Counterfeit Love

"Alright. Well... you're sure you locked the door?" she asked, nibbling on her lower lip as I slammed the door shut.

Anxious.

She was anxious.

Which was understandable.

And why I didn't fight her on the driving thing. It would give her something to focus on. Besides, riding shotgun meant I got control over the playlist. Which everyone knew made or broke a road trip.

"Yep. Got it locked. Even rigged up those light timers you sent over. And Ferryn and Vance said they'd check in. Everything is covered."

"And I, ah, I got what, you know, we need," she said, rushing to her side of the car, hopping in.

What we needed, I imagined, was weapons.

Though I was beginning to know her well enough to know that they weren't nearly tucked into one of the bags or suitcases. She probably had something rigged into her car for smuggling shit like that across state lines.

"What did you tell your mom?" I asked a few minutes later as we made our way out of Navesink Bank, setting our sights on New York state.

"That my therapist said it would be good to get away for a little bit."

"Did he say that?"

"She did. But it was like a year ago."

"Lying to your mom. You little rebel you," I teased, unwrapping a lollipop, slipping it into my mouth.

"She's already had too many questions."

"About me?"

"Yeah. You. Me. Why you were with me. Why you beat the hell out of Jake."

"What did you tell her?"

"That you're an unexpected friend. And that you walked in when Jake was pushing my buttons, and misinterpreted it."

"Did I?" I asked, brow raising.

"Sort of. In a way, he is supposed to provoke me."

"Why?"

"Because I do this thing when I train."

"What do you do, doll?"

"I, ah, well, we call it flinching. I flinch and then I shut down. And then sometimes, it sends me into a spiral for days or weeks. Jake is supposed to push at me to see if he can push me past that flinch. A sort of exposure therapy of sorts. It's why I can't actually go on any jobs. I mean you don't have to go on jobs when you're in charge. But my mom always has. And it makes me feel like I'm screwing up because I can't get through the training which would allow me to go on jobs without being, you know, a liability."

"Think maybe he could push your buttons without calling you a pussy, love," I said, shrugging.

I couldn't claim to have the best morals, but I never intentionally hurt women. Not physically. But not emotionally either. And I damn sure didn't pick at a woman who clearly had been through a lot of trauma, was still trying to get through it. I had to believe there were other ways.

"I don't train with Jake a lot. I never respond well to him. Some of the other guys can push me without sending me to a therapist's couch for a week."

"One day you'll beat the shit out of him, and then you will feel like the baddest chick in the world."

"I think you put a little too much faith in me," she said, shaking her head. "I have never bested any of the guys. I can get to a certain point and then I just... I can't take it anymore and I have to tap out before I go into another spiral."

"Tell you what, if you want sometime, we can go a couple rounds. I won't call you a pussy. And I don't have all that fancy footwork you guys have going on, so you might be able to knock my ass out."

I was even looking forward to that. For her. Which I felt said a lot about what was growing here.

An unexpected friendship, yes.

But possibly more than that.

Though I wasn't stupid.

I understood that if there would be more than that, that I needed to be patient, that it would take a lot of work, that maybe she wasn't even interested in that. But until I got told no, I was going to go ahead and work toward that. Little by little.

Starting with our road trip."I told you, love," I said, trying not to sound too cocky about it when she had spent the last twenty minutes undressing the bed, pulling the mattress to and fro, looking for any sign of bed bugs, or anything else that might let her gloat over me for a while.

"Yes, well, it is never a bad thing to be over-prepared. Just in case," she said, piling all the clean bedding that still smelled like bleach into a pile behind the bedroom door, then unpacking the new stuff she'd brought with her.

She was taking the suite bedroom.

I was taking the tiny one across the living space where, I assumed, rich and powerful people likely kept their personal assistants or security when they were traveling.