Maybe he can smell a virgin?
“What are you doing? I’m on a date,” I hiss at him, pulling my jacket to my chest as his gaze roams indiscriminately. This damn pink dress hides nothing. I lean forward. “Did you break out of jail?!”
He nods his chin toward the bathroom. “What is with this guy? Teeth? He really thinks that’s romantic? This isn’t a date, it’s torture.” He grabs a leftover fry off my plate and pops it into his mouth. His dark red lips molding together into a smirk.
He’s not totally wrong about the quality of the date, but I feel a little violated.
“Have you been listening in on our conversation?”
“Do you ask only questions?”
“No, but he’s coming back—”
“That’s why we need to get out of here right now. You already were thinking about it. You grabbed your coat.” He stands and holds out his hand. “Come with me and I’ll show you what a real date is.”
I swallow. My heart is clipping along in my chest, something between excitement and fear.
The bathroom door creaks open in the back hallway.
I slide out and in seconds his hand is covering mine and we’re out the door. I catch Sheriff Briggs out of the corner of my eye but I keep moving even after he calls out my name.
The guy opens the door to his car, and I don’t hesitate to jump in. Maybe it’s being bored to death by a two hours-plus of animal bone talk or maybe it’s that I’ve had enough of recitingtoday’s special and not realizing the day it actually is, but this moment is more exciting than ninety-nine percent of my life to this point. It shouldn’t be that way.
Expectations from my mother, the community, and probably myself have kept me from doing anything as daring as this. I need to live. My soul is dying in this small town. I deserve excitement and passion and I’m thinking this guy knows what those two words really mean.
“So, where to, cupcake?” Every time he calls me a piece of food, I feel like I’m being told I’m edible and things tingle where they’ve never tingled before.
“I thought you had a plan?”
“There you are with the questions again. My plan was to get you out of that restaurant and away from Mr. Comb-over.”
“His name is—”
“I don’t care.” He leans closer, his hand on the back of the seat of the older sedan. “I only want to know your name.”
I stop breathing and stare into his eyes. Brown irises so deep that I’m sure they’re an abyss and I’ll never climb back out once I fall into them.
“Kenzie,” I breathe out.
“And I’m Dean.”
I see the door to the restaurant open and Larry slides out shoving his arms through his jacket. I duck down in the seat.
“Drive, Dean. Just drive.”
He starts the car and in seconds, we’re peeling out.
“Head north,” I tell him, remembering the place that everyone would go to in high school. At least the ones who had someone to go there with.
The overlook… lovers’ point… whatever you want to call it, I never went there, but there were a lot of things I never did before Dean.
And I’m not looking back.
4
Dean
The car isn’t mine, but I’m smart enough not to jack another vehicle in Storm Canyon. Borrowing is something I can do. Turns out the old man I tried and spectacularly failed to siphon from had a whole collection of old beaters just needing a little TLC.