I chuckle inside over his insecurities. The man’s got a temper. He really is cute. The last of the plastic drops to the floor, along with the ball of tape Westin wadded up. When he’s finished he backs away. “Step away from my car, Son,” I tell Nick. “I don’t want to run you over—blood is the worst to clean up.” I lean over and pump another glob of sanitizer into my hand and liberally spread it back and forth between my hands again. Just the thought of blood. Fuck . . . So yucky! He groans and remains stuck in his spot. “Son?” He glares. “I’m sure I’m older than you. You barely look twenty.” “I’m twenty-four, actually,” I correct him with a wink, reminding him he did that to me earlier, and it was equally annoying then. “You have to admit though, she’s one of us,” Westin tells him. “I don’t know what she is . . .” Nick shakes his head “. . . other than psychotic. She’s some kind of a freak, that’s what she is.” “Better a freak than a petty criminal, a panhandler straight from the school of William Shatner’s over-acting one-oh-one.”
