Part 3 (1/2)
I have to take off my gown, and of course, leave it to me to wait until I'm actually in the car, and we're actually moving, before I try to.
I struggle through it, pulling it off my arms, contorting as much as possible against the seat belt.
That's when I notice Chance isn't wearing his seat belt.
”What are you, a complete idiot? Will you put your seat belt on?”
”It's not far,” he says casually.
”Put it on,” I say, hardening my voice. ”You know how many people die because they are as stupid as you?”
”Okay, okay, no need to get your panties all twisted up,” he says, pulling the seat belt over his body. ”I was about to.”
I sigh, and pinch the bridge of my nose. ”I'm not getting anything twisted up. You're just an idiot. And don't say panties. It's juvenile.”
”Ouch. What is it with you and the name calling, Ca.s.s?”
”Don't call me Ca.s.s. My name is Ca.s.sie.”
”You're all so p.r.i.c.kly.” He leans over to me and grins. ”p.r.i.c.kly pear... are you frustrated?” His deep voice hangs in the air for a moment.
”G.o.d, just let me out of the car, okay?” I'm huffing now, and I don't even know why I agreed to this in the first place.
”Oh, just sit still, will you? We're nearly there.”
”Why are you taking this road?” I ask. He's going by the beach. It's not the quickest way.
”Because I want to.”
”But it's a slower route.”
”Wow, Ca.s.s, you should really chill out.”
”Why would you take a slower, less direct route, when there is a faster one available to you? It doesn't make sense.”
”You know, stress is bad for your blood pressure.”
”Like you would know anything about that.”
”I'm an athlete, Ca.s.s. What makes you think I don't know about blood pressure? About cardiovascular health?”
I cross my arms and look out of the window. I don't even want to look at him, his big and strong hands holding carelessly onto the wheel, the way his t-s.h.i.+rt seems to have molded itself to the muscular contours of his body.
Oh G.o.d, what is wrong with me? Why do I want this total d.i.c.khead?
I always envisioned myself finding a sharp and successful man, one who wore suits to work, was sophisticated and smart as a whip.
Not some vain, stuck-up playboy.
I force myself to focus on the scenery outside. It's actually pretty nice. The sea is sparkling like it's been sprinkled with crystals, and surprisingly the beach is nearly completely empty. It stretches on for nearly two miles, and I can barely see anybody on it.
There's a light breeze, and I can see the lines of the catamarans on the beach flapping against their metal masts. I whirr down the window, and sure enough, I can hear the clinking sounds.
But then I hear another clink, much closer, and very familiar. I look over to Chance, and my mouth drops. ”You're going to smoke in here?”
He looks at me, cigarette dangling from between his lips, zippo flame wriggling in the wind, a puzzled expression on his face.
”Yes, Ca.s.s. I am.”
”Can you not?”
He shrugs, and sparks his cigarette anyway.
”You are such an inconsiderate a.s.s. Second-hand smoke causes cancer, you know.”
”My car, my rules.”
”Then just let me out!” I cry.
I completely don't expect him to yank the car over, brake aggressively, and then sit back in his seat, arm on the headrest of mine, and hazel eyes daring.
”Get out, then,” he says, shrugging. ”No skin off my back.”
”Argh!” I groan, undoing the seatbelt and getting out. I slam the car door a I know that he'll hate that, because all boys do a and start walking along the beach. It's only twenty minutes to my house, and the walk won't kill me.
But sitting in that car with Chance might make me kill him.
I'm appalled when I hear a car door close and a car lock chirrup, and turn around to see that he's gotten out, and he's walking over to me with his infuriatingly c.o.c.ky swagger, and that same stupid smirk on his face.
Smoke trails in his wake, tumbles away on the arm of a breeze.
”Oh my G.o.d, you just don't know when to stop, do you?” I say, putting my hands up. I'm so annoyed. I'm exasperated. What the h.e.l.l is his game, anyway? Why is he bugging me so much today?
It's graduation. Couldn't he have just let me have it in peace?
”Why didn't your father attend the ceremony?” he asks, squinting against the sun. His eyes become slits, and it makes him more attractive.
”What business is it of yours?”
”My mother went on some company get away.” He shrugs. ”I don't really give a f.u.c.k. But you seem to give a f.u.c.k, so why not talk about it? Isn't that what therapists say we should do? Talk about what we give a f.u.c.k about?”
I balk. ”Are you seeing a therapist?”
”Have to. Court orders.”