“I was hoping to talk to you about a few ideas I had.”
Holden shrugs as he takes a few steps backward.
“So, tell me…” he says as he walks toward the middle of the parking lot. With each step, I can see the pendant glowingbrighter than ever before. The echoes creep in louder: “A luz sabe.” The chant returns, followed by a teenage girl’s voice.
“Just follow him, Charlotte. He clearly wants to be mysterious…”
Bringing my fingernail to my mouth, I imagine what would happen if I did follow him, blindly listening to the voice in my head.
Dropping my head toward the ground, I stare at my feet, feeling the gravitational pull in his direction.
I turn off my location on my phone.
As I make my way over to him, he is standing by the passenger side door expectingly, catching my eyes and then looking me up and down. We both reach for the door at the same time.
The electric current passes quick and fast through us as our fingertips brush up against each other. One touch is enough to pick up my heart rate.
A slight, awkward grin pulls at my lips as I slide into the seat. Holden moves in a slow-paced jog to the driver’s side, immediately tinkering with the radio to find the perfect station before we can leave the lot.
Every salacious headline of his comes to mind. Every set, every drug, every girl that was just a stop for him on the way to something better…
His problems itch away at me as his chosen station, old-school ’90s rock, plays in the background. We leave the lot.
With everything I know about him now, it brings up the unavoidable question in the room.
Why now?
Nobody has asked since he walked into our offices. I find it hard to believe that someone who has had this branded on him for years thinks this is suddenly a problem.
But hey, that’s a question that is well above my pay grade to even ask, so I stay quiet. I hear Chris’s voice in my head as his familiar words tug at me: “It is important to put clients on the shiniest shelf, no matter how far their star has fallen.”
My job right now is only research.
All I can think of doing in this car ride is to go to WebMD to diagnose my symptoms. Mentally ill, or really bad food poisoning? An important question that only the internet can decipher on why I am seeing and hearing things that aren’t really there.
My first result pops up with “Signs you may need to seek professional help.” I read each item on the checklist: persistent sadness, overwhelming anxiety, changes in sleeping patterns.
If I wasn’t taking showers and my hair was a bit more disheveled, it would be obvious to everyone about my mental state.
“So, do you always get in strangers’ cars?”
His question feels pointed, as if he has infiltrated my thoughts for the last ten minutes. I find myself stuttering to get my words out. “Of… of course. A girl has to get a ride somehow.”
His eyes lazily shift between me and the road.
“Ah, so you’re a natural hitchhiker.”
“Yes, totally. My thumb was made for it. Plus, driving when I am not the one doing it sounds more appealing.”
“You don’t drive?”
“My philosophy on driving is: if you want to get somewhere safely, someone else should do it.”
“I guess today is your lucky day.” Holden presses quickly on the brakes, jolting me forward in my seat.
I narrow my eyes on him. “I spoke too soon… I should’ve caught a ride with Chris.”
Without skipping a beat, he retorts, “It was a little funny. Also, I am just teaching you a lesson not to get in cars with strangers. You never know if they could be insane.”
