"Ah-ah," I say, wagging a finger at him. “One question, one answer."
He rolls his head on his neck and then nods. "Yeah, yeah. Your question, then?"
I consider. "You don't have anything so prosaic as just an ex, you said. Elaborate on that."
"My life has not lent itself to dating, as you'd know it. For the most part, it's simply due to the fact that I've been too busy. I've been an entrepreneur my whole life. I was worth almost twenty billion dollars at one point."
My mouth goes dry. “What?" He's wearing expensive clothes, yes, but…worthbillions?
He just shrugs.
"Okay, butat one point? Did you lose it in a game of cards or what?" I stab a finger at him. "And don't give me the one-question-one-answer bullshit."
"I gave almost all of it to the woman we saw back there." He pauses for a beat. "Before I died."
"That's the second time you've said that. What does—"
"Why aren't you girlfriend material, Brys?"
"Because I'm a self-centered bitch who's always been more focused on my career than anything else. I'm sarcastic as fuck, as you've learned, I have zero time or patience for fools, and I'm nearly always the smartest person in any room I'm in, which makes the vast majority of men deeply insecure around me. I don't have a submissive bone in my body. I like to be on top. I prefer to sleep alone. I don't like sharing my space. Need I go on?"
"What I'm hearing is that you're unapologetically yourself, and successful, and weak, small-minded men are threatened by that."
My heart flutters in my chest like a bird fluffing its feathers. "That's…quite a take."
"It's the truth. Only little boys with minds and wills as small as their penises like a submissive, easily controlled woman." He states this as a fact, as if my worldview wasn't tipping on its axis.
Despite the fact that traffic seems to be barely moving, when I next glance forward, the bridge is much larger and closer. "You're seriously going to dodge the question?" I say. "No details at all? Just gonnna drop the little bomb that you were once worth twenty billion, with a B, you gave it all away to some woman, and also you died. Notalmostdied, butdiddie. And then you just dodge my questions like a politician caught on camera with his dick in the wrong place?"
He shakes his head slowly—less a denial and more acan you believe this shit?sort of thing. "It's a long, painful story thatI've never told anyone. I'm not sure you'd believe me if I did tell you the whole thing, and even then, assuming youdidbelieve me, you wouldabsolutelythink much, much less of me than you already do."
"I don't think less of you, Jakob. I don't know you well enough to think much of anything about you. I know you're absurdly gorgeous. I know that even if you gave away most of the twenty billion, the clothes you're wearing are expensive and bespoke, and indicate you kept enough money to be comfortable. I know some crazy bad guy from Europe has a hard-on to murder you, and me by extension, since I had the misfortune of being slammed into by your giant ass. Which, by the way, was actually pretty good timing. That dinner was interminable and fucking awful, and I'm rather grateful it got interrupted, although I could have done without the machine guns, and, you know, the whole running for my life thing. I also know you're not a very good shot, but you can and will fight for your life—and mine." I shrug. "That's about all I know about you, Jakob Kasparek."
He remains silent for so long that I'm left with no choice but to assume he's done with the conversation. He steers with his left hand, thumb tapping arrhythmically on the wheel; his right hand rests on the console between us, fingers drumming idly—also in a rhythmless pattern.
The temptation to slip my hand into his is nearly overpowering. It's a silly, stupid impulse, and it's so wildly out of character for me that it makes me irrationally irritated at myself.
A penny flashes in the air, bounces off my thigh, and lands on the floor of the footwell.
I retrieve it and shoot Jakob a look. "I don't need your money, you know."
His lips twitch in an almost-smile. "Noted. That penny was for your thoughts."
I roll my eyes at him. "Smooth move, Exlax."
He snorts. "My Motorola Razr is ringing—it’s the nineties, they want their comebacks back."
"Wait, was that…a joke?" I gasp, hand fluttering at my chest like a scandalized Victorian lady. “Well, Inever."
"I don't think that's how that phrase is used," he says. "If you're not going to share your thoughts, give me my penny back."
I turn the penny over in my hand—it's a new one, bright and shiny. "I can't tell if you're joking or not."
"I never joke about money," he says, deadpan and serious.
I sniff, handing him the penny back. "My thoughts are worth far more than a mere penny, I'll have you know."
"Very well, then." He lifts his hips up, digs in a trouser pocket, and comes out with the roll of cash—the roll is wider than a roll of quarters, fastened with a thick, fat rubber band, the heavy-duty kind used for fresh produce. "That enough?"
