Page 64

With a heavy mind, I watch Tiller, waiting to see when he’s going to blow up because you and I both know it’s coming. His window’s cracked. Each passing car tangles another loop of his hair, resulting in a wild mess. With his chin tucked down, he scowls into the darkness. Shifted slightly toward the door, his right hand hangs over the steering wheel, his left arm resting on the edge of the door panel as he runs his knuckles slowly across his lower lip and jaw, contemplating. I shouldn’t be surprised by his mood. I knew it was coming.
Enveloped in tension, I have no idea what to say to Tiller once we’re in the truck on our way back to Santa Monica. Do I apologize for my parents? What they said to him? The fact that I didn’t say anything?
Guilt hits my chest like a brick, and it’s so hard to breathe, let alone tell him that I feel horrible for dragging him to a wedding, that if I’m being honest, I knew would turn out this way. Had I led him into the lion’s den willingly?
It’s on hour three, just as we can see the sun rising to the east when I finally say, “I’m sorry.”
Tiller won’t even look at me, his hard, cold eyes never releasing from the road ahead. “Don’t be.”
“He shouldn’t have said those things to you. You’re a good dad.”
Now he looks at me. “I’m not a dad. I was a fucking sperm donor at best.”
With the misery of the night still haunting me, I point out, “She loves you.”
He shakes his head. “She doesn’t even know me.” And then he regards with a certain sourness I’m familiar with. “I don’t even know if you do.”
“I know you. You’re a good person whether you want to believe it or not.”
He grunts but doesn’t respond and turns up the music. But it’s the music I take note in and the song he turns up. “Human” by Rag’n’Bone Man.
I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. And I know he won’t tell me. I’ve known Tiller long enough to know when he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t, and the more you push, the more he resists.
Tiller has a cool truck. It’s a brand-new blacked-out Ford Raptor and fast as hell for a truck. People who are into cars know this, and they’re constantly testing him. And by testing, I mean trying to race him. Usually he ignores them. Racing has never been his thing. He’s more about showing off, which is why he’s always been into freestyle rather than motocross.
We’re about an hour outside of Santa Monica when a cherry-red Durango RT with a hood scoop pulls up beside us on Interstate 5 and taunts himself forward.
Tiller, still humming with aggression, shakes his head and rolls it to the side to glance at me. “What a douche.”
Over my shoulder, I peek back at River. She’s still asleep, wearing Tiller’s hat he had back there and drooling all over his suit jacket. “Ignore them,” I tell him, barely able to keep my eyes open much longer. It’s nearing five in the morning and we still haven’t slept yet.
Do you think Tiller listens to me?
Ha. That’s funny. You don’t know him very well. I’ll give him this much, he attempts to, but the kids in the car next to us don’t give up. They continue their pursuit to get Tiller to race them by swerving between lanes, crowding him and eventually nearly hitting us like some kind of classic California road rage. That pisses Tiller off. If he wasn’t there already from that horrible wedding we’d just trashed.
Consumed with rage, Tiller smashes the gas pedal to the floor and my head snaps back against the seat. Awesome. Now I’m going to die.
Tiller’s menacing gaze shifts to the side window and he rolls it down like he’s going to yell at them. Not only will they not hear what he says, this is the kind of thing you should avoid. It’s a sure way to either get a gun pulled on you or entice them further.
“Tiller.” I slap his shoulder. “Knock it off. Ease off. Don’t make it worse.” I’m remaining calm for the moment, but what I really want to do is yell at him because how can he even think this would be okay to speed with River in the truck. Especially seeing how just a few weeks ago, she lost both her parents to reckless driving.
Do you think he listens to me? Nope. And with the wind in the truck having the window down, I doubt he heard me in the first place. He’s too busy yelling obscenities at them.
The roar of the engine screams on the interstate and luckily there are no other drivers because I doubt Tiller or this guy in the Durango would have cared.
Rolling up the window, Tiller grips the wheel tighter, pulling ahead of the Durango by a few feet. “What the fuck is this guy’s problem?”
Did he want me to answer him? I don’t think he does, so I remain quiet.
The Durango lurches forward and then starts to pull away. Tiller’s competitive side flares and naturally, he wants to beat this guy now.
Before long, I’m feeling sick and gripping my seat with my eyes screwed shut. I can’t watch.
“If he hits us,” Tiller’s voice forces my eyes open, “I will fuck him up.”
If he hits us? The thought is horrifying to me.
That’s when River wakes up and starts to cry, her face pale. Oh crap. I know that look. “Um, Tiller. . . I might not have mentioned this, but River gets car sick.”