Three days ago, when I was bored in the book shop and wanted literallyanythingto do other than stand there and watch the rain, I would’ve beenthrilledfor a Cyril-errand.
Today, on the first of my three scheduled days off, I would rather chuck my phone across the room and do anythingbutplay errand girl to Peter Pan.
There’s a package in your mailbox. Take it to the following address and drop it off in that mailbox. I’d take you to lunch after, but I have to go to a meeting with my uncle. See you another time?
It sounds like a polite request instead of ademandor order orwhatever, but I have a feeling that there’s not really a ‘cancel’ option on it.
Do I even want there to be?
My fingers skim along the tattoo on the back of my neck, though my nails can’t provide the same tingling prickle that I feel when it’s Arlo touching me. Or any of the Lost Boys, if I’m being honest with myself.
Begrudgingly, I get dressed. The whole time I mumble about what an inconvenience Cyril is and how he obviouslyknowsthat today is my day off that I wanted to use for important things.
Like sleep.
And video games
And sexting Isaac. Which is becoming my new favorite game, though the two times I’ve done it before were more teasing than anything. Not that he seemed to mind, clearly. Not that any of them seem to mind when I want to text, given that they’re quick to respond and never act like it’s a bother just to have a normal, boring conversation with me.
Like we’redatingor something.
You owe me,Peter Pan, I text back, shoving my phone into the pocket of my jeans a moment later. I don’t bother doing more than throwing my hair into a ponytail. There’s no point, after all, when I’m literally going to catch an Uber that I’ll be charging Cy for, obviously, and then dropping something in a mailbox a few miles from my apartment before coming right back.
Though, I can’t help but wonder why Cy can’t do that. Is there areasonhe can’t get off his ass and take care of his own errands? Is he too busy to?
Or does he just like ordering me around and getting the satisfaction of knowing that I’lldowhat he says, if only because I don’t have it in me to say no to him?
I wonder what he’d do if I did. Would he be mad? Genuinely mad? Or would he just make more of his sexy threats that heneverfollows up on? I sigh and go to the door, yanking it open as the Uber app dings to let me know that my car is here to take me where I need to go. On the way down, I grab the package out of my mailbox, sparing only a moment’s thought to how in the world Cyril got it there in the first place.
Probably by less than legal means, however, he did it. Isn’t it a felony to mess with someone’s mail?
The driver smiles when I get in, distracted, and then pulls away from the curb. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to talk to me past a polite hello, so I can rest my head on the seat behind me and close my eyes, grateful that I don’t have to do anything other than sit here andexist.
My phone dings again about thirty seconds later, and I bring it up to my face, expecting another text from Cyril talking shit about my text to him orsomething.
Hey, this is Kevin, your Uber Driver. I thought you said you were out here?
I stare at the message, perplexed, and then sit up to text back quickly;I’m in the car? You’re driving?
It’s only a moment before the guy texts back.
No. I just showed up a minute ago. I was a little bit later than my notification, and there’s no one here. Did you get in the car with someone?
Everything in me goes cold. The lazy irritation fades away, replaced with confusion, panic, and a little bit of disbelief.
Is he joking? Is this some kind of mistake, maybe? A mixup? There’s definitely an Uber sticker on this guy’s windshield, so why in the world is thisKevinacting like I should’ve been in the car with him?
Worse still, I don’t know how to open my mouth and ask without revealing that I think something’s wrong.
So what the fuck do I do?
“What’s your name, again?” I ask politely, glancing up at the driver. “My Uber app is all over the place, and it’s telling me you’re the same driver from my last ride.” I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how to play this off as anything believable.
The driver, a blonde-haired man in his late forties, looks up at me in the mirror and smiles. “Dave,” he says easily.
I navigate to my Uber app, heart pounding in my chest, and will it to sayDavein the driver’s name spot.
It says, Kevin.