Chapter 4: Silent Drives and Hot Tempers

The ride home in his battered Ford Explorer was dead silent. The only sound was the turn signal clicking, way too loud in the thick silence.

I sat perfectly still in the passenger seat, fingers nervously fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket.

“Ryan, are you… mad?”

He kept his eyes on the road, tone flat:

“No.”

Yeah, right. The speedometer said otherwise.

I snuck a glance. His jaw was clenched so tight I thought it might shatter. His eyes were dark, lips pressed in a line. His hands strangled the steering wheel, veins popping beneath rolled-up sleeves. Even furious, he looked unfairly good. Honestly, the anger made him hotter. (Don’t judge me.)

I started planning my apology. Maybe make his favorite chili? Buy those overpriced craft IPAs?

My phone buzzed. I answered, and Ashley’s voice blasted through the speaker like a tornado:

“Emma, all eight models got arrested! You got your hands all over them, but I’m still horny! My birthday’s ruined!”

She kept going:

“The police squad is full of hotties. Those uniforms? Ugh! Officer Jackson’s waist is better than any model’s. That belt, though!”

I panicked, trying to hang up. Instead, I hit speakerphone. Stupid iPhone.

“I heard Officer Jackson went home with you, so tonight’s the night, right? You’re finally gonna break that dry spell? After this long, you must be dying. Sahara Desert levels!”

Ryan shot me a look, eyebrow arched.

My hand slipped, dropping the phone under the seat.

Ashley’s voice kept going:

“You said he never comes home—maybe his equipment doesn’t work? Ever think about medical help? They have pills for that! I’m sending you a performance review form. I want a full Yelp write-up! And lingerie from Victoria’s Secret—the strappy kind. Use real handcuffs on the headboard!”

Ryan calmly retrieved the phone and spoke into the speaker:

“Miss Mitchell, should we discuss the $200,000 VIP membership you purchased at Night Color Club? The IRS might want a word.”

Ashley choked, sputtered, and hung up.

Silence. I could hear my own heartbeat.

Passing a CVS, Ryan pulled over, tires squealing. He strode inside and came back with two small boxes—the Trojan logo unmistakable.

“What did you buy...?”

He shoved them into my hands, stone-faced.

I looked down. Ultra-thin, XL. My cheeks went nuclear red.