Interim(48)

They ate half of their cupcakes in silence. She clenched her thighs when Jeremy’s tongue darted out to swipe the icing off his lip ring. The silver glistened with his spit, electrifying the secret parts of her body. She racked her brain for a distraction.

“Do you work a lot?”

He nodded.

“Do you like it?”

“Mostly.”

He finished the cupcake and licked his fingers. Icing remained on the tip of his nose.

Regan chuckled.

“What?”

She pointed.

He brought his large, calloused hand to his face, feeling about for what he could only presume was icing. Found it, and he scrubbed his nose with his forefinger. He pointed at her next.

“You have it everywhere,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “Tell me about your tattoo.”

“No.”

She laughed. “Figured.”

He dumped the cupcake box and walked back to the Camaro.

“It’s, like, my motto, or whatever,” he said softly.

“Then why won’t you tell me?” Regan asked. “Usually people are proud of their mottos.”

“It’s . . . complicated.”

“And I’m a smart person,” Regan replied.

Jeremy tinkered about the engine, unwilling to look at her. Unwilling to elaborate further on a decision he made a year ago that sealed his plan. He knew he’d forever be a coward if he didn’t brand himself with the words. The tattoo forced him into the next and final phase—gave him the courage to fight. There was no going back now. Decision made. The inked words a prayer for deliverance.

“It’s an Old Testament verse,” he said finally. Maybe that would be enough.

“About?”

Okay. Maybe not.

He thought a moment. “Mercy.”

Fucking. Lie. Nothing in the Old Testament was about mercy. Try revenge and justice instead. Lucky for him she had no idea.

“Oh,” was her reply. Like, “Oh, I didn’t understand a thing you just said.”

He was satisfied.

“Will you, at least, tell me what language it’s written in?”

“Latin.”

She thought so. “Why Latin? I mean, isn’t the Old Testament in Hebrew?”

“I prefer Latin.”

“Why?”

He sighed patiently. “I like the way it looks better.”

“Oh.” And there it was again—that I-don’t-understand-you-at-all “Oh.”

“Did you finish your English essay?” she asked, and he jumped.

She stood close beside him, watching his greasy fingers move about the engine, pulling on wires and adjusting bolts. How did he not hear her sidle up to him?

“No,” he replied, and looked down at her.

“I chose the second essay question. The one about defining satire,” she went on.

He noticed she’d finally cleaned her face, but a stray swipe of icing hung back on her cheekbone, and he was tempted to dab it. He glanced at his filthy hands. Perhaps not.

“I’m doing that one, too,” he said, though he hadn’t bothered to read over the question options yet.

“Cool. Maybe we can compare notes,” Regan offered.

“Maybe.”

And that was her cue to leave. Her face went hot with embarrassment at his blatant rejection. He didn’t want to compare notes with her. Shit. He probably didn’t want her in his garage in the first place. What was she thinking coming here? This was his personal space—his place away from school and all the jerks in it. She probably stood as an annoying reminder of all the things he hated.

“I better go,” she said quickly. “I have tons of homework.”

He couldn’t understand her abrupt change in attitude. Weren’t they having a nice conversation? Did he say or do something wrong? That wouldn’t surprise him. She made him nervous, and he couldn’t be sure he didn’t accidentally pass gas in front of her. Oh God, did he fart in front of Regan Walters and not realize it?

“Jeremy?”

He whipped his head to the side, looking at her standing in the garage doorway.

“I said bye, like, ten times,” she said.

“Oh,” he replied. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Um, okaaaay.”

“I was wondering why you want to leave,” he explained. He lifted the front of his shirt to his nose. “Do I smell or something?”