The Song of David

“Wh-what?” she gasped, clutching at the dashboard.

I adjusted the wheel up to create a little more clearance, shoved the seat back as far as it would go, which wasn’t much farther, considering my size, and pulled Millie up onto my lap, ignoring the warning light that was bleeping in my head. Too close. Back away. Hot female in lap. Breach! Friend zone breach!

“David!” She was pressed back against me, her hands clinging, as if I’d told her we were jumping from a cliff.

“Stop wiggling!” I laughed so I wouldn’t moan, and she immediately froze.

“I’ve got you, Millie. I’ve got you. This is going to be fun. Just like riding a horse with Georgia holding the reins.”

“Okay,” she squeaked, nodding vigorously, her head bumping against my chin, and I chuckled, impressed all over again by her guts and her trust.

I placed her hands where I wanted them on the wheel and she ran her hands down and back up, as if she had never touched anything like it. Maybe she hadn’t. She turned the wheel this way and that and giggled nervously before she put them back where I’d placed them.

“You good?”

“Yeah. Okay. Good.”

“Now, I’m going to be right here to tell you what to do, and I’ll help you steer if you start running us off the road.”

I revved the gas pedal and then placed her foot on it and let her do the same. I could tell she was trying not to bail off of my lap—her body was practically vibrating with nerves—but she didn’t. She stayed, listening intently. I gave her basic instructions, and then I helped her ease onto the road, going about five miles per hour. She didn’t move her hands from two and ten o’clock, and I had to tug at the wheel slightly to straighten us out. And then we picked up speed, just a bit.

“How does that feel?”

“Like falling,” she whispered, her body rigid, her arms locked on the wheel.

“Relax. Falling is easier if you don’t fight it.”

“And driving?”

“That too. Everything is easier if you don’t fight it.”

“What if someone sees us?”

“Then I’ll tell you when to wave.”

She giggled and relaxed slightly against me. I kissed her temple where it rested against my cheek, and she was immediately stiff as a board once more.

Shit. I hadn’t thought. I’d just reacted.

“I would have patted you on the back, but your forehead was closer,” I drawled. “You’re doin’ it. You’re drivin’.”

“How fast are we going?” she said breathlessly. I hoped it was fear and not that kiss.

“Oh you’re flyin’, baby. Eight miles an hour. At this rate, we will reach Salt Lake in two days, my legs will be numb, and Henry will want a turn. Give it a little gas. Let’s see if we can push it up to ten.”

She pressed her foot down suddenly and we shot forward with a lurch.

“Whoa!” I cried, my arms shooting up to brace hers on the wheel. I saw Henry stir from the corner of my eye.

“Danika Patrick is the first female NASCAR driver to ever win a NASCAR Sprint Cup Series pole,” he said woodenly, before slumping back down in his seat. I spared him a quick glance, only to see his eyes were closed once more.

Millie obviously heard him and she hooted and pressed the gas pedal down a little harder.

“Henry just compared you to Danika Patrick. And he obviously isn’t alarmed that you’re driving because he’s already asleep again.”

“That’s because Henry knows I’m badass.”

“Oh yeah. Badass, Silly Millie. ‘Goin’ ninety miles an hour down a dead-end street,’” I sang a little Bob Dylan, enjoying myself thoroughly.

“And Henry trusts you,” Millie added, more to herself than to me, and I fought the urge not to kiss her temple again. I suddenly didn’t feel like laughing or singing anymore. I kind of felt like crying.



(End of Cassette)





Moses




THERE WAS SOMETHING about the smell of the gym. Tag loved it. He said it smelled better than fresh cut hay, a woman’s breasts, and steak combined. And those were his favorite things. Tag’s gym smelled like sweat, bleach, and a hint of fabric softener. I hadn’t decided why the fabric softener smell was so prominent until I realized that heat and sweat made the scent rise from clothing. It smelled wholesome—perspiration, soap and good intentions mixed with a healthy dose of testosterone and overconfidence. It smelled like Tag.

Tag kept music pumping all the time, but his choices were interesting—a little Merle Haggard, a little more Metallica, interspersed with songs by Michael Jackson, Neil Diamond, and The Killers, just to liven things up. He had eclectic tastes. That, and he had a short attention span.