“Por el amor de Dios!” I squealed.
Turning my head with my heart in my throat, I discovered it was one of New York City’s infamous yellow taxis. After a few years of living and working in the city, I had learned my lesson when it came to angry drivers. Or pissed New Yorkers in general. They’d let you know how they felt exactly when they felt it.
Proving my point, a trail of ugly-sounding words was thrown in our direction.
I turned back just in time to watch Aaron curse under his breath. He looked just as furious as the taxi driver.
Another nerve-racking honking noise—this time much, much, much longer—blared in my ears, making me jump again.
“Catalina, now.” Aaron’s tone was severe.
I blinked at him for a second too long, a little dazed by everything going on around me.
“Please.”
And before I could even process that word that had slipped out of him, a yellow blur was driving past us, gifting us with a ragey, “Assholes!” and blaring his horn with something close to devotion.
Those two words—Aaron’s please and that assholes—propelled my legs into the safety of Aaron’s car. With impressive speed, I found myself letting my body fall onto the leather seat with a wet thud and smacking the door shut.
Silence instantly engulfed us, the only sounds the muffled rattle of the rain against the shell of Aaron’s car and the dull roar of the engine moving us forward and into the chaos that was New York’s traffic.
“Thank you,” I croaked, feeling extremely uncomfortable as I fastened my belt.
Aaron kept his eyes on the road. “Thank you,” he answered, delivering that you with sarcasm, “for not making me get out and carry you inside myself.”
The visual of what he had just said caught me completely off guard. My eyes widened before then quickly narrowing at him. “And how in the world did you think that would be a good idea?”
“I was wondering myself, believe me.”
That answer did not make any sense. And for some reason, it made my cheeks heat up. Again.
Turning my head away from him and focusing on the almost-lawless array of moving cars ahead of us, I shifted awkwardly in my seat. Then, I stopped abruptly, noticing my soaked clothes made weird squishy noises against the leather.
“So …” I started as I slid to the edge, stretching the seat belt along with me. More noises followed. “This is a very nice car.” I cleared my throat. “Is it an air freshener that makes it smell all new and leathery?” I knew it wasn’t; the interior was in pristine condition.
“No.”
Moving my ass further up to the very end with yet another squishy sound, I cleared my throat. Straightening my back, I opened my mouth, but nothing came out, not when my mind was stuck on the fact that my soaked clothes were probably ruining the most likely expensive fabric underneath them.
This was a bad idea. I should never have climbed in his car. I should have walked.
“Catalina,” I heard Aaron from my left side, “have you ever been inside a moving vehicle before?”
My eyebrows wrinkled. “What? Of course. Why do you ask?” I queried from my position at the edge of the copilot’s seat. My knees were touching the dashboard.
He slid me a glance, his eyes assessing my stance.
Oh.
“Well, just so you know,” I added quickly, “this is how I always sit. I love watching everything from up close.” I pretended to be
engrossed by the traffic. “I looooove rush-hour. It’s so—”
We came to a sudden halt, and my head and whole body were pushed forward. So much that my eyes closed on instinct. I could already taste the flavor of the PVC that covered the refined lines of the dashboard. The elegant details in the wood too.
Although it never did. Something stopped me midway.
“Jesus,” I heard being muttered.