Carried Away - P. Dangelico Page 0,18
me into his trap. I’m not the dumb girl in this story. “You have no right to demand my credentials.”
“Listen up…” He exhales loudly and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I saved your life, I fed you, I nearly lost a pinky to frostbite trying to get your damn tampons from the car. You’re my guest and I’m asking to see your credentials. Cough ’um up.”
All those things are true. Also true, there is no reason for him to see them.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I can’t,” I say, thinking quickly. “They’re in the glove compartment of the rental.”
The vein running up his forehead looks ready to explode. “Are you kidding?”
“No.” That’s partly the truth. I’m not kidding––I’m lying.
His head drops and he takes a deep breath.
Although the snow is falling more gently and the worst of the storm has passed, the conditions outside are still far from safe. In fact, it looks like there’s a solid five feet of snow banked up to the window. Wading through it to get to the car is no easier now than it was this afternoon.
“Fine. I’ll get them.” He starts for the door, brushing past me, and alarm bells start ringing in my head––a five alarm fire drill.
“You can’t go out there!” I shout, running after him.
“Done it two times already.”
He makes it to the front door and shoves his feet in the Timberlands sitting on the mat. If he gets out there and finds the glove compartment empty, he may very well tear me limb from limb. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk angering him any more than he already is.
The stress has me on the verge of tears as I watch him throw on his heavy Northface coat.
“Wait!” He freezes, not glancing my way at first. “You can’t go out there.”
Now he faces me and rolls his eyes.
“It’s too dangerous,” I implore, my voice high and tight with anxiety. “I can get the creds after it stops snowing. After you plow us out tomorrow. Before my father comes to get me.”
A strategic drop––the mention of my dad. To let him know that I have family who will be looking for me. Always humanize the victim. That is to say, if I play this right, I won’t be a victim.
He doesn’t buy it though. Grabbing the handle, he’s about to open the door when the stress of the last three days catches up to me.
“I don’t have any creds!”
Turning away for the door, he searches my face and the dam breaks. Tears start running down my face and I can do nothing to stop them.
“What do you mean, you don’t have any?”
“I mean, I don’t have any…I was laid off…last month.”
That earns me a glare-lite. “And you expect me to believe that?”
“Turner, seriously, I was fired. I don’t have any.”
I feel like I’m being fired all over again. How humiliating, having to explain myself to this guy. Walking back to the couch, I sit and wipe my face off with the sleeve of my sister’s ruined pink cashmere sweater. When the quiet gets too much to bear, I glance up again.
He watches me for one, two, three excruciating silent moments. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why were you fired?” His tone does not evoke warm fuzzies or the desire to pour my heart out. In fact, he sounds more annoyed and inconvenienced than ever.
“Oh…uh…” I’m too emotionally drained to come up with a plausible excuse on the fly. “A tweet. I was fired over a tweet.”
Turner slips out of his coat and hangs it back up on the row of hooks on the wall. He kicks off his boots. “What did you tweet?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’m still deciding whether to believe you,” he barks. “Now, what was it?”
It’s my turn to sigh tiredly. “A story I broke years ago…on the quarterback of the Dallas Stars, Halpern. He––”
“––died a month ago. I know.” Crossing his arms, he studies me. “You broke the story on him four years ago?”
For the first time since we’ve met, Turner looks less than pissed off and more than curious. I nod, dry my eyes again.
“And?”
“And management didn’t approve of the tweet I sent out on the day of his accident.” I look away, at my knuckles, red from the cold. “They got a lot of blowback…I’m sorry if that upsets you.” Frustrations bubbles up again. I’m not ready to surrender to this sour, high-handed, possibly-violent jerk. “I’m sorry he beat the shit out of a woman that weighed less