“And you’re annoying me, Allister.” I slammed the sun visor closed.
The atmosphere grew heavy and claustrophobic, his presence, large body, and smooth movements closing in on me.
“Does he love you?”
He asked it indifferently, as if it shared the same merit as my favorite color. Nonetheless, the question hit me like a blow to the stomach. I stared straight ahead as the back of my throat burned something fierce. He’d found a weakness, and now he was going to poke at it until I bled. Hatred tasted acidic in my mouth.
I would take electrocution over this any day.
I suddenly loathed this man, for getting into my head with his stupid questions and for baring parts of me I didn’t let anyone else see.
I blew a bubble.
Popped it.
That was when he’d had enough.
He pulled the deflated bubble straight from my mouth and threw it out the window.
I stared at him, fighting not to lick the unsettling heat of his touch from my lips. “That’s littering.”
His gaze sparked of indifference.
Agent Allister didn’t care about the environment.
No surprise.
He placed his hand back on the wheel, and I suddenly wondered how severe his OCD tendencies were—if he would go home and scrub my spit off his fingers with bleach or not. However, I quickly grew bored of thinking about the fed and turned my head to glance out the window, at the orange glow of passing streetlights and the flurries falling like tiny shadows in the night.
“How many times?”
A vague question, but by his tone, I knew we’d come full-circle and he was talking about my husband hitting me.
“Every night,” I said with insinuation. “He makes me scream so loud I wake the neighbors.”
“Yeah? You like fucking a man so much older than you?”
Deep irritation flared inside of me. I reached for the radio, turned it on, and coolly responded, “I’m sure he has more stamina than you.”
He didn’t even deign to reply. I heard only a second of some AM politics talk show before he turned the radio off. What kind of monster chose that over music?
We didn’t sit in silence for long before he filled it. “Your stepson is older than you,” he commented. “Must be strange.”
“Not really.”
“I imagine you have more in common with him than his father.”
“You imagine wrong,” I responded, bored of this conversation and bored of this man. This was the worst punishment. I’d never touch coke again.
“You lived under the same roof as him for a year. You’re close to the same age. If you don’t have more in common mentally, then surely physically.”
I laughed. Nico and me? Not in a million years.
Unfortunately, at the time, I hadn’t known it would only take one.
“Do you take my file home with you at night, Officer?”
He didn’t respond.