Playing (Inked Hearts 2)

I step back. I can't let him see how this hurts. I can't let him know how deep it goes.

But, dammit, the smile isn't coming to my face. It's taking all of my energy to keep up a neutral expression.

Drew squeezes my hand. His voice is soft and even. "I'll take you home."

I nod and I follow him to the car.

* * *

Every minute stretches to forever. I check the clock on the dash. Four minutes. I've been in the passenger seat, carefully avoiding making a noise of any kind, for four minutes.

A yellow light turns red. Drew slams on the brake and the car jerks to a stop. If the guy can afford the rent of that obscenely large house, he can afford a car with some actual handling.

Traffic is totally clear. The only things open nearby are the movie theater and the bar across the street from it, but somehow every street parking space is taken. Meters are off after six. People are cheap enough to hike half a mile if it means they'll save the five dollar valet charge.

Drew is looking at me. My gaze is fixed on the empty road, but I can feel it. I can feel the concern. I've done such a good job not meriting concern the last few years. I can't go back to being the girl everyone worries about.

The light is still red.

Five minutes. I have been sitting in this car for five minutes. I'm pretty sure Drew has spent every one of those three hundred seconds staring at me with concern. It's not safe, really. He should have his eyes on the road.

I turn on the radio and flip through the presets. A Motown song fills the car. It's cheerful. Peppy. I try to grab onto the sensation and manufacture some kind of smile, but it doesn't work.

Drew is looking at me. The weight of his concern is so damn heavy.

Green. Thank God. Drew's attention turns to the road. I lean back in the passenger seat, slide my watch up my forearm, and trace the tiny scars on the inside of my left wrist. They're so faded, they're almost impossible to see. Nothing like the scars on my thighs. Those are deep, and red, and jagged.

The next three lights are green. Drew reaches for the radio and turns it off. The silence fills the car again. He's trying to wait me out. He's trying to make me break.

He's trying to win. As always.

We turn onto my street. The car slows to a stop a dozen or so feet from my apartment. I undo my seatbelt and reach for the door, but he stops me.

"Kara."

His fingertips graze my wrist. I pull my hand into my lap so there's no chance he'll feel the scars.

I make eye contact. Oh, those eyes. Those piercing eyes. "I really need to finish my essay."

"You know you can talk to me about anything."

"And in public, no less." I reach for the door again. "I'm really glad all the salespeople at Urban Home know my feelings about oral sex."

"I'm glad I know."

I try to shake off my mood. I try to remember the upbeat Motown song. "Yes, well you're deranged."

He studies my expression with doubt. He doesn't buy the cheer, but he doesn't push it. "Thank you."

I pull the door handle. He's still staring at me, but I'm not about to fall back into that awful role. "It's a twelve-page essay."

"One question first."

"What?"

His mood lightens. "Do you masturbate?"

I step out of the car. "Goodnight, Drew."