Chapter 15
Kas
We’ve been driving for an hour with not a word exchanged since we packed the car. Mari has been silently tense the entire time and I’ve been the same, the cause of it being her asshole ex making her upset.
“You should’ve let me go up there,” I say.
“And you would’ve done what exactly?”
“I don’t know, didn’t think that far ahead.”
Mari sinks back into her seat. At the very least I’d intimidate Isaac, and maybe throw him down the apartment stairs.
“Isaac is jealous of you, he’s jealous of any man I interact with. He probably thinks I want you, ew.” She laughs as if it’s the craziest thing she’s ever said.
I huff. “Ew? I don’t want you either,” I say.
“No shit, Kas.” She angles her face to the sun. “Working with me is already too much for you.”
I scan the profile of her face, noting a light smile. Anything beyond coworkers is laughable to imagine and though we agree, there’s a festering sting of disappointment in the pit of my stomach.
“Are you excited?” I ask.
Mari barely moves her head and gives me a sharp side-eye, her brown eyes glinting in the Arizona sun. “Kas, I’ve literally got stress-induced stomach cramps just thinking about your fight.”
“It’ll be fun.”
Mari gives me another unbelieving look. Yeah, I’m not convincing her or myself.
“Davina said it’s career-changing for you.”
“It is. I just don’t care about my career changing, I’m only doing this for the gym,” I admit.
“How you have so much money with this attitude is beyond me.” She clasps her hands together and shifts herself to face me. “If the gym is going under, why don’t you just give them some money?”
“That’s part of the plan. I already offered money as a temporary fix, but Davina doesn’t want me wasting my money if they can’t maintain profits.”
Mari bobs her head with downturned lips. “Makes sense, I guess. Do you think I should promote the gym on your socials too? I’ll chat with Davina.”
“You should relax,” I say.
Mari sighs, whispering the word “relax” to herself. “You have a little accent when you say certain words. Relax ,” she says, pronouncing the word with my discreet Polish twang.
I’m surprised she even picked up on it, to be honest. It’s the result of growing up with a mom who spoke with broken English and a heavy Polish accent.
“Well, you should relax. I don’t want you sick with stress,” I say.
“How are you more relaxed than me and you’re the one fighting?”
“I’m doing the relaxing part. The social media stuff you do would send me over the edge.”
“Violence is relaxing for you? Get me out of this car,” she jokes and pretends to open the passenger-side door.
I reach over and place my forearm over her lap to nudge her hand away from the handle. The flowery notes of her perfume waft through the small space as I lean over her, the motion causes the car to swerve. Mari shrieks.
“Shit,” I mutter, removing myself from her to steady the wheel.
We’re silent for a beat, her proximity leaving me flustered. Mari always makes me feel like I’ve never interacted with someone of the opposite sex before. I can’t remember the last time I felt flustered. Maybe when some kindergarten crush pecked me on the cheek or something.
For the next few minutes, we drive in silence until Mari starts doing some sort of meditative breathing. She cranks up the AC, and after around ten minutes, her skin starts to look a little clammy. I resist the urge to shiver when the cold air starts to get to me.
“Is it me, or is it hot in here?” Mari shrugs off her cardigan.
The removal of it catches me off guard and I force my eyes forward, torn between checking on her wellbeing and forcing away the memory of knowing what’s underneath if she removes any more layers.
“It’s freezing, you’ve turned the AC to max,” I say, observing her with concern before turning back to the road.
Mari blindly feels my forearm and reaches forward to turn down the AC. If she’s trying to see if I’m cold, feeling for goose bumps isn’t a good way to test when she’s also the cause of them.
We enter a silent battle of controlling the AC, and the next time she touches the dial, I grab her hand to prevent her from altering it.
“If you’re hot, keep it on high.”
She doesn’t reply and when I turn to see why, she looks worse. Sweat beads above her upper lip and her eyes are closed. She looks like she’s on the edge of vomiting.
“Mari?”
I touch her forehead lightly, and she brushes me off, whimpering a little. I start scouring the cracked plains lining the side of the road so I can find somewhere safe to pull over.
Her eyes snap open and panic clouds her gaze. “Pull over.”
“Already on it.”
Her hand scrabbles along the car door, searching for the window switch. I roll it down from my driver controls and she sticks her head out the second it fits through the lowering glass.
“Fuck,” I say, hooking one finger through the rear belt loop of her jeans when she decides to lean out farther than I anticipated. “Do not lean forward,” I warn. A couple of braids at the front of her head twist and dance in the wind, batting against her face. She jerks forward and I tighten my finger. “Jesus Christ, Mari!” I shout.
I veer off the road, barely coming to a full stop when Mari launches herself out of the passenger side, distances herself by several steps, and keels over to vomit. I turn away to give her some privacy. I’ve had the displeasure of hearing Dash’s violent heaves after he went too hard at the gym and compared to that, Mari’s weirdly silent.
“You good?” I call, standing next to the passenger door with the toiletry bag she keeps in her tote and a bottle of water.
After spitting on the ground, she walks back to me and grabs the items from my hand.
“Motion sickness. Don’t look at me,” she mumbles.
I chuckle at her dramatics. “It’s not a big deal. Do you feel better?” I ask when she begins scrubbing her teeth.
“Much better, thanks,” she responds with a frothy smile.
“Everyone’s bodies react differently to things.”
“Well, mine can’t handle your terrible driving,” she says between brushes.
“I’m a fantastic driver.”
“It’s embarrassing. My body hasn’t adapted since caveman times. I need a million years of further evolution for it to understand that sitting still and moving at the same time is normal.”
I smile a little at her rant as she finishes up brushing her teeth. “You think cavemen got motion sickness riding on mammoths?”
Mari smirks at my poor attempt to make her feel better as she walks unsteadily back to the passenger seat. “I honestly feel a lot better after puking.”
She’s trying to gaslight herself that her motion sickness has magically disappeared—I’m not convinced.
“Tap me if you want me to pull over.”
With a click of our seat belts, we resume the drive. It’s only fifteen minutes before the same thing happens, and following my request, she doesn’t just tap me, she smacks me hard all the way to Vegas.