Then he pulls his phone from his pocket.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Telling Armando to pull around.”
“I don’t need a ride home,” I say, mortified.
“Are we doomed to repeat the same conversation?” he asks.
“I’ll call someone,” I say, trying to hide the desperation.
I definitely need a ride home, but I can’t be in the same car with him. I can’t. Not today. Not now. I’ll never sleep again.
“Then call someone.”
I blink.
Again, I am not prepared for him to be reasonable.
“That is not the point.”
“It is exactly the point.” His phone remains in his hand, but he does not type. “You will not drive. You will not sleep in your car. You will either call someone you trust, or I will take you home.”
Take me home. Take me to bed.
Just fuck me and get it over with.
I stare at him, willing my cheeks not to flush.
He takes my silence as submission and goes back to his phone.
“But what about my car?” I blurt out. “I need my car this weekend.”
It’s not exactly a lie.
Okay, it’s a lie.
But I’ll say anything to get out of this situation.
The idea of being in a car with him, in the confined space, the dark of the evening, is too much.
"Your keys."
I stare at him. “What?”
“Your keys,” he says patiently. “Give me your keys.”
“Why?”
He looks at me like I am a child. A very stupid child.
"Because I don't think you'd want me to have them hot-wire it," he says, deadpan.
I flush.
Right.
My mind scrambles for another excuse, another reason this cannot happen. “It’s… I don’t want to be any trouble.”
