“I’m the coolest,” he says dryly, carefully wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He glances back toward the bar one last time, making absolute sure that nobody is following them. No one is.
He guides her back to his car, making sure to move slowly and steadily. Without much else to keep him occupied, he recedes inward, lost in thought — locked in thought. Guilt is eating him alive. Guilt over selling to the scumbag parasite, guilt over cornering her in the bar under false pretenses, guilt over his own relief at the crisis forcing his hand. How absurd, how wonderful, how absolutely fucking terrible that he accidentally orchestrated his own excuse to abandon the mission.
They reach the Thunderbird, parked shittily on the curb. He should have straightened the car out more, he thinks idly. He opens the already-unlocked door for Imogen, helping her step down and into the vehicle.
“You’ll have to give me directions on where to go,” he says once he’s taken his own seat.
The leather seats are cool to the touch, and it feels nice against her flushed skin. Imogen shifts to her side, brings her knees up, rests her cheek against the headrest. She only blinks, she’s sure, but suddenly he’s in the seat next to her, speaking. The return to consciousness is sudden, and she jumps.
“M’kay,” she mumbles, blinking hard in an attempt to keep her eyes open. “Y’know those apartments,” she talks slowly, struggles with her uncooperative tongue, “on Lindley? Downtown? Meadow somthin’?”
It’s not far, maybe a ten-minute drive, with traffic. The spinning is worse now, though, and she slides down one leg to rest her foot on the floor in an effort to slow it. She wants to stay awake, knows that she needs to, but it’s so hard. She watches him through half-lidded eyes, remembers thinking he looked like trouble.
She supposes she misread him.
“’m sorry,” she says, “that I dragged ya’ into this shit.”
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
gamechangershow
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
