Page 17 of About the Green

"My what now?" I question absently as I check the forum I first found my target on. The private messaging hadn’t updated but his confirmation that he’d be here tonight is still there.

"Did you buy your ticket?" He enunciates slowly, pressing a finger to my phone so that it sits on the table.

I give him a curt smile that he doesn’t return. I don’t lift my phone again. "Oh, no! I asked Lidia… and she got it for me."

His head tilts as those brows scrunch inward. "Why is it that you couldn't get it for yourself?"

"I told you,” I say, twirling a loose, pink curl around my finger, “I'm just a girl, and that shit sucks. I don't want to do that."

"Yea, but you're an adult, so could have done it yourself."

"Okay, but I don't like to do it, and Lidia didn't mind. So what's the difference?"

"Whatever," he says. "Which flight is it?"

I give him the flight information that was emailed to me. After comparing it with his own, he seems relieved that we won't be sharing the same flight to Atlanta. I'm also relieved. It means that I'll have an opportunity to sleep and relax without having this man breathing down my neck.

What made him my keeper, anyway?

We're supposed to be working together. He's not, like, my boss or something.

The bartender comes back to the table with the drinks much quicker than I expected given how busy it is in the space, but when he doesn't make eye contact with Vert—I can deduce what’s happening.

Vert is not unknown and even if he were, his scary ass face would put a pep in your step. He is scary in an I’ll beat your ass if you don’t back away from me kind of way, but not like a bite you and drain you of all your blood kind of way. That's an important distinction. Vamp is an inaccurate description for him.

"You're getting there before me, so are you gonna pick me up from the airport?" I try, knowing that he won’t.

He gives me an incredulous look. "Isn't Atlanta yo’ city?"

I shrug. "Of course. Home of Pam's Diner and the number one place to get milkshakes as far as I’m concerned."

He rolls his eyes, ignoring my diner recommendation. "Don't you have a car in yo’ city?"

"No, my car's here..."

"You're not sendin’ your car there?"

I think for a moment on his question. "Well, I didn't set that up, so no."

"So how do you expect to get around in Atlanta?"

Widening my eyes, I lean forward, allowing him to put the pieces together.

He jerks back, face twisted in disdain. "Do I look like a fuckin’ chauffeur service?"

"I mean, you're always driving around everybody else in Dupont. Why the hell can't I park my ass in your passenger seat? Don’t I look pretty there?"

He shakes his head twice. "Because we're not gonna be workin’ together twenty-four seven. I’m not responsible for you gettin’ to and ‘fro. How the fuck are you gonna get food and, like, do other shit besides work?"

What’s it matter to him if I’m getting any of those things?

Doesn’t he know that you can get almost anything delivered to your front door? Especially food. I raise an eyebrow and ask, "What makes you think I do other things besides working?"

"Are we doin’ this?" he asks and I choose to believe that he thinks I still work at the Chrome Flame when I’m back home. Sure, I dance when I feel like it. But I’m rarely on stage anymore. It was a part of my trap when I needed it. It’s fun too. Gotta fill my praise quota somehow.

My right eyebrow rises even higher.

Now we're getting somewhere good.