Don't Go There (Awkward Love 5)

I pull out my phone, directing all of my attention to that, but I immediately regret it, because the calls and texts are really rolling in now. If one more person asks me when the album is releasing, I’m going to scream. A new message pings through. I frown. Darcy? I turn around and she shrugs at me. When I read the message, I realize why she’s not saying it aloud.

Darcy: Don’t pretend you’re not wondering if the rumors were true. I’m guessing twelve inches.

I choke on a laugh, then I turn around and shoot a glare at Darcy, who shrugs innocently.

Me: I’m pretty sure he’s the one who started those rumors, but answering your question, it might have crossed my mind.

Me: Also—Embarrass me or make this awkward and I’ll kill you.

Darcy: You don’t need my help to embarrass yourself ;)

She makes a solid point. I turn my phone over and press it against my leg, then I take a deep breath, my throat constricting as the scent of his aftershave engulfs me.

God, he smells good.

“Okay, let’s get moving.”

His voice jolts me back to reality. I smile at him and raise my eyebrows.

“Sure, Adam. Or should I call you Frederick?”

“What?” he asks, a confused smile on his face.

“That guy you were just talking to. He called you Frederick,” I say patiently.

“No, he didn’t,” he says, giving me an odd look. “Are you feeling okay?”

He’s so convincing that for a second, I doubt myself.

“Don’t make me feel like I’m crazy,” I protest. “He called you Frederick. I know that’s what I heard.”

“For the record, I didn’t hear anyone call you that,” Darcy pipes up. “I think she imagined it.”

Adam laughs. I turn around and glare at her. Very fucking helpful, thanks.

“Katie, relax. What you heard is him asking me if I’ve seen Frederick,” he replies. His eyes sparkle as he grins at me. “He was out looking for his brother.”

I frown at him. I’m less certain than I was a few minutes ago, but I’m still not convinced. I guess it is possible I heard wrong …

“Maybe you had more to drink than you realized?” he suggests. “You didn’t do anything that you regretted later, did you?”

“Nope.” My tone is like ice.

“Good,” he murmurs, smirking at me. “Because there’s nothing worse than your world turning upside down. Or your smile becoming a frown.”

I can’t be in this car.

I ignore Darcy’s snort and stare straight ahead, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten to me. But at the same time, I know I can’t ignore him forever.

I’d rather walk home than be subjected to seventeen hours of this.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fucking wonderful, thanks for asking,” I grumble.

“Really?” he chuckles. “Because you’re sounding a little defensive.”

“She’s way more uptight than she usually is,” Darcy announces.

“Ah, so it’s me, then?” His grin widens. “Darcy?” he asks when I don’t answer him.

“I think she’s still dealing with the trauma you put her through back in school. That, and the humiliation of you seeing that video,” Darcy explains. “She’s probably feeling very vulnerable right now.”

I sink lower into my seat, then I grab my phone text Darcy, punching down so hard on the letters that my fingers ache.

Me: Please, shut up. Or I swear I’ll make you pay.

Darcy: You need to break the ice. I’m trying to help you.

Me: Then for the love of God, stop helping.

I turn my head and look him in the eye. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m vulnerable or that he intimidates me. He raises his eyebrows at me.

“I’m not ‘struggling’ to deal with any trauma,” I begin, keeping my voice even. “Other than the idea of being locked in a car with an asshole.”

“An asshole?” he repeats. His eyes shine with amusement. “Why am I an asshole?”

“I’ve asked myself that many times,” I say, sweetly. “Why is Adam Jenkins such an asshole?”

“It’s true.” Darcy chortles. “I can confirm she’s asked herself that question a lot.”

“I guess it’s kind of like me pondering why you’re such a snob?” he grins.

“Why?” I laugh. “Because I’m not throwing myself at you?”

“You’re not?” He lifts his eyebrows. “Because I kinda thought you were …”

“You don’t even care what a dick you were in high school,” I say, laughing at how cocky he is.

“Because it was ten years ago,” he reminds me. “I’m sorry if I made your life hard, but aren’t you tired of holding onto all this anger?”

I shake my head and laugh. I’m not even sure why I’m bothering. How can I convince him bullying me was wrong if he doesn’t care enough in the first place?

“Look, can I be honest?” he asks.

“Doubtful,” I mutter.

“I don’t remember much of high school at all, let alone who I picked on.” He sighs and glances at me. “There weren’t too many days I wasn’t stoned, or drunk. Or both. How can I be genuinely be sorry for something I don’t remember doing?”