Chapter Eighteen – Fawn #2
We drive in silence, windows rolled down, allowing the morning air to rush in and envelop my sweltering flesh.
It’s nice, as if it’s washing away my hungover, clouded mind.
A random Bryan Adams song is playing on the radio, his deep vocals mixing with dull thumps of the truck’s engine.
I don’t absorb much of what he’s singing; my primary interest is to make sure I’m okay to visit my grandpa today.
Hell, I don’t recall getting into Torin’s truck last night. I realize it’s the one he posts pictures of occasionally on his social media. It’s got to be from the seventies or eighties, one of those cars people restore because it’s significant to them.
It’s clear he’s given this truck everything he’s got. The interior’s like a creamy dream, all smooth, pale leather that feels fresh off the lot. It’s honestly beautiful, the clean lines and shiny metal, along with that classic old-car scent mixed with a hint of Torin’s cologne.
The only downside is my ass sticks to the leather seats due to the heat.
Torin drives like it’s second nature, one hand on the wheel. His other arm hangs out the window, sunlight dances over his tattoos. Not to mention, he looks so freaking hot with that cap sitting backward, wavy hair pushing out from underneath like it’s staging a rebellion.
There’s just . . . something about a man in a backward cap.
Something filthy.
I know I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t help it. He just fits this truck like it’s part of him.
Torin bursts the silence by adjusting his position in his seat, his hands moving from the wheel to his pocket to dig around in it. A moment passes before he produces a pack of smokes and smacks it against his leg. “You don’t mind?”
“No, it’s cool.”
He cracks open the pack and stretches it out toward me. “Want one?”
“I don’t smoke,” I say, waving it away gently. “But thanks.”
He looks over at me, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a slow, loaded grin. “Ah, so you’re a good girl.”
Those words hit me. The aftershock of last night — the sound of Dylan’s voice whispering in my ear, the burn of liquor on my tongue. My things press together before I can stop them, and something stirs in my stomach.
Breathe, Fawn.
I latch on to the first safe distraction I can think of. “So, do you and Dylan live together?”
“Yeah,” Torin responds around his cigarette, his lighter snapping. The flame flickers for a moment before he takes a drag and leans back. “Sometimes, I regret it. Feelin’ like a dad half the time. I have to fucking remind him to do basic shit.”
I blink, kind of amazed Torin’s having a proper conversation like this — casual and real.
He blows smoke out the window, and the smell floats back, hitting me like a warm, masculine hug.
“I saw with the meds . . . So do you work at the rink as well?” I ask.
“Fuck no.” He releases a deep huff of air, as if just thinking about it annoys him. “I avoid that place as much as possible. Only go for practice and games.” Another lengthy puff of smoke wafts out. “I’m a car mechanic.”
And somehow . . . it all clicks into place.
The calloused hands, so sure on the wheel. The way that the truck moves is like it’s an extension of his own body, responding to his every touch.
My mouth opens, but something catches my eye and sparks in my retina. I scrunch my eyes and inch closer to get a better look. There are two metal dog tags hanging from the rearview mirror, clinking with every bump on the road.
On instinct, I slip them between my fingers. One of them is inscribed with Torin’s name. The other is someone else’s tag.
“You served?” My voice drops.
Torin gives me one brief nod and flicks the last speck of ash out the window before extinguishing his cigarette in the tray. “Yup. Served my time and then split.” His tone darkens — as if the very atmosphere around him is heavy with meaning.
I’d like to ask for information on the second dog tag, but something inside my chest is warning me away. My fingers trace the edges of the tag.
“That one’s my father’s,” he murmurs, as if he already knew what I was thinking. “He’s no longer with us.”
A heaviness settles over me. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
He drags a knuckle across his nose, eyes riveted on the road. I swallow; I don’t know what to do with the presence now between us. But at the same time, I don’t want to give him any impression of having to divulge his secrets to me, but he did. “I also lost my dad. Cancer. I understand.”
The dog tags clink back into place.
“It’s terrible to lose someone you love,” Torin throws out, shattering the quiet between us.
“Yeah . . .” I angle my face toward the open window. I let it blow away the heaviness.
Something calls to me to look at Torin. There’s a tightness to his face, a distance in his eyes. Yeah — this isn’t a good moment to start exploring. So, I swerve us away from emotional ground.
“Right! Tell me the truth,” I say, my throat a little scratchy. “Did I embarrass myself last night?”
The faintest twitch pulls at Torin’s lips. “You really want to know?”
Oh God. No. Actually, yes. But also no. “Mhmm.” I know I will hate the answer.
“Fine, but you asked for it. You said Dylan and I are hot. Oh! And sexy.”
My back meets the seat and I press my palms hard over my face. “No, I did not!”
“Oh, you did.” His eyes twinkle with amusement. “You even confessed to stalking us on social media. Oh, and you told Dylan’s alarm clock that you weren’t drunk.”
I did what? Oh my God. That’s why Dylan made that comment earlier. I groan into my hands, then give in and peek through the gaps. “I hate drunk me.”
“So it’s all true then . . . You know, Dylan is gonna tease you till the end of time.” His gaze darts from the road to me with a mischievous glint.
“I only looked you both up because of my research,” I snipe back, crossing my arms.
Torin cracks up, his palm smacking the dashboard. “Now you’re fucking lying . . . because last night, you told us you looked us up to see if we were single.”
Drunk me is in so much trouble; I need to find her and lock her away.
Okay, whatever. If I can’t win this, I’ll fake it till I make it. I straighten up, faking the boldness. “Yeah, you’re both hot. And yes. I checked you out online. So what?”
“Thanks . . .”
“For what?”
“For thinking I’m hot.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself now, Mr. Anderson.”
He’s eating this up way too much, and no doubt, he and Dylan will enjoy telling the hockey team.
“Oh! You’re calling me mister now. Well, you know, Fawn . . . You’re not so bad yourself.”
My face blazes in an instant, and I pretend to stare out the window like the conifer trees are putting on a show just for me.
“It’s not every day I gotta kiss a writer’s neck to save her from her ex,” he goes on.
Sober me nearly forgot about our little moment last night.
“Thanks for that. You and Dylan helped me a lot.”
Torin exhales, and I catch the faintest whitening of his knuckles against the wheel.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says steadily. “Your ex looks like a jackass, though. Someone had to step in. Just give me the word, and I’ll punch him next time.”
“No, you don’t have to do that for me.”
Torin’s eyes are simmering with something I can’t quite read.
“Fawn, trust me. I didn’t mind.”
“From the cuts on your hands to the bruises on your head, I can tell you’re an angry thing,” I quip, a single brow ticking up.
Torin gives a loose shrug, as if the burden is nothing new. “According to a therapist I once saw, I have a lot of pent-up anger from my ex and the Army.”
“So you have a problematic ex too?” I push, attempting to maintain some levity.
“That’s a story for another time, after I’ve had a whiskey.”
“Okay,” I let it go. I’ve prodded enough wounds for one car ride. We come to a halt outside the bar — my car sitting alone.
Torin leans forward. “You gonna be alright to drive? I can take you wherever,” he offers, as if it was no big deal to carry me off to the other side of the continent if need be.
“Really, you’ve done enough for me already,” I tell him while trying to dismiss thoughts of already missing his scent. The door swings open under my hand.
He nods once. “Alright then.”
As expected, my bare flesh is stuck to the leather seat like glue, so I have to extract myself — a very graceful motion, mind you, like pulling a melted slice of cheese off toasted bread.
I hop out of the truck, almost tripping, because apparently, my dignity is not yet fully rebooted,
Knowing he takes pride in his truck, I carefully close the door. I have to stand on my tiptoes just to meet him at eye level. “See you at the rink, Torin.”
His lips curve into that slow, risky smile — the kind that spells trouble, confidence, and maybe a touch of heat. The kind that makes me want to kiss his neck again.
“See you at the rink,” he says, his eyes glued to mine, “Miss Higgins.”