held a glint of…was thatjudgment? “Nothing,” he said, turning away from me and revving the engine.
Okay, the low, deep—and yes, powerful—engine-revving of a Corvette was kind of cool. Not that I would admit that to Stick.
“No, really. What did you mean by that?” My tone was not one of confrontation, but more of friendly curiosity, though I felt differently inside.
“I’m guessing he’d just be another notch on your bedpost. An important notch, because of him being a prof and, you know, you were the pursuer.”
My face began to burn, but I wasn’t the type to blush. Too much had happened to me when I was a kid to have any blush ability left by now.
“How do you know I wasn’t the pursuer with all the guys I’ve slept with?”
We’d cleared the Chesney city limits and were now entering the neighboring countryside. Having bare, open road in front of us, Stick quickly picked up speed, the vista racing by. A part of me really responded to this—the feeling of speed and power in this car—as we sped away from everything.
“I don’t know, but I’m guessing you weren’t. Oh sure, the important ones, like a prof, or, I don’t know, the fucking prom king or whatever. Sure, they were worth dogging after. But you let the others do the work the rest of the time.” He glanced over at me; his face was blank and I couldn’t read it—which pissed me off. “Am I right?” he asked with genuine curiosity in his voice.
“Are you slut-shaming me?” I asked, not really sure.
“Hell no. I’m all for slutty behavior. Bring it on, I say.”
I snorted. “I’m sure you do. There are male sluts, too, you know.”
“Idoknow. As there should be. Equal opportunity slutting. I’m all for it.”
I couldn’t hold back the smile that time, or even hide it. And damn if a little laugh didn’t sneak out too.
He returned my smile, the engine roaring around us, and I thought of how his shoulders and arms had felt under the expensive wool of the tux he’d worn to Betsy’s wedding. How warm the back of his neck had been, bared because of his short ponytail.
Today he wore his hair as I’d always seen it—loose and completely unkempt. Scraggly, even. But the waves were natural and untamed, and the rare February sunshine was picking up all the auburn-y highlights in the brown mass.
“So here we are,” I said. “Just a couple of sluts driving through the Chesney countryside.”
“I never called you a slut, Jane,” he said softly.
He hadn’t, I knew that.
“I just wanted to know if you slept with that guy. Just that one guy.”
I don’t know why I felt compelled to even answer him, let alone with the truth. “No,” I said. “I didn’t sleep with him.”
“Is there a ‘yet’ at the end of that sentence?”
“No,” I said softly, perhaps admitting it to myself as much as to Stick. I saw him make a small nod, almost to himself. “Why do you care, anyway?” I asked, but I knew. I knew it with the sick knowledge that you got when you were about to do something you shouldn’t…but did it anyway.
“No reason,” he said. But I heard in his voice that he knew too.
We drove for another ten minutes, taking a couple of turns that took us deeper into the countryside, but still on nicely maintained roads. I knew Stick wouldn’t take my new car on any rutted dirt roads…he had too much respect for it.
Which I kind of liked. And I kind of respected him for it.
There were some gorgeous, mansion-type homes set deeply back from the road, with long, winding drives and gates at the front. But not many, and they were miles apart from each other.
“I’m assuming you’ve been watching, right? Are you ready to try it yourself?” Stick asked, slowing the Vette down and pulling to the side of the road. “There’s no traffic on this road, and yet it’s in good shape, so it’s a great place to practice. There are some hills coming up, and you’ll want to try those, downshifting and everything.”
It sounded like a lot, but I nodded that I was ready to drive my own car, and reached to unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Atta girl,” Stick said, seemingly genuinely pleased with me.
