"You can't park there," I tell him as his car appears, parked literally right in front of my building.
He shrugs, "Sure, I can. Clark likes me. And my money. He was willing to look the other way for 90 seconds while I waited for you."
"How thoughtful,” I mutter.
"I think so," he agrees, ignoring my sarcasm.
He opens up the passenger door for me, ever the picture-perfect gentleman, if his true nature wasn't hidden just beneath the beautiful surface. His hand on my lower back, gently guiding me into the car, sends wild signals through my body. The protective gesture warms me from the inside out, and there's no longer any denying that his touch creates a visceral reaction between my thighs that's closer to animal than it is human.
As I settle into my seat and try to catch my breath, he closes the door, jogging around to his own and sliding into the driver's seat.
"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" I ask as he fiddles with the music, some kind of rock gently adding to the symphony of the car and the sounds of the city around us.
"No," he smirks. "But you knew that already."
I did.
But a girl can still hope.
"It'll take us maybe 20 minutes to get there," he explains, looking over his shoulder for oncoming traffic before pulling smoothly onto the road. "So you can just lay your head back, relax. I'll even let you change the music if you want to."
"Wow. You're really laying the gentleman thing on thick today, you must be feeling guilty for being such a creep," I reach for the dial, slightly amused by the old style of radio, the lack of a bright screen making it feel somehow cozier in here, more private.
"Sorry, Brig, my conscience is clear."
"Really?"
He grins, "When it comes to you? Yes. I'm sure there are a lot of things I should feel guilty for, annoying you isn't one of them."
"Annoying is a funny word forstalking," I mumble, and he grins wider, suddenly grabbing my hand when the radio lands on a station.
"Wait," he blinks a few times, "I like this song."
Releasing my hand, he rubs his temple, groaning in pain.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he looks back at the radio strangely, "I don't even know this song. I've never heard it before."
"Have you been out in public over the last three years?" I ask.
His brows furrow in thought, "Yeah."
"Then you've definitely heard it. Last summer they wouldn'tstopplaying it," I wonder if somewhere in his subconscious, even though he doesn't remember it, this song is familiar somehow.
"Huh."
His index and middle fingers rub slow circles on his temple, and I feel the weight of what he's been through settle on me once again.Yearsgone. Not just of memories, but the context of everything that happens around us. Art, music, movies, all of it just missing from his mind like it never happened.
I can't imagine what it's been like relearning the world the way he's had to. Technology has made leaps and bounds over the last few years. It must have been hard to wake up and not know how any of it works.
And all the tattoos. Jesus.
"It's funny," he mutters. "Can't remember a thing, but somehow my body does."
It doesn't sound funny. It sounds horrible.
Especially when some of the things his body knows are exceptionally unhinged.
