Page 2 of Dream On

“Of course I have insurance.” He gives me another judgmental once-over. “Do you?”

I shuffle from one grubby sandal to the other, ignoring the jab. “Yes. I just got this car. It was my first day on the road with it.”

His stare screamssorry, not sorry. The guy waves his hand at me, riddled with impatience. “Let’s get this over with. It’s hotter than my car’s fuckin’ engine out here.”

I peer over at his smoking engine. It’s hot, yes, but no hotter than the lava pumping through my veins. I sink the heels of my palms into my eyelids, forcing back tears. The gravity of the situation has overridden my wrath, and I realize I’m in big trouble. Mom and Dad worked their butts off to buy me this car so I wouldn’t have to walk to school every day once senior year begins in two weeks. I already feel their disappointment funneling through me. It’s a bitter wave of devastation, infecting every pocket, every sapped inch.

Spinning on my heel, I swipe tangles of hair out of my tear-glazed eyes as I move around the car to access the glove box. I return a moment later with the insurance card, my hands trembling in the aftermath of the adrenaline spike. The other driver is already on the phone, the latest iPhone pressed between his ear and shoulder. Hostile glances are exchanged as we both pace the side of the street. Heaving in a breath, I dial 911 to report the accident.

The female dispatcher asks about my injuries. Nothing appears too worrisome. As the buzz tapers off, I notice achy muscles and a stiff neck but nothing life threatening. The only thing broken is my spirit. She tells me an officer and an ambulance are on the way, and I disconnect the call, tipping my chin to the pearly-white clouds. They skate across my vision like they’re racing to the other side of the world. A marathon in the sky. When my head dips back down, I wince, rubbing at the kink in my neck.

That’s when a hand whips out, swiping the insurance card from my grip.The guy shoves his phone into a khaki pocket and skims over the details. “Stevie St. James.”

I straighten to full height, which puts me at eye level with his chest. “Yes, that’s the name of the girl you nearly pulverized.”

He sniffs. “You look fine to me.”

“You have no idea what you just did.” Emotion bubbles to the surface, causing my words to hitch and crack. “To someone like you, this is nothing but an inconvenience, but this is going to—”

“Someone like me?” He flicks the insurance card my way, and it lands in my cleavage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fishing it out, I stuff it into the back pocket of my faded denim shorts. “It means you can afford the inconvenience. I can’t.”

“That’s quite the assumption, Stevie St. James.” His head slants, ice-tipped eyes gliding over my messy hair, hand-me-down tank top, and moth-eaten sandals. “Where were you headed off to?”

“Doesn’t matter now, thanks to you.” Crossing my arms, I take a step back from his towering frame and high-end cologne that smells like sandalwood and musk and a hint of citrus. “Choir practice at the church.”

“The goody-goody type. Figures.”

“No. I just like to sing.”

He pins his bottom lip between abnormally white teeth and makes a hissing sound. “Stevie,” he drawls. “Stevie who sings.”

“So?”

“Maybe I’ll call you Nicks.”

I huff, looking away.

“What’s your dad’s name? Lennon? Elvis?”

Now is not the time to tell him my siblings’ names are Joplin and Morrison. “The police are on the way,” I deadpan, ignoring his interrogation.

A smirk flickers on his lips. “I’m Lex. Lexington Hall.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were wondering.” He hands over his insurance card. “You’ve probably seen me before. In that TV show years back.”

He’s an actor?I try not to let my curiosity show as I pluck the card from hisfingers and glance down. “Nope.”

His hand lifts, flitting back and forth as a sunbeam glimmers off a silver thumb ring. “The show about the kid who talked to animals. It was a big deal.”

“Sorry.”

Lex lowers his hand and shoves it into the pocket of his tapered pants. The other one follows, and he rocks front to back on both boots. “Right. You probably don’t own a TV.”

What an asshole.