Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“So,” he says, clearing his throat as we head up the driveway. “How long has your roommate been studying makeup for?”
I glance at him briefly over my shoulder. “Don’t even say it,” I warn.
“What?” he asks innocently.
I roll my eyes and we stop by a black muscle car parked in front of the house. “This your car?” I ask him.
He nods, the streetlights illuminating a tiny smile on his lips. “This is Mr. Mean.”
Judging by the car’s round headlights and shark-like nose, the name suits the car. “A Camaro?”
“1972 Challenger,” he corrects, going around to his side and smacking the roof with his palm. “Used to be my uncle’s and when I moved here I snapped it up for a song. Eats gas like a motherfucker though but it’s brilliant fun to drive. You don’t get rides like this back in England.”
He does seem like the type to drive an obnoxious car like this, vintage and all. Yet another reason why the girls must flock to him. Luckily I could give a rat’s ass about cars.
I open the passenger door and eye the pile of textbooks on the seat, as well as an assortment of random stuff such as a large plastic sword that a knight would use, a baseball cap, a kit you’d get from a Halloween store with prosthetic elf ears, a half-full growler of beer, various fast-food containers and a small white cardboard box that seems to be emitting a chirping sound.
“Sorry,” he mumbles and I stand there and wait as he quickly puts everything in the back seat. I don’t even bother looking back there.
“So many questions,” I comment as I step in and buckle myself, very aware of how close we are to each other. There’s not a lot of room up here, at least that’s what it feels like.
He leans in close, too close, and nods at my eyebrows. “You’re not the only one.” He squints at me and I try not to breathe in his smell. Too late. His scent is herbal and fresh, like sage and sea salt and for some reason it makes me happy, like it’s conjuring up hot summer days by the sea, full of freedom and youth.
“Are you sure you want to go to a café like that?” he adds.
Ugh, he’s right. I can’t go out in public like this. I twist away from him in my seat, push my glasses to the top of my head and try to rip off the eyelashes. Only they won’t come off. Good lord I hope Ana didn’t use Krazy Glue. My eyelids are being stretched uncomfortably.
“Are you all right?” Blake asks and I’m so aware of him next to me and the fact that it looks like I’m trying to remove my eyeball.
“This fucking eyelash glue is like cement,” I grumble, trying to not sound panicked.
“Guess I’ll be taking you to my place,” he says, starting the car. It responds with a roar and he waits till I’m done trying to fight with my eyes before he peels out onto the street. “I have to feed Fluffy anyway.”
The Raconteurs “Broken Boy Soldier” starts playing but it’s not loud enough to hide the silence between us as we head into downtown Victoria. I actually have no idea where Blake lives and this isn’t making things easier. I want him to turn the car around and take me back home but I’m the one who sent the email and he’s just doing exactly what I asked.
I think back to what he said last. “Who is Fluffy?” I ask.
“You don’t want to know,” he says gravely.
“Your cat?”
He tilts his head at me. “Why did you assume I have a cat and not a dog?”
“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “You seem soulless.”
He laughs softly. “Yeah, I suppose that might be true. Cats are wankers, too.” He smiles at me and against better judgement, I’m smiling too. His smile is infectious.
Then again, so was the plague.
I quickly turn my face to the window and see that we’re heading down toward the harbor, the lights of the bay sparkling in the night. We pass by various pubs and oyster bars filled with warm light and laughing people and something inside me pinches, a strange bout of loneliness that hits me sometimes.
“Not too late to grab a pint,” Blake says, as if he knows what I’m thinking, though he couldn’t, not quite.
I point to my face and don’t say a word.
His lips press together, suppressing a smile. “Fair enough,” he says. “But this is British Columbia after all. No one would bat an eye. Except for you.”
“Ha,” I say dryly. “Where do you live anyway?” As we leave the downtown core, we hook a right along the water, heading toward the ferries that go to Washington State. “Don’t tell me you’re in a houseboat.”