Part 39 (2/2)
”Wow,” I whisper, grinning. I can feel adrenaline coursing through my body as he weaves us through the quiet suburb.
The seat beneath me shakes violently beneath my b.u.m. It's like every crack and crevice in the road is transplanted straight through the car and into my a.s.s.
”The suspension is too hard,” I say, and he just laughs. ”What?”
”There's no switch or anything. This is a track car.” He points up with his finger, and for the first time, I notice the roll cage. It was practically invisible in the dark. Not exactly my preferred choice for a daily driver.
”So why is it so hard?”
”Soft suspension transfers momentum to absorb shock and centrifugal force,” he says. ”Slows you down, wasted energy. You can't take corners as aggressively.”
”Oh,” I say. ”But we're not racing.”
”I like to feel the road.”
”An underground fighter and an amateur race car driver, huh? You're just full of surprises.” Now it's me who is grinning at him, and he takes it on the chin.
”You know me better than I know myself, Penelope.”
”Women's intuition,” I joke.
We laugh, and for the first time, I'm starting to feel comfortable. No longer in the presence of Rose's urgent stares, and the others' silent observation, I feel less awkward.
”Could you drive a bit slower?”
”No.”
”Why not?”
”I don't want to.”
”But we're right up on the limit.”
”That's why it's called a limit. What's the problem?”
”I barely know you, and you're driving in a car with way too much power. I'm a cautious person. Your insurance must cost you loads, but I'm guessing they don't know you fight for a living and then drive your own car to clubs.”
”Relax,” he says. ”I won't be driving back.”
”So who will drive you?”
”n.o.body. The club's in downtown Melbourne, near Southern Cross station. I live in a block of apartments nearby. We'll walk.”
Apartments in the city center? He must really be rolling in it.
Wait a minute, what did he mean by we'll- ”What's that supposed to be?” He nods at my wrist.
”It's a tattoo.”
”I know it's a tattoo, Pen. What's it of?”
”Oh, so this is the part where you come up with a nickname for me?”
”I didn't exactly come up with it. Penelope... Penny... Pen... P.”
”How about we just stick to Penelope?”
”What's it of? Your tattoo? I can't see from here.”
”It's Chicago's skyline. From the lake.”
”When did you get it done?”
”Why?”
”I want to know.”
Sighing, I tell him. ”Just last month. I didn't get it done. I did it myself.”
”No s.h.i.+t,” he says. ”That's on your right hand, and I noticed you were a righty.”
”You notice these things, do you?”
”Got to when you're in the cage. So, you did it with your left hand?”
”Yeah. I'm a little ambidextrous.”
”So am I,” he says, and he smiles at me. ”That's really impressive.”
”So is this the part where you flatter me? Say nice things, do your little routine?”
”I really couldn't give a f.u.c.k about flattering you, Pen. I'm just making conversation.”
”Oh, just making conversation, huh?”
”Yes, trying to loosen you up.”
He looks at me, and I feel my indignation flare up.
”Ten minutes ago you were shaking like a wet puppy. I know I'm hot, but there's no need to be nervous.”
I roll my eyes. ”Oh my G.o.d.”
But he just smirks.
I'm beginning to dislike him intensely.