SHE STILL HASN’T SAID Aword since she lost her shit with me earlier—same old dead-eyed look plastered on her face as she drives us through streets she seems to know like the back of her hand, turning down countless blocks, one eye on the clock. Every now and then, she stops and disappears inside a building for a handful of minutes, then drops back into the car, and off we go again.
Here and there we cruise past huddles of onlookers, and she slowsdown, gives them a quick wave, before peeling away.Who even is this girl?It’s coming up to four, and as time ticks by, I’m starting to seriously wonder about her. She’s a whole different vibe to the girls I’m used to. There’s something about her that’s got me curious, and there are about a million different questions I’m dying to ask, but from the side-eye she keeps sneaking my way whenever I’m about to open my mouth, I’m thinking that’s not such a good idea.
We make our hundredth pit stop, and this time when she gets back in and slams the car door shut, my patience is wearing thin.
“Got anything?”
“I’m working on it. You hungry?”
I shake my head. We haven’t eaten since breakfast, but the knot in the pit of my stomach has cut my appetite, and the sense of mystery hanging in the air isn’t helping, either.
THE EVENING COMES AROUND, ANDAmy pulls up outside a grocery store.
“I’m gonna grab some water. Want anything?”
“Alcohol and chips. I feel like I might need it if I find out my car is fucked.”
“Sounds good.”
Gee, thanks. Something a little more supportive would’ve been nice, but this is just how Firebird rolls, I guess.
“Good thing I brought my fake ID,” she adds.
Perfect. This just keeps getting better.
I blast off a quick message to the group chat and rub my eyes. When I open them again, I spot my chauffeur sitting on a bench, staring into space and clutching a bottle of water, my dinner order propped up beside her. For a second, I consider joining her.Bad idea.I’m guessing there’s a reason why she wanted some space. I twirl my phone around in my hand, watching her there under the streetlight. When I first sidled up to her in the college parking lot to ask her about the Campus Drivers thing, I would never have guessed I’d endup in this total shit show with her. I was expecting her to be basic—just another student. Boy, was I wrong.
She crumples up the plastic bottle and tosses it in the trash, and I can’t help but admire her shot. She brushes her hands down on her jeans and strides toward the car, holding out a grocery bag. I check out the goods.
“Vodka?”
“It was that or whiskey. And I hate whiskey.”
So she’s planning on drinking with me? I don’t have the balls to ask whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I’m guessing I’ll find out soon enough.
When she pulls out, it suddenly dawns on me—we’re done road-tripping. This is the part where shit gets real. To take my mind off it all, I launch into a stream of random questions about Brooklyn, and it seems like she’s in the same kind of mood, because she shoots back answers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Mind if I turn this up?” she asks, gesturing at the stereo.
“Go for it.”
A heavy bass line comes thumping through the speakers, and though I never usually like it this loud, right now it doesn’t bother me. It’s actually loosening me up.
“Here we are.”
I glance up. The landscape has shifted. We’ve left the main drag, and it’s all starting to feel Worthington-adjacent, when Amy stops for a bald guy with a tattooed head, winding down her window, sitting back as he bends down for a closer look.
“You lost, kid?”
“I’m looking for a good salon. Thought you might know of one.”
Do they know each other?Given how ripped he looks and the two heavies hovering behind him, I sure hope so. He sticks his head through the window and peers at us.
“You want in, babe? Earn it.”
He waggles his tongue at Amy. And that’s when she loses it.Gripping the guy in a headlock, she clamps her wrist down on his throat, forcing him to stoop lower, and I have no idea what the hell just happened.
“Thought I’d gone soft, Gaby?”
