At the next lull in traffic Jude directs a thoughtful stare my way. “On your period, then?”
My eyes bug and I turn in my seat to glare back. “Really, Jude!”
“What’s gotten into you?” He chuckles, but the sound fades as his brows scrunch with what appears to be genuine concern.
“My roommates suck.” I blow out an exhale, and swipe dark red over my lips. “I’ll get over it.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” I grumble, glancing at his profile. Handsome. He looks like a million bucks yet here he is, driving me to work. All because, what? He was the only one to stop on the side of the road. But that doesn’t make sense. Maybe he lives nearby, but by his vehicle and watch, I’d bet otherwise. There’s something about Jude that sparks intrigue. Maybe it’s the fact he wears Armani, but doesn’t feel the need to shave. Or that he drives a down-on-her-luck makeup artist to work when he obviously could be doing something else.
At the next stop of traffic, he turns his neck, meeting my gaze with a slight lift of his eyebrow. A challenge.
“You know what? I do want to talk about it.” For the next fifteen minutes I spew every horrid thing each of my roommates has done. I don’t hold back. My words are harsh, unkind, and sharp with anger, all while my hands work to complete my makeup. My chest heaves and it’s only after my last words leave my lips, the ones recounting what happened this morning, that I turn to gauge his reaction.
I don’t know what I expect to find. Understanding? Empathy maybe? But instead Jude’s jaw is locked, his neck tight with what appears to be annoyance. His knuckles are practically white from where they grip the steering wheel. What the hell? Is he mad right now? Is he annoyed with me?
Defensiveness prickles up my spine. This right here is why I hold back my feelings. Why in every relationship I’ve saved the venting for my brother. He’s the one exception, because when most men ask you to tell them what’s wrong, they don’t really want to know. “Whatever,” I mutter under my breath.
“No.” His voice is practically a growl. “Rachel, that is not whatever.”
Okay, that’s it. I turn in my seat to better face him, and narrow my glare. “What’s your deal? I’m the one with the shitty roommates.”
He swears under his breath. It sounds a lot like the word bitch.
Did he really just—? My leg bounces and I grate my teeth together, willing the vehicle to move faster. Wishing we were already at the studio so I could ditch him and his stupid reliable transportation. They say there’s no such thing as a free ride, and I wholeheartedly agree. Fuck this. I pull out my phone with shaking hands and tap on the app to retrieve a ride where I won’t be made to feel stupid.
His gaze flicks to mine, his brows narrow. “What are you doing?”
“Getting a ride to work,” I say coldly. “You can let me out here.”
“We’re on the freeway, Rachel.” He shakes his head, a scoff of laughter bursting through his stupid kissable lips. “I can’t just pull over and leave you.”
“Sure, you can.” My phone app waits for me to enter a pick up address. Annoyance prickles my spine and I lift my bag from its place on the floorboard. “Fitting anyway, since it’s where you found me. I won’t be your pity project, and I certainly won’t be made to feel bad about sharing my feelings when you asked for it.”
“What?” He rears back as if I’ve slapped him. “You’re serious?” He glances from the traffic to my tight jaw. Back and forth several times, his brows arching toward his hairline. “I’m not fucking leaving you on the side of the road.”
My jaw ticks, and it’s all I can do to not shout. “The next exit, then. There’s a gas station.”
18
Jude
“Jesus.” I scrub my hand over my jaw. I need to shave. I need to fucking relax. My anger is only pissing her off, when what I want is to take care of her. The entire time she recounted dealing with her roommates—women who should be her friends but obviously aren’t—my anger boiled to that of a barely contained rage.
She thinks I’ll drop her on the side of the road? She’s got to be fucking kidding.
“You are not getting out of this vehicle.” I lock the doors with the flip of a button to reiterate my statement.
She laughs, but it’s sort of a crazy sound. “Did you think I was going to jump out of a moving car?”
“Right now”—I chance a glance at her eyes, and yep—they’re as wild as I imagined—“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“You have some nerve. You know, I didn’t want to tell you about my problems. You asked for it. I’m so sorry you can’t handle me at my worst, but this is me, real, and not pretending to be nice.”
Wait, what? She thinks I’m pissed at her? I signal and whip the Escalade onto the nearest off-ramp. With a safe place to pull to the side, I throw it into park and unbuckle my seat belt so I can fully turn and face her. If I wasn’t certain she’d scratch my eyeballs, I’d pull her into my arms. “Rachel. I am not angry with you.” I clench and unclench my fists, forcing an exhale to leave
