This Much is True - Tia Louise Page 0,6
money, no phone… No shoes.
“I’m not waiting forever,” he snaps. “Get in or stay here. Final call.”
I hesitate a bit too long, and the car starts to move.
“Okay!” I scream, and the car jerks to a stop.
Grabbing the door handle, I rush into the passenger’s side. As soon as the door slams, he floors it, sending my back against the leather and dirt and rocks flying into the space behind us.
It’s quiet inside except for the wind pushing around us. My hands are clutched in my lap, and Los Angeles rises up ahead. The Eagles continue to sing softly on the radio, and I press my lips together in the dry air swirling around us.
“Are you an actor?” My voice is like sandpaper.
The tiny muscles around his eyes flinch. “No.”
“But you live in LA?”
He cuts his eyes at me briefly. “No.”
We continue powering down the freeway. He’s letting Metallicar eat up the miles, and I feel the power—this car was built for speed. My eyes sting, and my head aches like someone hit it with a sledgehammer. I’d give my little toe for a bottle of water.
“Got anything to drink in here?”
He exhales in an irritated manner. “No.”
“Is that all you can say?”
Those ice-blue eyes flash at me, and my stomach flips. “No.”
I settle back against the seat, holding the sides of my skirt as I prop my bare feet on the dash.
He reaches over and shoves them down. “Feet on the floor.”
My jaw drops, and I catch myself, shifting upright as he rubs his palm over the spot where my feet had been. “Excuse me!”
“You’re excused.”
His hand returns to the steering wheel, and I cross my arms over my chest, studying his profile. He could be a movie star with that profile. His teeth are straight and white, and I can tell from the way his shirt stretches over his shoulders and down to his waist he works out. He’s rough around the edges, but he doesn’t look much older than thirty.
“If you’re not an actor, what do you do?”
“None of your business.”
Shaking my head, I turn to the window, huffing a whatever. I’ve never met someone so rude in my life.
Looking out, I notice the trees sprouting up along the highway are so green, and the high-rise buildings are distinctly clear. It’s strange because usually the city is shrouded in a hazy brown mist. It’s a beautiful morning.
I look down at my lap, and the shock of waking up here starts to fade. My sadness from last night trickles back. I figure I’ll try again.
“This was my dad’s car, you know.” I say to the open space. “He got it when he was about my age and kept it up all these years.”
Mr. Growly doesn’t answer. Only Don Henley croons back at me about one of these nights.
“I hope you’ll love it as much as he did.”
The guy glances at me a bit longer this time. “It’s a good car.”
“It’s a classic.” I slide my hand along the passenger door.
We’re slowing down, and he hands me his phone. “Can you read these directions to me?”
“Sure…” I’m encouraged by the hint of friendliness. I look around as we exit the freeway. I don’t know much about LA or where we are. “Where are we going?”
“I’m picking up my brother.”
Looking at the directions on the phone, I realize I have no idea where I’ll go from here.
Wrinkling my nose, I look up at him. “I don’t know your name.”
Another flash of ice blue. “You don’t need to.”
“Still, it would be helpful—”
“John.” His reply is a little too sharp.
“Is it really?” Another glare, and I hold up a hand. “Okay, John. I’m Hope. Nice to meet you.”
“Don’t let me miss my turn.”
Nice to meet you too, Hope. I answer for him in my head. So much for friendliness. “It says five hundred feet.”
He follows my directions until we’re pulling up in front of what looks like an old motel out of the 1960s. It has a pink flamingo painted on the pale blue stucco column in the center, and two long rows of apartments form a two-story, U-shaped structure.
John steps out, slamming the door before walking around and opening mine. “I’ll be seeing you, then.”
He stands there waiting, and I look down at my bare feet. My fingers twist in my lap. “If you don’t live in LA… Any chance you’re heading back to San Francisco?”
“No.”
So we’re back to one-word answers again.
I’m about to argue when a friendly male voice interrupts