Page 3 of Scars of Silk

We drive in silence for a while. It’s not awkward, it’s just silence. I don’t know why people go on about silence like it’s a bad thing. I like it. Not needing to talk is the highlight of my day.

“Stop jigging.” I almost jump when she speaks. The purr of the engine is smooth and barely audible.

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re sitting there, stewing on whatever you stormed out about and jigging.”

“I’m not. I’m thinking.”

“And jigging. You are filling my car with nervous energy. Cut it out.”

“Does your car not cope well with nervous energy?” The car is immaculate, not a thing out of place. It smells posh; of leather and expensive perfume.

“No,” she snaps, her hands gripping the wheel.

“Okay, I’ll stop. Sorry, I didn’t know I was doing it. It used to drive Faith mad when we were kids. She’d slap me around on the knee and tell me to quit it.” Her name falls out of my mouth and my stomach churns.

“How long have you been in love with her?”

An uncomfortable prickle tickles along the back of my neck. Is it that obvious?

“Pfft. I’m not in love with her.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard, or what I’ve seen.”

I scowl at her, not that she bothers turning her attention away from the windscreen. “Whatever. Mind your own.”

She doesn’t answer, just keeps driving.

I keep looking at her. It’s her or the dismal damp weather outside. Heavy clouds are rolling over the view, hanging swollen with expectant rain. Great. The weather is mimicking my life—heavy and dull.

“So how did you get the bruises?”

I turn and find her dark gaze flicking over my face. Rubbing at my chin with the palm of my hand, I think what to say. Faith didn’t ask me where my bruises were from. I don’t think she wanted to know, not really. She was all caught up in why I overdosed. Yeah well, fuck, that didn’t pan out.

“A hobby.” I leer at her, hoping to make those dark eyes focus back on the road. She sweeps them over me once more before the traffic moves at a green light.

“Some hobby,” she answers, when the time for her to speak has passed.

I stretch, pushing my hand above my head in the confines of the small car, grinning when I catch her sneaking a glance at my skin as my shirt lifts.

“Like what you see, darling?”

Turning, she curls her top lip at me. “Hardly.”

Chuckling, I settle back in the leather seat. Maybe if I can sleep, I can save the awkward conversation the rest of the way. Let's just pray we don’t hit the rush hour traffic into the city.

Of course, we do. Because what else could happen on a day like today?

We’ve been sat for thirty minutes and have moved only half a yard.

“So why did you storm out?” she asks.

“What, are you a therapist or something?”

“No. I make a living listening to people though.”

“Good for you, darling.” I pull a grimace at her, hoping I can stop her asking questions. I don’t want to talk or explain myself. Often, I don’t even want to breathe.