“Yep.”
The return footfalls are double in number and I groan, opening the door and preparing for battle, stepping out and turning to face the oncoming pair, my unhelpful salesman and his older suited counterpart, a man whose irritated expression screams of a supervisory title.
“Ms. Madden,” JagPusher begins. “You have no car currently, or previously, registered in your name.”
I fold my arms, catching a glimpse of Jeremy in my peripheral vision. He sits, facing forward, a confused expression on his face, which is adorable enough for me to want to cover him in kisses. “Your point?”
“I don’t think we’re the dealership for you,” the manager says with dismissive authority.
I lean against the car, feeling her straighten underneath me, and grin, my arms still folded over my T-shirt. “You’ve got five minutes to sort out your dick-measuring contest, then I need a key to test drive this car. This one. Not another F-TYPE, or your shitty-ass XFs, or some used Lexus that you have on the back lot. If you don’t get me a key, I’ll call Jaguar corporate, preorder an identical V8 from the next closest dealership, and bitch enough about discrimination that I’ll have it delivered directly to my fabulous apartment at Mulholland Oaks and let your dealership cover the shipping along with any servicing for the next ten years, just to help cover my pain and suffering.” I raise an eyebrow at the men and wait long enough to see indecision in their eyes before sliding back into the driver’s seat and reacquainting myself with my new baby.
Jeremy and I are left alone for less than five minutes before JagPusher returns, passing me a single black key, and stepping back with a pained look. Two minutes later, Jeremy and I are screaming down Highway 244.
Screaming might be a strong term. Softly whistling might be more appropriate. Whatever you’d call hands at ten and two, my foot whisper-soft against the pedal, the car traveling twenty miles under the speed limit and still in second gear. I can practically hear the car scoff at me. But other than my road trip down Murder Lane and the Fireworks Date, I haven’t driven in three, almost four years. So forgive me for not giving this car the proper strap-on fucking it deserves.
“We’re getting passed by minivans.” Jeremy’s voice is quiet, a touch of humor in it that indicates he is smiling.
I don’t look over. Can’t. I’m too scared to take my eyes off the road. I push slightly harder on the accelerator and watch the speedometer creep up to thirty-seven miles per hour, then relax my foot and put on my blinker.
“Where’re we going?”
“Back to the dealership. I’m happy with it.”
“We’ve gone a mile, tops. You haven’t even left second gear.”
Truth is, she scares me a little. I can feel the coil of energy in her body, know, with her quick jump from my pedal, what she is capable of and I respect that—the bundle of madness barely suppressed. I will learn to unleash her. But the fact that I fear her is reason enough for me to buy her. We are connected. We are more similar than Jeremy or JagPusher will ever understand. We both carry a demon inside.
CHAPTER 47
I CONSIDER REFUSING to go into the dealership upon our return. My reluctance half due to the fact that the employees seem to be presented, like fresh delicacies, in glass cubicles ready for my choosing, all waiting expectantly for death. The other half of my resistance to entering is pure stubbornness on my part, my adolescent desire to stamp my feet and crow my wealth and purchase ability exuberantly as I dramatically create a scene in the middle of the parking lot.
But I behave. I park carefully, palm the shiny new key and walk in, Jeremy’s hand finding mine and squeezing it. I look at our union, at his fingers looped through mine, the unexpected contact confusing in its normalcy. How long has it been since I held someone’s hand? Annie was the last, her seven-year-old palm slightly sticky in its grip. But… before that? Years. Years climbing on years of neglect. I detangle my hand from Jeremy’s and step through the glass door he holds open. I made the stupid decision to profess a love that I’m still unsure I should allow myself. I probably should, in an attempt at crisis management, insert a little space in this new relationship.
Once I pull out my checkbook and explain that I’ll be wiring cash for the car, all attitudes dissipate. There are smiles, waves, offers of champagne, and a disgusting display of ass kissing. After a halfhearted attempt at negotiation, they knock a few grand off the purchase price and begin the paperwork process. Jeremy and I step from the office and settle into the lobby’s couch.
“You can go,” I offer. “I’ll drive home.”
“I don’t mind. It shouldn’t take long. Did you want to get lunch?”
Lunch. I glance at my watch. One fifteen p.m. Normal people would be hungry. But all I want to do is get in my new car and drive. Celebrate my new independence. Even if my way of celebrating is driving in the slow lane with hazards on. “No. I need to get home.”
I push through my door an hour later, wincing when the knob slams into the white plaster with a thunk that sounds of damage. I move past this week’s collection of packages and pull out my cell, dialing a number I know by heart. It is not Wednesday. It is not two o’clock. But I need to speak to him. Need to hear his calming voice and rational thought process. I have done too much. I have gone too far. I am not ready for this. The decision I just made pushes on me with stern, unyielding fingers, shoving my selfworth down into the ground.
He answers and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Deanna? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just… I just need to talk for a moment.”
“It’s daytime. Are you okay?” You shouldn’t be uncontrollable during the day. His unspoken thought only increases my stress level.