Condemned

7 | Sam

Jael's mad at me, I think.

We're stuck in traffic and I'm sure that's not helping. We finally made it off campus, and now we're rolling through town. These roads are not designed for thousands of people all at once. There are too many stop signs and not enough traffic lights.

I watch him for a while. He doesn't seem to notice, and eventually, I say the line that I've been practicing in my head. "You don't have to be whatever it is that you're being."

Jael shudders from a thought and studies my expression—probably worried, amused, nervous, flirtatious—and some changing, melding combination that would be impossible to read, even for a guy with plenty of experience. We're waiting for our chance to turn at a stop sign, so the inquiry is no breach to our safety.

"And what exactly is that?" Although his eyes dart back to the car ahead of us, his face brightens, and I take that as a good sign.

Hmmm. What's the right word here? I suppose I can rule out anger, directed at me, that is. He's probably not jealous, either. He has the dominatrix girlfriend. I won't flatter myself into believing I could wreck that bond in twenty-four hours without trying. Is it concern? That's a stronger word than I'd like to use, too.

"Upset," I go with. "I know what you're probably thinking..."

"Somehow I doubt that." His expression sours at either me or the bad driver in front of us. He's forced to slam on the breaks.

Would the car in front of us just go already? I'm not usually road-ragey, but these are extraordinary circumstances. It's painful to sit on my own behind, and the jerkiness is chipping away at all things "nice." And Jael doesn't deserve anything less than that.

"You think I'm flaky and irresponsible," I blurt out, shifting my weight. Much to my chagrin, it doesn't ease the discomfort. "And that I'm asking for trouble. And that I just expect a man to sort it all out for me."

Jael is not an aggressive driver. He's skilled and confident, and that's not the same thing. He's been patient overall, probably for my sake, but the situation is taking its toll. Our lack of progress is clearly stressing him out. It's clear that he has somewhere else to be by the way he keeps checking out the dashboard clock.

"I don't think that," he insists with word emphasis and strong eye contact. We're at a standstill again. "But trouble will find you. I haven't heard an unkind word come out of you. You just scream asshole bait. I'm amazed you've survived this long. What's your secret?"

We roll one car-length closer to our escape route—a right turn when everyone else seems to be making a left.

"I'm really fast?" I say it like I'm guessing. And I probably am. It's an untested theory.

Would I be able to outrun a football player? Maybe someone like Ted, but Ian is the epitome of strength, speed, and agility, and his stride is about two feet longer than mine.

"You'd have to be!"

I laugh and it feels good, but it's also exhausting. I slump into my seat, careful to avoid the bruised flesh and raw nerves, and close my eyes. "I wish they'd just leave me alone," I sigh. "A week. That's all I ask!"

"You should have said that to Ian Tierney." Could a name be said with any more contempt?

Doubt it...

After a weak giggle, I set an elbow on the armrest and lean my head on my hand. "I don't think it will matter anyway. A day ago, he probably didn't even know my name. A day from now, he probably won't remember it. A weekend of debauchery will give him permanent amnesia."