CHAPTER 44
FIVE DAYS AFTER the birthday blow job, I hear the elevator and shoot to my feet, swinging open the door before Jeremy gets to it, my purse in hand. My purse. It feels so strange in my hand, the extra unnecessary weight one carries around for the purposes of… what? What is so imperative that we, as women, must carry an extra appendage? Men manage to survive just fine without carrying around a personal supply of Band-Aids, tissues, medicine and Q-tips. My purse is shiny and new, a whoopee-I’m-rich purchase back when I didn’t have the sense to realize a shut-in doesn’t need a purse. So dammit—I’m using it. A giant, empty purse with only two things inside: a driver’s license and a checkbook.
“Hey.” Jeremy stops short in the hall, his eyes sweeping appreciatively over me. “You look… ready.”
“Ready?” I roll my eyes and pull my door shut. “Wow, you’re as out of practice as I am. How about hot? Sexy? Beautiful?”
I breeze past him and am caught off guard when his hand catches me, rolling me to one side and pinning me against the wall, his body suddenly there, hard and strong against me, his breath hot against my neck. “Hot. Sexy. Beautiful,” he whispers, my body weakening underneath his as my chin lifts up and he captures my mouth in his.
Thud. My purse hits the floor as he dips into my mouth, his tongue dancing over mine in a slow, confident sweep, my hands stealing under his shirt and gripping his back, wanting him closer, harder, everywhere against me.
His mouth pulls off and I catch my breath, looking up into his eyes. “You in a rush?”
I grin, reaching for the front of his shirt and pulling myself upright, appreciating the smooth way it slides over his chest muscles. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Let’s go, Romeo.”
He scowls, taking one last kiss before bending down, picking up my purse and handing it over. “You ready to tell me where we’re going?”
“In the truck,” I promise, accepting my bag and moving toward the stairs.
“You want to buy a car?” the skeptical look on Jeremy’s face is identical to the one I often imagine Dr. Derek wearing, and I shoot him a warning look.
“Yep. Head north. All of the dealerships—”
“Are off Route 1,” Jeremy supplies dryly.
“Right. Deliveryman. I forgot.”
His lips twitch at my tone but he doesn’t respond, changing lanes and heading north. “What kind of car do you want?”
I look out the window, absorbing the city during the day. People everywhere, in cars, on foot, all living their lives with blatant disregard for their daily freedoms. They talk without thinking of death. They live without holding themselves back from violence. I stare at a stroller-pushing mother and imagine our truck plowing her down, the scream and crack of her bones underneath the tires. If I roll down the window, I’ll get a front row seat to their pain. “A convertible,” I mumble.
We enter the four-lane road that is our destination, and Jeremy moves to the slow lane, peering out the window. “Where do you want to start?”
I scan the signs and point forward. “There.”
He gives me a confused look. “Jaguar?”
“Yeah.”
He puts on his blinker, taking his time pulling into the dealership and parking, his truck out of place among the sleek vehicles. I open the door and step out, my sneaker hitting the hard concrete, a small thrill shooting through me at the contact with the outside world. It is still new. I am still grateful. And that emotion is a reminder that I need to be careful. I need to behave. This purchase will open my world up. I need to make sure I don’t open it too far and suck hell in along with it.
I step forward a few steps and stop, my eyes feasting on a midnight blue beast in the front row. It glistens under the sun, a hint of glitter in the paint. I don’t move, don’t take my eyes from its lines. It would look down its perfectly created nose at my high school Honda Accord and snort, smoke puffing from the vents on its sides. It is sex, speed, and attitude all rolled into one. It looks like a car that would make side bets with its owner, and rub its hands in glee at the prospect of mayhem.
I can buy this. I have money to burn, and this can be mine. It has been years since I have bought anything frivolous. But for my ticket to freedom, it feels like the time is right to splurge. To open the door, sit in its leather, and celebrate the unorthodox definition of success I have attained.
I hear the scuff of feet against pavement and break my eyes from the car, colliding with the image of a thin man, his suit pressed, his eyes passing from Jeremy’s truck to my jeans and finding us both lacking. He tilts his head with a perfunctory smile. “Anything I can help you two with?”