I take one look at an unsuspecting Baz and have to remind myself I am neither judge nor jury, just a low-level civil servant here to do a job.
We pull up to what looks like a little house in the middle of nowhere. Baz drives around the small establishment until we come to an intercom and lit up menu.
“Coffee,” he proclaims victoriously. He seems to be very proud of his find.
“So I see.” I peruse the menu. For a shitty little shack, it has some fancy choices. “I think I’ll do the peppermint mocha with an extra shot. And extra whipped.”
“Sounds good.” Baz nods his head. When a woman’s voice comes over the speaker, he orders my drink and a French roast for himself with only a splash of organic cream.
Minutes later, I’m sipping on what might be the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had as we head east on the highway.
“So . . .” Baz begins. Here comes the small talk. “Where are you from?”
Lie. Lie. Lie.“East coast.”
“Oh, yeah, what part?”
“New York.” I feed him as little info as possible.
“All of New York, or is there a specific part?” He gets smart, trying to draw more out of me.
“The city, mostly.” I look down at my coffee cup. “I grew up in foster care so I moved around.A lot.”There. There’s your nugget of information.
“Wow. That must have been rough.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t pleasant.” I look out the front window into the vast darkness before me. “My past fucking sucks.” I don’t know why I said that. Holy shit. Where did that even come from? I’ve never admitted that to anyone besides Claudia before, and even then, it took months for me to tell her.
Baz clears his throat as a blanket of comfortable silence covers the car.
Ugh, maybe I should just put us both out of our misery and shoot him now.
Some static over the radio draws my attention away from the window and my dark thoughts.
“I think we need a little music.” Baz plays with the dial until he finds a clear station. “Nice.” He turns it up as a male voice sings about being the highway and the night and the lightning.
“Who is this?”
“Seriously?” Baz’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Yeah, who’s singing?” I don’t recognize the song.
“Only one of my favorite bands ever. Audioslave.” Baz opens his mouth and belts out the lyrics as if he’s on stage. Hitting the high octaves and low tenors with no strain and zero insecurities. I think I actually blush as he blatantly serenades me.
“You like music, I take it.”
“Love it. It’s life.” He turns the radio down so we can talk.
“Are you a musician or something?”
“No, not at all.” He laughs. “I just appreciate it. Sometimes life gets a little too loud for me.” He sighs thoughtfully as he peers out the window. “Music helps me focus.”
“I understand life getting too loud.” I drop my head back on the seat.
Baz passes me a solemn look. Wow. What a pair of downers we are.
“Have you always lived here?” I attempt a subject change. Just because I’m a killer doesn’t mean I have to attend a funeral.
“No. Not always.”
