I probably should have taken that opportunity to run. He could be a psychopath, but I’m too shit-faced to feel scared.
“What are you doing out here?” he demands to know. “Are you lost?”
“No!” I reply defensively. “What areyoudoing out here?” Who rides a motorbike around fields at this hour?
“That’s none of your business.”
“It’s none of your business whatI’mdoing here, then,” I retort, feeling oddly on edge at the sound of his voice.
It’s low and deep, but not too deep. There’s a richness to it that makes me think of honey.
“You’re trespassing, so, actually, it is.”
Oh. My scattered thoughts come crashing back together.
“Well, I’m on my way home now, so never you mind.”
“Where are you going?” he asks with exasperation as I determinedly set off along the track I think I walked here on.
My eyes have yet to readjust to the darkness—I’m still seeing spots.
“You need to go up to the road and turn left if you’re heading back to town,” he calls after me.
I spin around, stumbling a little. “Up where?” I’m not heading back to town, but I do need to find the road I was on.
“Up there.”
He’s a tall, dark silhouette against the moonlit sky, but I can make out his long, lean arm, pointing toward the stretch of grass.
“It’ll be much quicker to go straight through,” I argue, noticing the impressive breadth of his shoulders when his arm drops to his side.
I wish I could see his face—whoisthis guy?
“If youwantto go trampling through soybeans like a frickin’ elephant...”
Soybeans? Is that what was growing in the firefly field? Hang on, how rude!
“I’m hardly damaging them, there’s a track!”
“It’s not a track for people, it’s for tractors.”
“Oh whatever. Get off your high horse. Or motorbike. Orwhatever it is. Actually, you’re already off your motorbike, aren’t you?” A drunken giggle escapes at the thought of him crashing. It’s probably not funny, but...
Christ, it’s funny.
“You’re wasted.”
“I’m not that drunk.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
“Getting sobererer by the minute. Sobererer?” I ask aloud, not expecting an answer because I’m talking to myself. “Is that a word?”
“Oh man,” he mutters. “Where are you heading?” He picks up his fallen bike as I walk past him.
“Up and left,” I reply. “Just like the satnav man told me.”
“No, I mean, where are you staying? You sound as though you’re a long way from home.”
