MARCUS
Jeremy and I check the security cameras to make sure Ryan’s gone, and a sense of relief fills me, but it mingles with sudden rage.
That assholewasfollowing me. Or looking for me, anyway.
We leave the building and walk the short distance to the parking garage. When we reach my truck, I toss my stuff in the back seat and extend my hand for Jeremy’s suitcase. He rolls it to me, for once not protesting the help, and I load it up in the bed. Then I climb in the cab.
Jeremy opens the door and hauls himself onto the seat with a strained grunt, and I smile. My sister has the same problem, but watching him struggle is kind of cute, like watching a kitten trapped in a box.
He gets situated with a heavy huff and then glances at me with narrowed eyes. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, starting the engine.
“This truck is obscenely large, by the way.”
I smirk at him. “Are you setting me up for a size joke?” Jeremy just rolls his eyes. I shrug. “When we were first gettingstarted, I used to make a lot of trips between Seattle and Vancouver with restaurant supplies, so I needed the room and the ability to haul a trailer.” I smile at the memory as I exit the garage. “In the beginning, we tried to cut a lot of corners where we could, but it turned into a lot of late nights and early mornings.”
“You couldn’t just get stuff delivered?”
“Sometimes, but we wanted to buy from local vendors, and a lot of them, especially breweries, don’t have their own delivery services, so we put in a little extra effort.”
Jeremy gives a hum of approval, and the sound makes my belly tingle.
I navigate the Seattle streets and merge onto I-5 South toward Portland. Jeremy and I don’t talk for a while, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat. Finally, he glances over at me.
“We need to stop.”
“What? Why? Do you have to pee already?”
“No.” He looks down at his water bottle. It’s teal and matches his messenger bag. “Well, actually, yes, becausesomeonedidn’t let me use the bathroom before we left.”
“I was a little rushed,” I grit out.
“But also,” he continues, “I was going to get snacks at the bus station. I feel unprepared to sit here for four hours.”
I watch the way his bottom lip sticks out in a pout before glancing back to the road. “Can’t you just wait? We’ll stop for lunch halfway.” He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads, so I concede. “Whatever, fine. But stop drinking so much water.”
I put on my blinker and take the next exit, pulling into a seedy-looking gas station. Jeremy eyes it doubtfully but doesn’t complain as he hops out of the truck.
“What do you want?”
“Surprise me.”
Jeremy shakes his head. “No way. My BFF, Marion, used to play that game, and then she’d bitch the whole trip about what I picked out.”
“Fine, Sour Patch Kids—the extra-sour ones.”
“Aww, like your personality.”
“Jeremy . . .” I warn, glaring at him.
“Okay, jeez.” He holds up his hands as he walks away. “It was a joke.”
A few minutes later, Jeremy returns with a bag full of snacks. As I resume our route, he produces a package of Twizzlers and rips it open. Then he places one between his lips. He does seem more relaxed at least, but the way he’s sucking on the end of that licorice is obscenely sensual. He crosses his legs, sits a little taller, and side-eyes me like he wants to say something.
“What?” He opens his mouth and then closes it hesitantly. “Spit it out.”
“What’s the deal with your dad?” he asks, twirling his tongue around another Twizzler before taking a bite.
