She glares at me as Sherm sits up and rubs his eyes.
“Go back to sleep, buddy,” she tells him, leans over his bed, pulls his sheet around him. “It’s Sunday.”
There’s a tightening in my chest. No school. I don’t have an excuse to see Adri today.
Sherm nestles back into his pillow. I head to the beach, where I run and try to get my priorities straight. Because getting revenge on the Savocas seems to have slipped from the top of the list.
* * *
When I drop Sherm at school on Monday, I don’t shy away from the classroom. Adri looks amazing, in a snug pink sweater and a shortish black pencil skirt. Her hair is down and her cheeks are pink and, Christ, I want to fuck her. Making it happen is all I’ve been able to think about since our foray into phone sex on Saturday night. My plan is slowly coming together.
Once I get Sherm settled, I pass by her desk on my way out. “Are you free Saturday afternoon?” I ask under my breath.
Her wide eyes flick to mine, then Sherm, and she nods.
“Good.”
She shudders as I brush past her and I smile. I’ve got a job in Tampa on Friday, but Saturday is all hers.
When I get home, I print out the flyer and leave it on the table, where Sherm usually does his homework. It’s low, even for me, but he really wants to do this. If he asks Lee, I know she won’t say no.
I run on the beach for longer than usual and try to work off some of this anticipation, but it’s useless. I shower and leave early to pick Sherm up, just to be closer to her.
I’m coming into the middle of town when I catch sight of the police car in my rearview mirror. I’d swear I saw one cross the intersection at the end of our street. Has he been following me?
I take a random turn. He turns too. I loop back toward school. The cop traces my path. Just as I cross back to the road that leads to campus, his blues flash on.
Fuck.
I pull over, wait as he gets out of his car and approaches my passenger window—the same cop who’s been to the house twice now.
He leans down, peers cautiously in my open window. “License and registration.”
My Glock is in the glove box, right on top of the envelope with the registration. Even though my permit to carry it came through last week, I feel like flashing it around for this guy wouldn’t be a good move.
I reach toward my pocket. He holds up a hand. “Slowly, son.”
I pull out my wallet, fish out the Florida license that says I’m someone I’m not. I hold it up between my index and middle fingers, and he reaches for it.
“I’m not sure if I’ve got my registration card,” I say, opening the console between the seats.
When he stands to look over my license, I crack open the glove box and toss some McDonald’s napkins over the Glock, then fish the envelope out from under it and close it fast.
I flick the registration out from between the title and insurance paperwork and hand it to him as he ducks back down.
“Where did you reside before moving to Port St. Mary?”
“What does that have to do with my driving?”
“Just answer the question, son,” he says, his hand lowering to where he’s got his sidearm holstered.
I could. All I have to say is Philadelphia and it would check out, get him off my back. But I’m pissed. When I’m pissed, I always push back. “Why did you pull me over?”
“You ran a stop sign back there,” he says, gesturing vaguely behind us with a wave of his arm.
“I didn’t run—” But I realize arguing isn’t going to get me anywhere. This has nothing to do with my driving. “Then write me the ticket.”
“Where did you move here from?” he pushes as if I hadn’t said anything.
“Again, what does that have to do with my driving?”
He pulls a ticket pad off his belt. “In some states they don’t take the rules of the road as seriously as we do here in our little town.”
He scribbles some things on the pad, tears the ticket off and hands it to me with my license and registration. “The payment and appeal process is outlined on the back.”