What the fuck? I am not a teenager. I have more self-control than this. Usually. I do not like this whole Kayla-Turner-getting-under-my-skin thing. I do not like it one bit.
I glance at Kayla. She’s focused on her phone, looking up lock-picking strategies on wikiHow and completely oblivious to my current state of arousal. I carefully adjust myself and think about grandmas and baseball until I get my body under control.
Looking back down, I insert the bobby pin into the lock hole on my cuff and slowly bend and turn its small tip inside. Nothing. I try a different angle.
“I think you’re turning it wrong,” Kayla says, leaning over my shoulder again. The smell of coconut wafts all around me and I purse my lips. “Let me do it.”
She pulls our wrists back to her lap and slips the pin into the lock on her cuff.
I shake my head. “That’s the same way I was just turning it. And now you’re wrecking the pin. Let me try again.”
I bring our hands back to my lap and fidget with the lock, more aggressively than before, determined to get us out of these things before I get hard again.
“That’s the wrong way,” she says.
I dig deeper into the keyhole. “No, it’s not.”
“You have to twist it up, not to the side. I’ll show you.” She reaches for the pin.
“Back off, Blondie.” I swat her hand away and twist the pin.
“You’re doing it wrong,” she sneers. “Turn it the other way.”
“Shh.”
“The other wa—”
The bobby pin snaps in half and the top breaks off inside the lock. I hold up the broken pin as we stare at the clogged keyhole.
“Great,” she mutters.
I twitch my lips. “I don’t suppose you have another bobby pin in that glorious bag of yours?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Uh…” I say. “We could go buy a lock-picking kit.”
Not that I have money to buy a lock-picking kit. My palms start to sweat and I wipe them on my jeans.
“Where would we buy a lock-picking kit?” she says.
“The hardware store?” I think for a second. “Actually, I’m not sure. The store owner is pretty stingy about what he stocks. I doubt breaking-and-entering tools are something he splurges on. But maybe the drugstore?”
She leans against the seat and sighs. “Maybe instead of parading around a store in search of a lock-picking kit we could just go buy a pair of bolt cutters and cut the handcuffs off.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Right. Because that won’t look suspicious. ‘Hi Eddie. I know you said we had to keep the handcuffs on all night, but would you believe these babies just sawed themselves in half?’ Yeah, no. I’m not forfeiting the money because your wrist was being a wuss.”
She rubs her temples and inhales through her nose. “You’re right. The money is worth it. We’ll just have to figure out sleeping arrangements for one night and then get back here, bright and early.”
I nod, not sure where Kayla and I are going to sleep tonight. I’d offer up my place, but…
I give her my best grin. “So I guess we’re off to the Quickie Stop for the evening?”
She scoffs. “If you think I’m going to stay the night with you in a porn motel with handcuffs on, then you’re crazier than my hunt-making dad.”
I shrug. “All right. Let’s go back to my place, then. You have everything you need, right? Because I don’t feel like driving across town just to pick up your pajamas. You can wear one of my T-shirts to bed. Or nothing at all, if you wish.” I wink at her. “And I’m sure you’ll sleep like a baby in my bed. Women rave about how comfortable it is.” I plaster on a smile and wait.
Please, dear God, let the idea of sleeping on an oversexed mattress freak her out or piss her off enough to bow out. There is no way—no way—I’m letting Kayla see where I live.
She eyes me skeptically like she knows I’m full of shit and purses her lips in hesitation. She doesn’t want to sleep in a motel room with me, but she also doesn’t want to sleep in a manwhore’s bed. Decisions, decisions.
Her shoulders fall just a smidge, and I know I’ve won.
“Fine,” she says between her teeth. “We’ll stay in my hotel room.” She opens the back door and starts sliding out.
I follow after her and groan as we then climb into the front seat. It’s really quite ridiculous, all the crawling and climbing.
She starts the engine and pulls away from the post office. The sun has fallen behind the horizon now, so the sky is a light purple color and dotted with a handful of stars.
We drive to the edge of town and out of the city limits, following the stretch of freeway I take when I drive to my job at Willow Inn.
Crap.
Ellen.
I really need to call and let her know there’s a small chance I might not be coming into work tomorrow.
I glance down at the handcuffs.
A medium chance.
The engine revs as Kayla picks up speed.
“Slow down, Danica,” I say. “We don’t want your Oompa-Loompa-mobile to peter out and die a slow, green death in the middle of the road.”
She glances in the rearview mirror once, twice, three times and looks increasingly more worried with each view.
“What?” I look behind us. “What’s wrong?”
She bites her lip. “Do you see that black sedan three cars back?”
“Uh… yeah?”
Her eyes dart from the mirror to the windshield. “Do you think it’s following us?”
“To the Quickie Stop? Not likely.”
“No, I mean in general. Like following me.” If it weren’t for the slight tremor in her voice, I’d be scoffing at the idea. But Kayla seems genuinely concerned, so I keep my body language relaxed and my voice casual.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “There aren’t very many streets in this town, so that black car is probably just going the same general direction as us. And besides, I seriously doubt anyone in town wants to be seen with us, let alone follow us around. We’re the dirty couple in handcuffs, remember?” I grin at her but her eyes stay locked on the mirror.
Okay, well this isn’t normal.
“Kayla?” I draw out the word.