So I take a breath, lift my chin, and feel my pride die somewhere inside my sternum. I’ve got no time for dignity.
“Yes, maybe later. But what I really need is a favor. Can I get a ride to school?”
Chapter Ten
Evan
Molly stands in my doorway, eyes flared and fists clenched as if she’s about to grab me by the throat. Hair shoved up in a messy knot. Backpack strap digging into her shoulder. Cheeks pink with anger — maybe cold, maybe panic, maybe because I’m standing here in nothing but boxers like an idiot.
“Can I get a ride to school?”
I blink, pause, breathe, because it’s the only way to keep from saying something stupid while my brain tries to catch up. The hallway light’s still buzzing overhead. It’s half past seven in the damn morning, and I’m standing in the open in nothing but a pair of plaid boxers. I haven’t even started the coffee. “You want…a ride?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it?” I ask. “No please?” I tilt my head, letting my eyes rake over her in a way that makes her nostrils flare. “No, ‘I’m sorry I’m interrupting your morning for a schoolgirl emergency?’”
Her eyes spark exactly like I want them to.
“Schoolgirl? Do not,” she snaps, stepping closer like she might shove me backward into my apartment, “call me that.”
I grin. “Why not? It’s cute.”
It’s more than cute.
“I will hammer your nose into your face.”
“You know, fighting like that will probably get you put in detention. They might even make you skip recess.”
“Shut up. Put some fucking clothes on and grab your keys.” She jabs a finger at my chest like it’s a weapon. “And if you say ‘cute’ again, I’m going to punch your face off.”
I glance past her into the hallway. “You’re in a hurry and you’re making threats when you want something from me. That’s cute.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. She swears under her breath — something creative and mean — and looks away like she’s trying to breathe through a problem.
“Evan. Please.”
The way she says my name is a warning shot, and the way she says ‘please’ tells me that if I don’t fucking cooperate, she will murder me without question. This is exactly what I wanted, even though I’ve been doing everything not to show it. Satisfied, I lift both hands. “Okay. Okay.” I step back into my apartment. “Give me sixty seconds. Then I can give you a ride.”
She crosses her arms and plants her boots like she’s guarding the threshold. “Okay. Sixty seconds.”
I can feel her eyes on my back as I move — like she’s pretending she’s not looking and failing at it. I grab jeans off the chair, yank them on, shove my feet into boots, and tug a t-shirt over my head. Keys. Wallet. Phone. I catch my reflection in the mirror for half a second — jaw tight, eyes too sharp, looking like someone with something to hide instead of just a tired neighbor doing a favor — and force an easy grin back onto my face.
When I come back to the door, she’s still there, still tense.
“See?” I say. “Dressed. Ready.”
She looks me up and down like she’s judging a suspect. “You look like hell.”
“Liar. I look like your freaking savior.” I lock the door behind me and fall into step with her. “Lead the way, school—”
She stops so fast I almost bump into her.
I hold up a hand. “Not going to say it. I like living.”
We take the stairs two at a time. The building smells of stale carpet and cheap air freshener. Her boots hit each step as if she’s trying to break the concrete out of spite.
In the parking lot, she doesn’t even glance at her truck. She goes straight for my sedan like it personally offended her.
