"Are those…?" I lean closer to the bag of pills in the glove box. "Smiley faces? Oh my God. Are they drugs?" I squint at the driver's license next to the drugs. "And that's not you?"
Chris pulls out a blue handkerchief and slams the glove box closed.
"Here," he says.
"Why do you have someone else's license?" I dab the cloth against my arm and notice a small logo in the corner. "Armani? Seriously? Who the hell buys Armani handkerchiefs?"
Chris shrugs. "Me, apparently."
"That's just weird. You have too much money. And what's with the driver's license? And why do you have dru—"
A sudden realization dawns on me as Chris grips the steering wheel and stares dead ahead. Roofies have smiley faces on them. I grab and twist the handle, but the door is locked.
"Let me out," I say.
"That's not happening. Your dad asked me to make sure you're okay, so that's exactly what I'm going to do."
"You're no better than him," I mumble.
"Your dad?"
"No. The slimeball who just tried to force himself on me."
Chris turns and glares at me. "What did you just say?"
"Roofies!" I snap. "They're roofies and I know exactly why guys use them. Let me out of the car. Now."
With his jaw twitching, Chris stares at me through those dark eyes, and I flinch when he reaches across me. He pulls open the glove box, grabs the bag of pills, and shoulder barges his door open.
I watch him march over to the curb fifty meters from the bus stop. Staring back at me, he rips open the bag and tips the drugs into the storm drain.
He strides back to the car, sits down, and slams the door shut.
Locking his brown eyes on mine, he looks genuinely insulted. "Say whatever you want about me. Hit me. Shout at me. Call me a jackass. But don't ever compare me to men like him."
"Sorry. But they were in your car. I just thought…"
"You thought wrong."
"Sorry."
He turns back to the windshield and grips the wheel. I've already embarrassed myself once, but I can't take my eyes off his forearms. My ex worked out five times a week and he's twenty years younger than Chris Collins.
But Bryan's arms didn't look like rippling tree trunks.
A deep blue vein snakes its way up his shirt sleeves, disappearing as it reaches the valley at the base of his bulging biceps.
"What are you looking at?" he asks, still staring dead ahead.
Quick. Say some words. Anything.
"Elbow," I mumble. Really? "I mean… You have rain dripping off of you. Let me…"
My hand trembles as I reach out the handkerchief and dab it against his arm. The heat from his skin radiates through the cloth. His muscles twitch as he grips the wheel tighter, and a sudden image of Chris Collins in a black suit floods my mind.
"The handkerchief you gave me was red," I mumble.
"Hmm?"
He probably doesn't remember ten-year-old me standing in the rain next to my mother's grave.
My dad was near the church doorway shouting into his phone. He did that a lot.
Everyone else had headed back to the house for the wake, but I couldn't move. I just stood there trying to understand why I didn't die with her that night.
My dad said the drunk driver who hit us had been jailed, but something didn't add up. Every time I tried to talk to him about what happened that night, he would just change the subject, so I gave up asking.
The older I got, the more I saw the kind of world my dad was involved in, and I knew he was keeping something from me. It's what he does best.
"Nothing," I say, dabbing his arm for way too long.
As I stood alone next to my mother's grave, a strong hand squeezed my shoulder. I looked up to find Chris Collins in a black three-piece suit.
His eyes were red and he looked so sad. He handed me a red handkerchief and said…
"Wipe your tears, kiddo. She loved you more than life itself." For a moment, I'm not sure if I imagined that. My hand freezes on his arm and I watch his lips move. "Go make her proud."
Oh my god. He remembers!
I pull my hand away and sit back in my seat. "Can we get out of here, please?"
"You look just like her," he says.
"Better than looking like my dad."
Chris is still staring dead ahead. "Can't argue there. But he loves you, kiddo. Why else do you think he called me?"
I shrug. "He lies. People who love you don't lie as much as he does. But it's just what men do."
"Wow," he sighs. "You never used to be this cynical. Who hurt you?"
My dad hurt me with lies. And Bryan.
"So you don't lie?" I ask.
Half of his mouth curls into a smile. "Depends if you're wearing a wire. I plead the fifth."
"Thought so. You're just like my dad."
Chris runs a hand through his gray hair. "There are worse men to be like, kiddo."
"Stop calling me that."
Wiping his wet hand on his thigh, he mumbles, "People lie to protect people, that's all."
"Okay," I say, glancing down at his leg. "In that case, why did you have drugs and some guy's driver's license in your glove box?"
I watch him closely.
"Just bought this car," he says. "The original owner must have left them."
Great. He's just another man doing what men do.
"I know you're lying."
He exhales like he's bored of this conversation. "How?"
"Your lips are moving." Chris stops smirking when I reach down beside him and grab the trucker's license. "This just slipped from your pocket. So what's your excuse now? Going to tell me you collect them?"
He doesn't respond.
"Are you going to hurt him? Because I really don't think—"
"Enough!" Chris snaps his head so fast his damp gray hair flicks across his forehead. Now he looks as angry as he did with the truck driver.
"I don't explain myself to anyone. Including you." He snatches the license from my hand and tosses it over his shoulder. "What I do is my business. End of discussion."
I pull on my seat belt. "Fine. Men are such psychos."
Chris slams his foot down and the car screeches on the wet concrete.
"So why did my dad send you? I thought you'd be busy running your nightclubs, not doing errands."
Silence.
"Come to think of it, I haven't seen my dad in months. Didn't even know he'd left town. You probably see him more than—"
"I don't do small talk," Chris states.
As we speed to the exit, I notice the trucker at the pump. His engine is still running, but he's just staring up at the full moon. "What did you say to him?"
"Nothing," he says.
More lies. Maybe it's biological. If you have a penis, you lie.
"Why hasn't he left yet?" I ask.
"Don't know. I'm not his mother. Maybe he's doing some soul searching."
The trucker's gaze meets mine as we reach the exit. His eyes look lost and broken.
"Please," he mimes at me. "Please…"
As we pull onto the highway, I watch the trucker shrink in the mirror, but I can't shake the terror in his eyes.
Chris clutches the wheel so hard the whites of his knuckles glow like tiny moons. He honks his horn at a BMW and flips him a finger.
"Prick," he snarls under his breath.
Who the hell are you? I follow his smooth, chiseled jaw all the way down his sun-kissed neck until I reach those forearms. And why are you so damn hot?
The flashing lights of a stationary police car steal my attention, and I glance at the speedometer. He's doing seventy in a thirty zone. And he has two driver's licenses that aren't even his.
"Chris! Slow down! The cops are…"
I fall silent when he slams his foot on the accelerator.