If only he hadn’t fucking smiled at me.
Chapter Five
Jax
“I really appreciate this,” I said to Rand’s profile. That ridiculously handsome profile.
“I wasn’t going to leave you stranded, Jax.” He frowned. “I’m not that much of a jerk.”
Yeah, he was. But I wasn’t going to say that given the solid he was doing me.
“Besides” —he glanced at a very expensive watch—“it’s a six-hour drive to Indianapolis. I can stomach anything for that long.”
Aaand welcome back, Rand the asshole.
I looked out the window, keeping my mouth shut.
I had to admit, it galled. It was embarrassing to be stranded in my family’s old Buick and to be rescued by Rand in his obscenely expensive Lexus. Everything about the car screamed luxury, from the white leather seats—dead animal skins, nice bro—to the heat radiating up to my ass from the seat, to the cockpit-like electronic display on the dash.
Could the contrast be any more blatant? I didn’t care that much about money, but it still made me cringe inside. I loathed the idea that Rand thought I was a loser.
But that, of course, was vanity. I shook my head and snorted at myself. Why should I give a fuck what Rand Charles thought of me? I could drive a car made of solid gold, and he’d still hate my guts.
“Can we listen to that music? The Joan Baez?” I asked to get out of my own headspace.
He licked his lips and shrugged. “You can see if you can get that station again.”
I snorted. “Dude, it wasn’t the radio. It was your phone.”
“No it wasn’t.”
I laughed and waved a hand at the electronic stereo system. “Uh, your super-fancy stereo display said Rand’s Phone. I saw it with my own two little eyes. What, are you ashamed of liking Joan Baez?”
His expression did something complicated. Maybe he was trying to figure out if he should keep lying. I expected him to, honestly. It would be just like him to try to fucking gaslight me all the way to Indianapolis. And over something so stupid too.
But he surprised me and broke into a boyish smile. “Sorry. My frat bros give me shit about Baez. My mom got me into her when I was little. Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell too.”
Rand Charles, oil heir, was into Bob Dylan? That was unexpected. “Isn’t Dylan a little… progressive for you?”
His smile fell. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
It seemed like I’d hit a nerve, so I held up my hands in surrender. “It’s cool. My parents love all those guys, so I grew up on them. That and jazz. For what it’s worth: Dylan rules.”
“I’ve got a playlist.” Rand turned on the stereo and pushed a few buttons. The readout said 60s Folk Playlist. The harmonic intro to “Blowin’ in the Wind” came over the speakers.
“You can start a playlist from your phone through the car stereo?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Damn. This was a pretty sweet ride.
We listened to the playlist for a good hour without speaking again. He had all my favorite songs and nothing I didn’t like. It was hard to feel pissy with songs like “Both Sides Now” and “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.” Slowly, the energy in the car relaxed and even got a little cozy. The fucking heated seats felt amazing.
It was the first time Rand and I had ever spent time together when we weren’t at each other’s throats. Maybe he wasn’t such an asshole.
We passed the Welcome to Ohio! sign.
“One state down,” I said. I got out my phone and checked the map. “We should get to my house around 11.” Damn, that was late. I had to offer, especially after he’d given me a ride. “Want to stay the night? We’ve got a couple of spare rooms now that there’s just two of my sibs left at home.”
Rand’s expression tensed up. “Nah. Wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“Ha. Our house motto is the more the merrier.” I smiled. “You’ll understand when you see it.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ve heard downtown Indy is pretty rad. I’ll probably grab a hotel down there so I can cruise around tomorrow.”
Oh. Right. I got it. After seeing the Buick LaSabre he probably assumed my home was a dump. Trash everywhere. Dirt floors. Chickens pecking crumbs in the corners.
Honestly, the chickens thing was legit, but still. I should have known that Rand Charles was too good for the likes of us. He’d want to stay in a three-hundred-a-night hotel in downtown Indy. Well, fuck him then.
“Sure,” I said flatly. I stared out the window, vowing not to speak to him again the rest of the drive.
“Look,” he said, blowing out a breath.
I glanced daggers at him.
“I’m gonna have to stop for food. I didn’t get lunch. So it’ll be later than 11 when I drop you off.”
My stomach clenched, eager to digest something, anything. “That’s cool. I could eat.”
Near Zanesville, Ohio there was a sign for a place called Whistle Stop Diner. It sounded like a step up from fast food, so we got off the freeway. The diner was in an old train car and was fixed up with flowers in window boxes and a bright yellow-painted railing. The parking lot had a dozen cars in it. Seemed to be hopping for a place like Zanesville.
We didn’t say anything as we got out of the car and went inside. We were seated right away and given ice water in old soda-fountain glasses. The menu had lots of train-themed titles. Surprisingly, they had a decent veg bowl.
I put down my menu. Rand was staring out the window.
I’d sworn I wouldn’t talk to him, but it was uncomfortable as hell. What would Jax do?
I sighed. “How about we call a truce for the rest of this trip? Kind of like a Christmas Eve détente.”
He looked at me, a glimmer in those blue eyes. “Are you implying we’re at war, Jax?”
“Aren’t we?” I thought it was obvious, even if it wasn’t a war of my choosing.
His gaze held mine for a long moment. “Fine. Though I think I called the truce when I came back to save your ass.”
My hand gripped my ice water glass hard. “Okay. You called the truce. Congrats.”
He huffed. The waitress came to take our order. She brought us our drinks—iced tea for me and Coke for him.
By the time she left, I’d swallowed my temper again. “So the car… It’s kind of a long story, but it’s called the Cookie Monster, and it’s a Johnson family tradition.”
He looked extremely dubious.
“See, my mom drove it for years. She kept it because it held a lot of kids and, well, they had a lot of kids. My dad always had the quote-unquote good car and my mom drove the Cookie Monster.”
“So called because…?”
“Because it’s big and goofy and blue?” I smiled. “Also because homemade cookies were the thing my mom always made for longer car trips to keep us in line. You know: you kids settle down back there! If you’re good, I’ve got cookies.” I mimicked my mom’s voice.
Rand smiled. “Ah. Makes sense. Go on.”
“So. When my oldest brother, Gill, got his license—”