I flick my gaze across Dean’s face, annoyed by how attractive he is. He runs a hand over his bristled jaw, scratching at the shadow of stubble, and I catch a whiff of his musky, cedar cologne and a trace of leather. I chew my bottom lip, leaning back against the seat. “No. Not like you’d care,” I mumble, turning to look straight ahead.
“I care, Corabelle. You’re in our wedding party—can’t have you chopped into little pieces and hidden under that guy’s floorboards before the big day.”
I snap my head in his direction, catching the playful smirk on that stupid, handsome face of his. “I hate you.”
“You know I’m just messing with you,” he winks.
“I still hate you.”
Dean’s eyes rove over me, assessing me in some way, as he twists the key in the ignition. The engine howls to life. “You know you’re just opening yourself up to scary dudes when you dress like that,” he says off-handedly, his wrist dangling over the steering wheel as he puts the car into drive.
I snort at the audacity of his claim. “Victim shaming,” I supply. “You really are a catch. My sister is so lucky.” I blink at him, fluttering my long lashes dramatically.
“That’s not what I meant,” he counters. “I’m just saying, when you look like that, guys notice.”
“When I look like what? Are you saying I look slutty?”
“I’m saying you look good.”
Dean issues the strange compliment with such nonchalance, I almost forget who it’s coming from. I fidget with the hem of my dress and cross my legs, unsure of how to reply, but then I remember he was still victim shaming and he’s still an ass. “Yeah, well, you look like a… bonehead.” What?
A rich laugh mingles with the roar of the engine, and I slink back in my seat. “That’s the best you got? The alcohol must be getting to you. Your comebacks are suffering.”
“Shut up.”
Dean scratches at his jaw again, glancing my way every few seconds. “You’re welcome for the ride, by the way. And for saving your life back there.”
I snort again. I didn’t even realize I was a snorter. “All you did was pull up in your macho car, looking like a tool, and imply that you found me revolting.” I smile sweetly at him, placing my hands over my heart. “My hero.”
He sniffs. “That guy was one coquettish look away from stealing your panties for a trophy. I definitely saved your life.”
“Coquettish?”
Dean shrugs, his focus shared between me and the road. “Yeah, so? I got it from the Cora Lawson Handbook. You’re basically a walking dictionary.”
“I wasn’t giving that guy any ‘coquettish’ looks,” I argue, ignoring the jab. “That was me trying not to gag on my own vomit.” Then I raise an eyebrow and clear my throat, adding, “You should be pretty familiar with that look.”
He tries to hide his smile, but I notice. “No wonder I thought you had a thing for me.”
Oh, jeez. I shake my head, forcing back my own smile.
Dean shuffles in his seat, reaching for his cigarettes in the center console. “You know, I was thinking we could squash this little tiff we’ve got going on. A truce or something.”
“Little tiff? You mean the seething hatred I’ve had for you for the past fifteen years?”
“Yeah, that.”
I gawk at him. “No.”
“Why not?” he questions, his voice muffled through his cigarette as he lights the end. The embers glow bright, a deep orange and crimson. He sneaks a peek at me when I don’t answer right away. “For Mandy. She wants us to be friends.”
“Unless you plan on getting a personality transplant, I assure you that Hell will freeze over before I consider you my friend.” Dramatic, but true.
“Shit, Cora, I’m not that bad.”
His statement forces me upright in my seat, my neck craning backwards in outrage. Is he being for real right now? I huff my disagreement. “You called me ‘Cor the Bore’ all through high school because I’d rather study than party every night. You set me up on a blind date with Stinky Steve and videotaped my reaction, then posted it on MySpace. You reenacted The Ring the night I watched it for the first time and scared me so bad, I actually fainted. Mandy thought I died, and she had a panic attack. I still refuse to have a TV in my room.”
“High school stuff. That was years ago,” Dean dismisses through his laughter.
“You replaced my sugar jar with salt when you came by to pick up Mandy, so I had some pretty interesting coffee to start my morning. Yesterday.”
“Well…” Dean scratches his shaggy, brown hair, half-cringing, half-amused. “You give it right back to me, Corabelle.”
“You call me Corabelle. You know I hate it.” I could go on. I could go on and on and on. I’m tempted to, but it’s only boiling my blood further, and I don’t have the energy to fight. “We’ll never be friends.”
I’m looking straight ahead again, but I can see Dean gazing at me from the corner of my eye. I swear there is a hint of softness there. A small, white flag, waving in the wind. “That’s your name.”
“My name is Cora. Corabelle is the abomination my parents gave me because they already used the pretty, normal name on their favorite child.”
Okay. So, I’m taking this to a very personal place. I need to stop.
“Listen…” Dean is about to respond, but we are both distracted when flashing lights pull up behind us, blinding us with their incessant strobes. He slows down, annoyance etching across his features as he stares into the rearview mirror.
“Dammit, Dean, what did you do? I just want to get home.”
“I didn’t do shit. I was going the speed limit. My plates aren’t expired.” He pulls over to the side of the gravel road, smacking the steering wheel with his fist. “This is bullshit.”
The car comes to a complete stop and I fall back against the leather seat with a sigh of exasperation. “There’s probably a warrant out for your arrest. Maybe you killed someone. I’m not going down for murder. I’m not your accomplice.”
“You think I could kill someone?”
Well, no. “Probably. But you’re too dumb to do it right, so now you got caught and you’re taking me down with you. This is just great.”
“Jesus.” Dean swings his head back and forth, scrubbing both palms over his face. “No wonder you’re still single.”
Oof. I let the barb sink its teeth in me, seeping into every pocket of vulnerability. He knows my weakest link. I think he gets off on toying with my insecurities and giving them life. “Screw you.” There is no teasing or playful banter—only animosity.
Dean glares at me.
I glare right back.
And then the sound of glass smashing against the side of my face is ringing in my ear, and I let out a scream. Two meaty hands wrap around my neck through the broken passenger’s side window, and I have no fucking idea what’s happening, but I keep screaming on instinct, pushing my feet against the door to keep him from pulling me out as my own hands claw at his arms.
“Cora!”
Dean is on me, over me, punching the guy and trying to release the bastard’s hold. I reach for Dean, clinging to his jacket, desperate not to leave this car, desperate not to be taken. I shout through the fear, choking and sputtering, “Drive!”