Fuck, the seat was comfortable. Like a glove.
He pushed the seat as far back as it would go and put his seatbelt on.
And they were off. She slowed when she was past the gate so he could close it, and then they were on the mountain road, and she drove it…fuck. She drove it like one should when piloting a Maserati MCPura Cielo on a mountain road.
He put his left hand on his knee and kept it there while his right hand held onto the door.
The drive to the interstate was fine, while they were in traffic, and he almost relaxed.
Then she got on the interstate.
Driving a Maserati in the triple digits wasn’t in the same category as doing so with a regular vehicle. He’d driven supercars, and he understood the physics.
He still found his hand moving to the door grip when she threaded between two semis with what he felt was unnecessary confidence.
She didn’t comment. She was talking about the Korean BBQ place, telling him about the Zaya Premium Feast and how the dry-aged bone-in cuts were going to be the star of the show.
He was genuinely listening, but part of his brain was also monitoring the gap between her front bumper and the truck ahead of them, and finding it insufficient.
He breathed out slowly through his nose.
She changed lanes like a pro. Decisive, with no second thoughts, and he felt his right foot press down on nothing.
He moved it back to where it’d been and looked out the side window.
You’ve ridden motorcycles at a hundred and thirty miles per hour,he told himself.You’ve done things with both cars and bikes that’d make this look like a Sunday drive.
This was different. This was someone else’s hands on the wheel. Someone else’s judgment between him and the concrete barrier.
She was still talking about the restaurant — the galbi, how the marinade interacts with the grill smoke, how she was looking forward to his opinions about their dry-aging process.
He contributed enough to the conversation that she wouldn’t clock how thoroughly he was monitoring her driving from the passenger seat, and how his fight-or-flight responses were completely useless here.
They came off the interstate and she had to stop fast for a car turning left without signaling, and his right foot searched for the brake again while his left hand gripped his knee and his right held the armrest handle on the door.
He expected her to comment, but she didn’t.
He forced the hand on his knee to relax, and in his peripheral vision, he was almost certain she was trying not to smile.
Don’t, he thought.
She didn’t. She just took the next turn and flew into a parking spot, clearly comfortable with putting her car exactly where she wanted it.
She cut the engine and looked at him.
“Ready?”
“Yeah,” he said. He lifted the door to open it, and unfolded himself out of the car. It might be comfortable once inside, but getting out of it wasn’t.
She did it with grace, however.
He wanted to comment on her driving, but that would open her up to commenting on how much he detested not being in the driver’s seat, so he merely fell into step beside her.
Chapter 24
Knife stepped into the low-light atmosphere of the restaurant and looked around. Lots of dark wood and black lacquer. Red lighting on a few walls.
Tuesday gave her name, they were promptly seated, and she ordered without even glancing at the menu, “Premium feast,” she told the server. “Kimchi stew. I’ll have the Jinro 24 and…”
