Page 7 of Shut Up and Drive

“And miss out on free entertainment?” He laughs.

After a few minutes of unladylike grunting, I drop my suitcase to the ground and sit defeatedly on top of it, pushing errant hairs off my sweaty forehead.

“Congratulations. Three days have passed because you’re too stubborn to let me help you. May I?” he asks sarcastically, gesturing to my bag.

I give a reluctant nod, and before I have a chance to stand, Thane yanks the suitcase out from underneath me, sending me right onto my butt. He sets the suitcase into the trunk with ease, then pulls me to my feet.

I glare at him and throw my purse angrily into the car. “I won’t even waste my time commenting on how ungentlemanly that was,” I sneer, dusting off my leggings.

“Good. Because that would put us even further behind your schedule,” he teases, slamming the trunk. “Now, let’s lock up the houses and go.”

I stomp down the driveway, give the house one more look-over, and lock the front door, muttering complaints under my breath the whole way.

Thane meets me next to the driver’s side door and holds out his hand.

“What?” I ask.

“The keys, please. I’ll drive.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Come on. I’m a much better driver.”

“We’re not even going to discuss why you’re wrong on this one,” I say back.

He checks his watch. “Tick-tock, Fina. Time’s a-wastin’!”

I sigh heavily, reaching for my purse to grab the keys. “Fine. But only because I hate driving in morning rush hour.”

“Wait, where’s my purse?” I ask, searching around the outside of the car.

Thane lies down on the driveway and looks underneath. “It’s not under here,” he says as he stands. “Did you leave it in the house?”

My heart stops. I run to the back of the car and peer into the trunk. There on top of my suitcase is my purse—with the keys in it.

“Seriously?” I complain, stepping to the passenger door. I grab the handle and the door doesn’t budge. I move to the back passenger door. No dice. “Uh, Thane? Can you open the driver’s door?”

He tugs on the handle, and from the sound of it, I know the answer.

“Nope.”

“Crap!”

“Why? What’s wrong?” he says from over the top of the car.

“I may or may not have locked the keys inside.” I grimace.

“How is that even possible these days? Those fobs are supposed to prevent that, aren’t they?”

“I thought so too. But maybe the car can’t sense that it’s in there because it’s way in the back. I swear it unlocked when I opened the trunk!” My voice starts to get into the panicky pitch I hate. “I hit the trunkbutton, you loaded our bags, slammed the trunk, and…”

“You never actually hit the unlock button, did you?” he says dryly.

“Isn’t it implied when you open the trunk?”

“I’m not sure cars understand implication, Fina.”

I bury my face in my hands. “What are we going to do? We can’t call the rental place, we have no idea which one our parents used. We can’t break a window, it’s not our car…”