He shrugged.
“This isn’t a safe area, Quinn.”
“I hardly think it matters,” he replied. “A nice mugging might do me good.”
“Perhaps, but you seem attached to your face… and your guitar.”
“My face? Not so much. But my guitar? Yeah, me and Lucia, man, we go way back. Maybe you can hold onto her until after I get out of the hospital.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but that’s against the ride-share rules. According to the regulation handbook, everything must go home with the customer. Further down in the manual is how incredibly cliché it is to name your guitar.”
“Don’t hate.” He chuckled. “I got Lucia from my brother when I was a kid.”
“I understand it’s sentimental and all, but naming your guitar is like naming your genitals.”
A guilty smile spread slowly across his face.
My eyes popped open and a laugh burst from my gut. “Oh, my god, you didn’t?”
He shrugged. “Every guy does, and if he says he doesn’t, he’s lying.”
“Okay, give it to me,” I said, beckoning with my fingers. “What did you name your tripod?”
“Like I’m going to tell you.”
“Why not me?” I asked, all innocent-like.
“I can think of a whole lot of reasons not to tell my ride-share driver what I nicknamed my dick and balls,” he said, laughing.
“Fine. It’s probably something totally lame, anyway.”
“Not only is itnotlame but it’s inspired,” he bragged. “Totally original.”
Now he was just taunting me. I expelled a long, drawn-out sigh, as if his refusal bored me beyond belief, when in reality, the suspense was killing me.
I snapped my fingers, returning to business as usual. “Location, Quinn, or I’m turning this car around and taking you back.”
That got his attention. He shot up, looking my way. “You think I should go back?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, confused by the eagerness in his tone. Quinn really was lost. Where was his support system? Why was he relying on hired help to determine his path forward? “Doyouwant to go back?”
“No. The last thing I want to do is grovel to the warlords, but it’s not that simple. If I don’t go back, I’ve destroyed my future. If I do go back, I’ll live someone else’s life. No matter what, I’m screwed.”
“Not screwed. The way I see it, if you can live with being someone you’re not for fame and fortune, then awesome. I’ll turn this car around right now and wish you a happily ever after. But if you think it’s going to eat away at your soul and spit you out somewhere down the line, then give me an address, and I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“Gee.” Quinn exhaled. “If only I could figure out which way you lean on the subject.”
“Neither way, actually,” I said, taking my eyes temporarily off the road to give him the sincerity he deserved. “There’s no right or wrong answer here—only what you’re willing to accept.”
“Am I a bad person if I say I’m willing to accept living a lie?”
“People have all kinds of reasons for doing things, Quinn. That doesn’t make you bad. It makes you human.”
He slumped back into his seat, clearly pondering my words. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had given my opinion such value.
“What does your gut say?” I asked.
My passenger turned his head toward me, really considering his options, before reaching into his bag and pulling out a wallet. He riffled through the contents and, chancing on a couple of bills, he shoved them in my direction. “My gut says drive me as far as thirty dollars will take me.”
