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“I don’t even know what that means.”

“I don’t know. Tall and scary and painfully hot. Oh, and strong. Like you could lift a cow or an ox or something. You belong in a gladiator movie,” I ramble, finding it weirdly difficult to shut up. “But you’re soft too. Like you could break me or cuddle me. Or both,” I mumble.

He doesn’t reply, but his gaze is burning. I almost feel guilty for getting involved with him when he looks at me like that.

“I’m going to fuck this up,” I blurt.

“How so?”

I take a breath, making sure I say nothing I shouldn’t. This is much more difficult when drunk. I’m profoundly irresponsible for being around him in my current state. I control my tongue, only whispering, “I can’t have nice things.”

He grunts, and I don’t know if it’s in dismissal of what I have said or what. I realize I’m not buckled, so I struggle to pull the seatbelt over myself. When I’m done, I’m about to tell him where I live but see he’s using my phone for GPS.

“Smart man,” I say. “Very serial killer though.”

“I figured it would be easier to just press the home button than get your address.”

“I’m not that bad.” I cross my arms.

“You are, and that’s alright. You’ve had a bad day.” I look at him as he drives. He has a strong nose, aquiline, and I am more convinced of the gladiator role than I was before. I watch his forearm flex as he shifts, and fuck if I’m not wet just watching.

Get it together, you moron.

“Care to explain how it’s my fault?” he asks.

I harrumph and slide down into my seat.

“Your penis did it.”

He chuckles to himself. “I suppose I need to ask for clarity, but it’s refreshing that it’s my dick getting someoneelseinto trouble instead of me.” He adjusts the rearview mirror and the necklace I have hanging there falls down from how I’d wrapped it up. The sun glinting on it had made it difficult to drive. Drunk as I am, I sense Roman stiffen.

“Surprised you’re not wearing this pretty thing,” he says, shifting gears.

“Oh, I don’t, uh—” I put my hand up to my throat on instinct, soothing myself before I explain. “I found it in my dad’s things after he died.”

“But you don’t wear it?”

“No,” I reply, offering him no further explanation. I look out the window, willing the lights to wink out so I don’t have to see. They blur as we move, and I close my eyes. The yellow glow of the streetlight is a reminder I don’t want.

We are halfway to my house, and I wonder if time is moving fast or if I am moving slow. Roman sighs as he pulls up to a stoplight, and I look at him as discreetly as I can through my hair. He rubs his beard before turning to look at me, his dark brown eyes almost black in the night.

“So, what did my dick do?”

“Did you not see the pictures?” I ask.

“No, I haven’t looked.”

“Ouch,” I say, turning my head to look out the window again. “That uninterested, huh?”

His hand slides over my stockinged thigh, his pinky sliding beneath the skirt I wear.

“The opposite,” he replies. “Afraid to look, because I’m probably too interested, and I don’t want to see the evidence.”

I suck in a breath, reaching for the old water bottle in my cup holder.

“Well,” I start, taking a deep breath after I sucked down as much water as I could, “this morning, I was pulled in by HR and told that I couldn’t expect to stay employed there if I blatantly starred in and shared pornographic content. Which is such bullshit! Clarke didn’t even post the ones where my ass is out! I’m just as covered as I would be in a swimsuit. No one gave a fuck when Michelle posted all her vacation pictures.”

I tilt my head back against the headrest, and I startle when I realize we are in the driveway of my townhouse and no longer moving.