Chapter Eighty-Eight

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Fifteen minutes, even more snow shoveling, a serious arm workout, and a whole lot of cursing later I try the engine again. It still doesn't start up. Less than a second after that, I completely lose it.

"Fuck!!! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!" I scream, banging on the steering wheel repeatedly in anger and irritation at yet another failed attempt. "You stupid, useless piece of shit!" I continue to yell, punctuating each word with another slam of my palm against the wheel, the dashboard, and any other parts of the car my hands can reach as all the pent-up anxiety and frustration finally bubbles and explodes to the surface.

A slew of more insults and obscenities leave my lips, each one directed at the rickety, barely functional sardine can that has been in my life for the past four years.

It's a memento of my grandfather's. It was probably the fourth or fifth car he'd owned in his life and he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it, like most of his possessions. You could say my grandfather was a bit of a hoarder. And even if I can't understand why, this car meant a lot to him. It's the only reason I refuse to sell it or put it up for auction or otherwise get rid of it all together.

When Gran first suggested I take it, exactly a year after he died, I figured I had nothing to lose by keeping it. The mileage wasn't exactly anything to write home about and the bunker had started to rust a little, but I'd seen and driven cars in much worse shape. Besides, no one else wanted it, and all it was doing was collecting dust—literally. Besides, it beat walking...well, at least most of the time. I'm not so sure now is one of those times.

Renewed anxiety makes my heart thump in my chest as my thoughts come back to the present and the tiny digital clock blinking the digits 7:16 PM.

I realize I'm already a minute late at this point. I'm already screwed before I even begin the journey. And I know I have no one to blame for this but myself, but I don't feel like doing that right now.

It's not your fault, Roni. You'd be well on your way if this stupid car wasn't such a rust bucket, the self-righteous voice in my head screams, trying to justify my bleak predicament.

And why the fuck does he have to live so far away, anyway?

It feels so much better blaming my lifeless car and that blue-eyed demon instead of myself, but it doesn't really help. It doesn't take any of the angstiness away.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly through my mouth. And I do it again. And again. And again; each time hoping it will calm me down some. I close my eyes and embrace the darkness, focusing solely on my breathing and my heartbeat.

I lower my forehead onto the steering wheel, feeling the cool leather against my skin. My fingers loosen their grip on the wheel, and my knuckles tingle with blood rush as they relax.

"Okay," I whisper, nodding slowly against the wheel and feeling my shoulders slump in resignation. "I'm sorry I called you a piece of shit," I say to my car. "You know that's not true and I shouldn't have said that. I'm just having a really bad day. It's not your fault. You're the best, most wonderful car anyone could ever ask for. I'm so sorry, baby." I continue to whisper apologies as my fingers run back and forth against the curve of the wheel, in a slow, soothing motion.

"Please wake up," I whisper. "Please start so I can go make some money and get you new wipers and an oil change and whatever else you've been needing, okay? Please just start. For me?"

I open my eyes once more and take another deep breath, but this time I hold it as I grip the key again. I lick my lips nervously, even as I try to mentally ward off any lingering pessimism. I brace myself, pleading to God and Allah and Buddha and whoever else is out there to let my car start. I turn the ignition.

The usual start-up noise breaks the silence.

"Come on, come on, come on," I urge and plead and beg.

Two seconds pass.

And then the engine roars to life.

"Yes!" I scream, jumping in my seat and feeling the biggest rush of relief I've had in a long time.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" I say, hastily dragging my seatbelt across my chest and securing the buckle with a shaky hand. I don't even know if I'm thanking my Polo, or God, or Allah, or Buddha, or the frickin' Super Mario Brothers right now, but all I know is I'm happy and grateful that my car's finally working again.

I hit the gas and pull out of the empty parking lot, resisting the urge to put more pressure on the accelerator for fear of pushing the car too hard or skidding on ice.

There's no point in being on time if you arrive with only half your body there, Roni, I remind myself, forcing my foot to ease off despite my desire to do exactly the opposite.

Thankfully, rush hour is pretty much over and there's no traffic. At least I don't have that issue to contend with, but with all this snow and ice to be wary of and more on the way, rush hour traffic would be a blessing compared to this nuisance. Whatever. It's not like I can do anything about it.

Just drive and focus on getting there, I tell myself.

I wish I could get my MP3 player out. I could seriously use some calming music right about now, but it's in the back with the duffel bag and I'm not stopping for anything right now.

As my kind of shitty luck would have it, the gas meter sounds off just then, breaking my focus and letting me know that even though I may not want to stop for anything, my dear old Polo will do just that in about twenty minutes if I don't feed it.

Jesus, this day just keeps getting better and better.

I hit the back of my head against the headrest as my fingers grip the wheel hard. I wish I could call someone and let them know where I'll be in case something goes wrong, but I don't have that luxury. That would violate the non-disclosure agreement I signed. But even if I wasn't bound by contract, there's no fucking way my guilty conscience would ever let me reveal what I'm about to do to anyone I love and value.

At the same time, even though I won't admit it out loud to myself, a part of me trusts him in a strange, bizarre way. I don't know why, and I barely know the guy, but I do. I just hope I'm not making a mistake by doing so or overestimating his trustworthiness.

I continue to drive despite all the worrisome thoughts bombarding me, zipping through campus as carefully as I can. I can't help notice how barren it is, like a ghost town in a pocket of the city. If only the parking lots were as free during the rest of the school year as they are now.

I pull up to the first gas station I see, and the place is just as barren as the road leading up to it. A little unusual for a Friday night, but then again, there is supposed to be a snow storm coming in a few hours. And then, the realization of that knowledge hits me like a kick to the head; I'll pretty much be trapped in Frost's house—or wherever the hell that address leads me to—with no way to physically leave if things go left.

For the millionth time today, fuck!

I turn the ignition off and get out of the car, trying to pace myself and keep my anxiety at bay as best as I can. This needs to be a super quick stop, otherwise, I risk having the engine fail again if I leave it off for too long in this blood-freezing cold. Not to mention, it's already 7:21 PM.

I need to get a fucking move on it. I'm already running late as it is.

A cheaply decorated Christmas bell jingles above me as I push the door open. Unfortunately, what greets me when I walk inside is a not-so-very festive, moldy smell; like a wet carpet that's been placed inside a room with a dozen humidifiers for days.

The sound gets the attention of the cashier up front and the three folks in line at the counter. All three look my way for a moment, meeting my eyes before going back to doing what they were doing before I got here. And from the look of it, each of the customers have quite a few things to check out.

Damn it.

It's times like this when I wish I still had a debit card. I could just self-service and be on my merry way instead of having to deal with funky smells and a line of sedentary-looking people. So much for a quick pit stop.

My eyes wander around the store as I wait, and they inadvertently land on something that hadn't really crossed my mind.

Condoms.

I didn't think about getting any until just now. I guess I just assumed he'd have that covered, especially since he was so anal about getting me tested. And that's good and fine for him, but what about me? What about my safety? All my test results came back clean, but that doesn't tell me a damn thing about his "state". I suspect he's as anal about his health as he is the health of others so I'm willing to bet he's as clean as I am, but again, that's just speculation on my part. Just another assumption.

The truth of the matter is that, when it comes right down to it, I don't know the guy from a fucking hole in the wall. He may no longer be a complete and total stranger to me, but that doesn't change the fact that I still know next to nothing about him, including how many women—or men, for that matter—he's done this sort of thing with before.

I don't care how hot and gorgeous he is, I'm not risking getting an STD from him or anyone else. Especially not on my first real sexual experience—aka, having sex without being baked to within an inch of my life on pot.

Better safe than sorry. I'm sure even he'd agree that prevention is better than cure. Birth control takes care of unwanted pregnancies, but it can't do shit for gonorrhea. Or worse.

I scan the section further, my eyes darting back and forth at the boxes on display.

Regular.

Small.

Large.

Extra-large.

Which one should I get? I have no idea. I try to think back to our previous encounters. The very first time I met him, I felt him against my leg. I was so shocked and startled, I couldn't think straight, much less try to figure out exactly how many hard inches were poking at my thigh beneath his scrubs. Not that that changed with our following encounters.

My mind goes back to that checkup, my brain easily digging up the memories I've been trying so hard to bury over the last two weeks. It floods back with too much clarity, as if I'm reliving it all over again; his mouth on my neck, his tongue tasting me, his teeth nipping and tugging at my skin. Inhaling the intoxicating scent of his cologne mingled with his body, a crisp blend of musk, heat, and sex. My head spinning with blood rush as my eyes flutter open and closed over the image of his beautiful face and sinister, ice blue eyes. The sound of his subtle groans and rushed breathing as he kissed my neck greedily and with abandon.

The feel of his contrasting, soft hair on my fingers as his own fingers dug into the sides of my ass, and as his cock pressed hard against my pussy...

Just then, a stream of vibrations cut through the relative silence, startling me and forcing me out of my vivid, graphic thoughts. And with horror, I realize the vibrations are coming from inside my bag.

Oh. Fucking. Hell.

It's the Ice Block.

It's him.

***

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