I’m pretty damn impressed.
“Now,” Sofia sighs, smile glowing. “Keys, please.”
She holds out her hand for the aforementioned keys. And I start to explain—to argue why it would be best for her to not actually drive my car. I’m good at the arguing.
But before I can utter a single word, her open hand turns into a single finger.
“No.”
I close my mouth. Then open it again to convince . . .
And the finger strikes again.
“Nooo.” When I scrape my teeth across my lip instead of speaking, Sofia goes on. “You asked for my help—I agreed. If I’m going to the Middle-of-Nowhere, Mississippi, I’m driving there.”
She’s good at arguing too.
I hand over the keys.
And like the Griswolds in a German car, we buckle in for the road trip.
Jake reminds us, “Drive safe. Watch out for assholes,” while Sherman barks and Brent waves.
Then, in an accented voice, Brent shouts, “Bye-bye—have fun stormin’ the castle.”
And we hit the road.
• • •
Within the first twenty-five miles, Sofia’s driving takes about ten years off my fucking life. It’s not that she’s a bad driver—the opposite, actually. She drives like a female Dale Earnhardt. I just wish it wasn’t my car she’s playing NASCAR with.
“Whoa!” I yell, bracing my hands on the dash as she rides straight up the ass of the truck in front of us, only to change lanes at the last minute, almost nicking the front bumper of a minivan already there.
“You’re like an old woman!” she complains, yelling above the noise of the open top, her hair whipping around like Medusa’s snakes on methamphetamine.
“And you’re like a soccer mom late for practice!” I yell back. “Slow down and enjoy the driving experience—because believe me, after today you’ll never have it again.”
Her mouth opens wide in an unrepentant laugh. Then she messes with the buttons on the steering wheel, activating her phone’s playlist that’s wirelessly connected to the speakers. And out pours Elton John’s “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues,” one of Sofia’s favorites.
I can’t help but watch her and chuckle as she belts out the song, loud and shameless, swerving her head and bopping her shoulders. I’ve seen Sofia fired up, stubborn, determined, and turned on. But adorable—that’s a new look for her. And I like it. Very much.
Her expression turns sultry as she meets my eyes quickly while singing, “Rolling like thunder, under the covers . . .” I don’t have to wonder what images she’s seeing in her mind—whose images, because I know it’s snapshots of us.
When the song ends, I slide my own phone into the jack, hooking it up to the speakers.
“Hey,” she objects. “Driver picks the tunes!”
“Actually,” I correct, “shotgun controls the music, but I was being benevolent. We’ll take turns—quid pro quo.”
She nods and I scroll through my songs until I find the one. “Now this is a song to cruise down the highway to.”
And the unmistakable voice of Elvis Presley fills the car, singing “Burning Love.” I nod my head in time to the beat and snap my fingers—as close to dancing as I’ll ever get.
Sofia laughs. “You can take the boy out of the South, but you can’t take the Elvis out of the southern boy.”
I point my finger her way. “That’s very true.”
I feel her smiling eyes watching me as I sing, “’Cause your kisses lift me higher, like a sweet song of a choir . . .”
Pushing the hair away that threatens to strangle her, Sofia asks, “Did you name your daughter after Elvis?”
I grin, remembering. “We just liked the name—thought it was different, but pretty for a little girl.”
“Did you have a boy’s name picked out too?”
With a nod, I explain. “Henry, after Jenn’s granddad, or Jackson, after mine.”
She’s quiet a moment, shifting quickly and not holding back on the gas pedal. Then she asks, “Family’s important to you, isn’t it, Stanton?”
“Of course. When it comes down to it, family’s the only thing you can really count on. Don’t get me wrong—there’ve been days I wanted to bury my older brother alive. You’ll meet him, you’ll understand why. But . . . he’ll always be my brother.” I pause, then voice the thought that’s been tickling my brain since I opened that envelope. “That’s why I’m surprised about Jenny. She’s always been solid, you know? True north. I can’t believe she’s being so . . . fickle.”
Sofia’s voice is soft, but loud enough to make out above the wind. “Maybe she just really missed you.”
Before I reply, the speedometer catches my eye. “You better slow down, Soph.”
She brushes me off. “Don’t worry, Granny, it’s all under control.”
“The highway patrol might disagree with you, Speed Racer.”
No sooner have the words left my mouth than a siren screams from behind us, flashing lights on our tail.
Sighing but unworried, Sofia pulls over to the shoulder.
“I don’t want to say I told you so, but . . .” I let that hang while Sofia busies herself in the mirror—patting her hair, pulling her top down a bit, and pushing her tits together. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting us out of a ticket.” She pinches her cheeks and bites her lip, making them plumper, rosier.
I smirk. “You think it’s that easy?”
She bats her long-lashed eyes. “Please. Men are the simplest of all creatures. They’re mesmerized by the boobage ’cause they don’t have any. Turns their brains to mush. I’ll have us out of here in five minutes.”
My smirk spreads into a wide, smug grin when I catch sight of the officer of the law before Sofia does. Sofia turns to her left, eyes wide and innocent. “Is there a problem, Off— Oh. Damn.”
The policeman is actually a policewoman.
Step aside, boobage: this is a job for the Jury Charmer.
I lean across the seat, smiling seductively, my voice as smooth and persuasive as The King’s. “Good morning, Officer. What can I do for you?”
• • •
After a sincere apology and my promise to not let my overzealous companion anywhere near the wheel gets us out of the speeding ticket, we spend the next twelve hours making good time on the road. It’s after dark by the time we check into a Motel 6, dusty, dirty, hungry, and tired.
I have every reason to be presumptuous, so I get us one room with a nice king-size bed. Sofia heads straight for the shower, while I venture out to pick up a pizza, a six-pack for me, and a bottle of wine for her.
I walk into the room just as she’s coming out of the bathroom, running a brush through her long, wet hair, a silk dark green nightshirt clinging to her curves. Her face is free of makeup, giving her a more innocent, younger look than I’m used to seeing on her. Protective warmth unfurls low in my stomach.
She lights up when she spots the pizza. “God bless you!”
Three slices later, we sit at the cramped, round table. Nibbling a piece of crust, she asks, “So, what’s the plan? Who am I?”
I swallow a mouthful of beer. “What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . am I the new girlfriend? Your date for the wedding? Have you never seen My Best Friend’s Wedding?”
I scoff. “No, thankfully, I haven’t.”
“Should I be making Jenny jealous? A man is never as attractive as when he’s got his arm around another woman. Or I could flirt with her fiancé. Test his faithfulness. That would give you some serious ammo against him.”
I’m not sure what bothers me more—hearing a man referred to as Jenny’s fiancé, or the thought of Sofia flirting with him. “I don’t like head games. They’re too manipulative. Undignified, you know?”
Sofia shrugs. “If you want to win, sometimes you have to play dirty.”
I shake my head. “I prefer a different kind of dirty.” I drink my b
eer, then explain why the idea leaves such a bad taste in my mouth. “A few years ago, I was seeing a woman named Rebecca. We met at a conference.”
She chuckles. “Professional conferences are as fertile mating grounds as swinger parties.”
I laugh, agreeing with her. “I didn’t go into details with her about Jenny, but I made it clear we were strictly casual.”
“Of course you did.”
“Anyway, she said she was fine with that. We hooked up twice—and then she started pulling all kinds of sneaky shit. Dropping hints about other guys she was seeing, making plans with me, then breaking them—trying to play hard to get—while at the same time finding excuses to randomly drop by the apartment. She became clingy and her games were annoying. The whole thing just made her seem . . . pathetic. I ended it real quick.”
“Did it bother you that she disrupted the ‘strictly casual’ by falling for you, or that she tried to manipulate you into returning her feelings?” Sofia asks.
“Both, I guess.”
Sofia nods with understanding. “The direct approach it is, then. So I’m there to . . .”
“You’re there to make sure I don’t stick my foot in my mouth or up someone’s ass. To keep me on track. Jenn and I have a long history together, and we have Presley. She said she’s only been seeing James Dean for a few months, so I can’t believe that any feelings she has for him could be anywhere as strong as what she feels for me. I think this whole thing is her cry for help, really.”
“You think she’s feeling neglected?”
“Exactly. So I’ll show her she’s got my attention.”
She takes a long swig of her wine, draining half the glass. “And after that? Do you think you’ll . . . propose to Jenny?”
I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. I rub the back of my neck. “It’s complicated. I don’t want her marrying anyone else, that’s for damn sure. But . . . Presley’s still in school; I don’t know if they’d want to move to DC now. I always pictured Jenny and me getting married . . . later. When we’re older.”
Her brows rise to her hairline. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You are older.”
“I’m in my prime.”
“That’s kind of my point.”
I stand up. “The bottom line is, everything’s on the table. If proposing to Jenny keeps her from marrying Sausage Link—then I’ll do what I have to do.”
“Wow.” Sofia snorts. “You’re so romantic. How could any woman resist that?”
I flip her the bird and smirk. “The romance is in the doing—not the talking.”
With that case closed, I hit the shower.
• • •