Page 15 of The Games We Play

I huff. “That’s my plan. But teachers don’t get paid as well as driving instructors, obviously.” I try to make light of it.

“I’d be happy to help you set up a budget. It’s one of my strong points. I could show you how I did it. I mean, if you want my help. I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I just mean it to be helpful.”

I give him the benefit of the doubt, because he’s been a nice guy so far.

But I also know his parents helped him with the deposit, and seeing my dad died in an ATF raid on a weapons deal, something I haven’t told Jason yet, there’s no one helping me with the down payment.

Asking Cillian is out of the question, even though he has the money. The idea of being beholden to him any more than I already am makes me shiver.

“Do you like sports?” I ask in a bid to change topics from my pitiful financial situation.

“I watch baseball. It’s fun in summer to go to a game, get some sun, have a beer, take it easy. You?”

“Meh. I’m a binge watcher. Like the Olympics. I’ll watch it twenty-four seven and suddenly find myself really caring if a Japanese teenager nails a triple-axle-toe-pick-something-or-other in figure skating. And I’ll talk about women’s freestyle BMX as if I’m an expert. Same with the World Cup. I like to cheer on the underdogs. Forget Team USA or Brazil. Give me Poland or Tunisia.”

Jason laughs; he has a cute smile. “I like that.”

We finish our food, and I turn down his offer of dessert because I’m exhausted after the tiring day at school. Jason asks for the check, and when it comes, I get my credit card out to split it.

“No,” Jason says, placing his hand on top of mine gently. It’s warm. Nice. “I got this.”

“Thank you.”

“How are you getting home?” he asks when we step outside.

I show him the rideshare app I just opened. “I was just booking a ride.”

He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “My car is just over there. I’m more than happy to drive you. And don’t worry, I’m not expecting to come in or anything. I’ll just make sure you get home safely.”

I look over to the car, which has a huge sign on top that says Triple J’s Driving School. “Triple J’s?”

“My name. Jason Julian Jackson. My mom calls me Triple J.”

Is it sweet that he used the nickname his mom gave him, or is it a red flag he’s still a momma’s boy? I can’t make my mind up.

“A ride would be great, thanks.”

I take a step toward the car—

“I’ll be making sure she gets home okay.” I turn around, and Spark steps out of the shadows of the alley down the side of the restaurant. He looks like some avenging angel or something.

No, something darker.

Like the bogeyman. Lit from above by the streetlight, he looks scary. Tattoos creep up the side of his neck, and shadows make his cheeks more chiseled, his eyes darker.

“Erm. No. You won’t. Let’s go, Jason.”

Jason looks stricken but reaches for my hand.

Brave soul.

“She’s my date. We’ll make our own arrangements,” he says, his voice cracking. I love that he tried. If anything, Jason just went up in my estimation.

But I know any minute now, he’s going to tap out.

“You paid for the food, but I’m taking her home.” Spark doesn’t even try to look menacing. He just is. Jason is only a handful of inches taller than my own five feet five. But Spark ... I’m not being dramatic when I say he towers over us. Probably wider than the two of us too. Wait, no. Thatisbeing dramatic.

I don’t know how to get out of this. His very presence confuses the heck out of me.