CHAPTER 4 Rowan
CHAPTER 4
Rowan
M y eyes roam both sides of the highway as Charlie drives south in his pristine black Land Rover. I have no reason to believe he’s going to take me where he says he is, so I’m paying close attention to our route. My fingers twitch on my thighs, and my heartbeat ratchets up, while my adrenaline is crashing hard. I’m tired and hungry and strung out. My feet are sore. How far did I walk? Five miles? Ten?
I’m not sure why I trusted a total stranger enough to get in the car with him, especially without my beloved switchblade in my pocket, but my other plan failed spectacularly. I thought I’d just, you know, relieve the first viable prospect I came across of their spare cash and go on my merry way home, either taking their car or figuring out a way to call a cab. Hey, I’ve never had to mug anyone before, and I’m usually pretty good with a knife. It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time—and the part of me that loves danger was getting off on it.
Except I overestimated my potential for success via violence and underestimated Charlie’s ability to defend himself.
Here’s the new plan: I leap from the car at the first stoplight and get the hell away if something— anything —goes wrong. Or I could throw myself across his lap and try to grab my knife, but that might cause an accident, and I’d prefer to avoid that.
Or I can do what I usually do, and wing it.
I drag my fingers down my cheeks and throw my head back against the tall seat. Ugh, this is a clusterfuck.
The farther we go, the less I think Charlie’s taking me somewhere to dismember me and the more I think he’s actually going to buy me dinner.
I fidget even more. Who is this guy? Not knowing is … unnerving.
I chew on my bottom lip, glance over at Charlie daddy, and shiver. Every streetlight we pass that shines on the planes of his face makes me want to look at him more. He’s an absolutely welcome distraction from the shit show of my life.
Enjoying looking at Charlie is just me having good taste. Charlie’s the tall, dark, and model-handsome type, with shortish dark brown hair, eyes that might be brown or might be hazel, and a surprisingly powerful body that’s a thing of beauty. High cheekbones, strong jaw.
Total daddy.
And don’t get me started on this soft, thick suede jacket that’s warming me up better than his car heater, which has finally kicked in. It’s the yummiest thing I’ve ever put on my body. It smells like maybe cedar. I like.
I’m grimy from walking for however long, on top of getting up early and all that adrenaline. I want to get cleaned up, because I feel gross, but for now I’ll let Charlie’s fragrance distract me.
I glance at him. The small trickle of blood down his neck looks black in the dark. His chin’s busted up, too.
Dammit. My fault.
He seems like someone who’s very precise, judging by his perfectly trimmed hair. His clothes fit him well, and other than what I’ve done to him, he’s completely unblemished. It seems like he puts a lot of effort into his appearance, although I suppose I do, too. But Charlie sparkles. Not literally; he just has that polish. Something about his overly careful looks is making me want to mess him up. Am I a sick puppy?
Hell, I know I am.
My eyes are gritty from dehydration, and there’s a lump in my throat. Maybe I shouldn’t have hurt him. I wish he’d yell at me or something. Then I’d have an excuse to get out of his car—and this predicament.
But do you want to?
I kind of want to stay and see what happens. I’m so damned tired and hungry, and maybe Charlie actually wants to help me.
Plus, I don’t have that many options. Nobody’s got my back. And I don’t even have a phone at the moment.
So the only person I have is Charlie—who may require some minor first aid. I lean forward in my seat and open the glove compartment.
Charlie snaps his head toward me. “What are you doing?” he asks, his tone sharp.
I hold my hands up. “You need something for the scrapes on your chin and neck. Don’t you have napkins or baby wipes or something?”
A muscle moves along his hard jaw. “I’ll clean up when I get to the restaurant.”
“I don’t mind looking?—”
“There’s nothing in the car I can use.”
And … he’s right. This car’s entirely void of personality. No crumpled receipts, not even for gas. No lip balm or pens. No dancing hula girls, air freshener trees, or other talismans. The only clue the fancy SUV gives me as to who Charlie is, is the radio, which is on a station playing major alt hits—an oxymoron. He could use a plant or two to liven the space up.
A pang hits my chest at that last thought, so I sit back and watch the clock on the dash, paying attention to where we are and how far we’ve gone and trying to ignore the angry, hollow feeling in my stomach.
About twenty minutes after I pulled a knife on him, this hot man who should be modeling tweed and cashmere sweaters for traditional British clothiers pulls us into a total dive of a Thai place. A hand-painted sign reads “Jasmine Gardens.” LED signs from the Signs-R-Us store (or wherever you get them) flash in every window, advertising boba tea and fresh smoothies and letting us know they’re open until midnight. Faded fake ivy hangs around the weather-beaten white door. We’re on the mountain side of PCH, wedged in next to a trailer park that must have fifty-million-dollar-views in the daytime.
But it’s past nine p.m., if Charlie’s car clock is accurate, and I’m so hungry they could serve us cardboard and I’d consider eating it.
Charlie reverses into a space in the gravel parking lot behind the restaurant and turns off the engine. We’re not the only ones here, which makes me feel less uneasy. He hops out, and I follow him, holding his jacket close to my body.
He waits for me at the front of his car like he thinks I’m going to run away, but where would I go? That’s the whole reason why I’m in this predicament.
On the way to the entrance, we pass by a man huddled in a dark alcove with a dirty blue sleeping bag wrapped around him. Charlie pulls out his wallet and places a twenty in the cardboard box that reads “Anything helps,” anchoring it with a rock clearly kept there for that purpose.
“Thanks, man,” the guy mutters.
“Uh-huh,” Charlie says.
He didn’t glance over to see if I was watching. He didn’t make a big deal about it. He didn’t try to tell the guy what to do with the money. He just … bought the man a meal, maybe.
Like he’s getting me a meal.
That makes something warm expand inside my chest. I know the guy might use the money for drugs, but whatever. I still like Charlie’s compassion—which is also evident around my shoulders. The chilly ocean air’s much easier to handle with a jacket. Charlie’s hangs well below my ass, but I’m never taking it off, even if it’s huge on me. I’m also going to buy whatever this scent is if and when I get money again.
We step up to the restaurant’s front door, and I get a look at him in better light. His biceps stretch the waffle weave fabric of a dark gray Henley. Yum. Also, now that we’re standing next to each other, it’s dawning on me what a terrible idea it was to pick him as my victim. I hadn’t accounted for how big he was when I saw him coming from the beach. Or that this jacket hid a very nice body.
A perfect one, in fact. I’m getting the impression that Charlie has high standards. Eating dinner with me will bring down his average.
Wait a minute. I tug on Charlie’s sleeve. “I thought you said you didn’t have any cash,” I whisper.
Charlie opens the door for me and shows me inside. He lifts an eyebrow. The hair on my arms and nape rises, despite the warmth of his jacket. “I lied.”
My hands go to my hips. “Lying isn’t the best way to start a relationship.”
Charlie huffs a laugh, then bends down to speak in my ear, his lips tickling my skin. “Neither is assault and battery.”
I’m breathless and lightheaded, and I don’t know if it’s from him or from hunger. Nrgh . Probably both. “I’ll be sure to tell our kids.”
A teenage girl walks up to the front, grabbing menus without slowing her stride. “Two?”
“Yes,” Charlie says, and we follow her. “We’re not having kids,” he mutters over his shoulder to me. “Or starting a relationship.”
“That’s what you think.” I’m teasing, but as the words come out of my mouth, I’m picturing being with Charlie and not hating it. “You’ll see. ”
Charlie rubs at one of his brows as he slides into the booth we’re shown to. I take the seat across from him, exhausted but enjoying the view. He’s got that classic leading man look to him, with a bit of an attitude. Like RBF. He doesn’t have a sneer, and it’s not like he’s smelled something awful. He’s not looking down on people. He just seems kind of pissed. Or maybe it’s that he’s brooding.
Ohhh, he’s my brooding hero. I love it.
Also: hazel. His eyes are hazel.
While I’m joking about the “my hero” thing, I’m also kind of … not. Every minute we’re together is making me want two more. It’s like compounding interest: One minute turns into two, two turn into four, four turn into eight. Soon I’ll be wanting to spend the rest of my life with him.
That doesn’t seem like a hardship.