I might scream a little more than was necessary.
“I told you,” he says calmly, as he properly uses the brake to stop our backward progress. Cars veer around us, honking loudly. “I pick things up fast, and even a crash won’t harm me or you.”
With no direction from me, he shoves the car into drive and takes off—peeling out with a smile—and suddenly we’re headed for Battle Mountain even faster than we were before. The thought of reaching a hotel soon somehow makes me feel more tired, not less. Then Xolotl swerves and I’m immediately wide awake again. “Wow, that was neat. We almost took out that light pole.”
“Relax.” He’s grinning. “This is enjoyable.”
Why do all boys like cars?
And why didn’t I think of this before?
I should have had him steal a better car.
Of course, for him, stealing a car means killing its driver. How did I forget that, even for a second? The psychopath beaming next to me is a mass murderer. It’s definitely not cute that he’s grinning like a little boy as he passes other cars going— “Holy crap! Are you driving over a hundred miles per hour?”
That’s when the sirens and flashing lights start.
“What kind of car has flashing lights?” He tightens his hands on the wheel. “I want one.”
And now he’s about to kill a cop, probably. I groan. “Those lights indicate that you have to pull over. The local law enforcement has taken issue with you driving at reckless speeds that are unsafe for other drivers and yourself.”
He’s frowning.
The cop has, impressively, pulled up ahead of us, and is now slamming on his brakes. Even more impressively, Xolotl manages to slow down and then stop without sending my body through the front windshield. With a little hand motion from me to guide him, he even rolls down his window.
“Hey officer,” I say, before Xolotl can say something awful like, goodbye, or now you die. “We were going a little too fast, huh?”
To describe the officer’s expression as a frown would be an understatement. “Did you know you were going a hundred and nineteen miles per hour?” He tosses his head. “And you’re doing that in a Honda.”
I snort.
“What’s wrong with a Honda?” Xolotl tosses his head. “Is your flashing, crying car faster?”
“That’s really not something you should be asking me right now.” The officer holds out his hand, palm up. “License and registration.”
“I have none.” Xolotl stares at him.
The officer looks at me, incredulous. “Is this some kind of joke?”
I shake my head. “No, he left it back at home, deep in the mountains of Utah, I guess.”
“I didn’t leave it behind,” Xolotl insists. “I never had any of that.”
I groan.
“It’s not legal for you to be driving without a valid license, insurance, and registration.” Now he’s peering into the interior of our stolen car. “I’m going to have to haul you two into town. Why don’t you exit the vehicle.”
The hardening of Xolotl’s face tells me this cop’s about to keel over.
I drop a hand on the death god’s forearm and squeeze. “Three days, remember?”
He grunts.
“You said we won’t draw attention to ourselves, because that’s what you were doing on purpose before, right? And that means you can’t do what you want to do right now.”
Another grunt.
“Look.” I peer around Xolotl. “My boyfriend here has had an awful day. Do you have a mother-in-law?”
