Slow Ride (Fast Track #5)(42)
Author: Erin McCarthy

Feeling frustrated and furious and disappointed, Diesel got into his car and started home. Only with each mile he ate up, his anger turned to worry. What if Tuesday decided to get in her own car and drive somewhere? She probably was hungry and she was the type who would go for chicken tenders at the drive-thru when she’d been drinking. He knew that sober she would be appalled at the idea of anyone driving under the influence of alcohol, but that was the whole problem with it. Most people didn’t get behind the wheel knowing they were trashed—their judgment was so impaired they thought they were fine.

Diesel drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking about how her s’s had slurred and just how glassy her eyes had been. She was also wearing shoes and was ready to go out. He would never be able to live with himself if something happened to her of if she injured someone else on the road.

“Shit.” Pulling into the next driveway, he turned around and headed back to Tuesday’s apartment, realizing he didn’t even know what kind of car she drove so he couldn’t scan the road for her.

Maybe he should call her. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he dialed her number, keeping one eye on the road. She didn’t pick up.

Fortunately, he hadn’t gone far, so two minutes later he was in her parking lot and moving to her door as fast as possible.

Diesel pounded on it, impatiently shifting back and forth from foot to foot. When she didn’t answer, he knocked again and dialed her phone simultaneously.

After five rings, she answered the phone. “What?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m standing in my living room trying to ignore you calling me and knocking on my door.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Good.”

“Where did you think I was?”

“Never mind. Can I come in?”

“Why? So you can insult me some more?” The anger seemed to have gone out of her voice and she sounded petulant, but tired.

“No. No, I have no intention of insulting you.” His anger had disappeared too, buried under the worry he had felt when he’d thought of her crashing into a ditch. “Please. I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

He was sorry. It wasn’t his right to criticize her. He could express concern but there were better ways to do it than the way he had, thirty seconds after walking in her door.

She hung up on him.

Diesel stared at his phone for a second, dumbfounded. Seriously? He had just apologized, not an easy thing to do he had to say.

But then she opened the door, her phone in her hand. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have told you to f**k off.”

He smiled, relieved all over again. “I actually think you told me ‘fuck you.’ But who’s keeping track?”

“Not me.”

She sniffled, and Diesel realized that her eyes were red, her cheeks damp.

Holy shit, had he made her cry? “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Diesel moved into the apartment without an invitation and wrapped his arms around her.

For half a second, he thought she was going to shove him away, but she just took a deep breath and shuddered.

“I’m sorry, Tuesday. That wasn’t fair of me.”

“It’s fine. I overreacted. Bringing up your medication was a low blow, too. I really didn’t mean to suggest you have an addiction to pain pills.” She wasn’t hugging him in return, but she was letting him hold her. “And just for the record, I’m totally drunk.”

He loved that she was so honest. Drunk or sober, she usually told it just like it was. “Maybe you’re just tipsy.”

“I hate it when you use that word. You sound like my grandmother. And I don’t want to get it on with my grandmother.”

“I don’t really want you to get it on with your grandmother either. Okay, so you’re shit-faced. How did that happen?”

“One glass at a time.” Tuesday peeled back from him and moved to the left. She tripped over two big bags of dog food and stumbled before dropping down onto her couch.

“Why do you have dog food?” He’d never seen a dog in her apartment.

“Because I like dogs, but this complex is no dogs, so I buy food for the shelter. Makes me feel better.”

That didn’t surprise him. He could see her wanting to help out. Tuesday wasn’t a traditional do-gooder, she was sharp-tongued and somewhat bossy, but she had a big heart. He truly believed that. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be suffering her father’s loss so deeply.

“Damn, the room is spinning.”

Diesel knew that was a fairly awful feeling. Nothing but time and some water could make it go away. “So you cracked open a bottle of wine and didn’t realize how much you were drinking?”

“I think I was fully aware of how much I was drinking.”

Diesel wasn’t sure what to say without her telling him off again, this time actually hitting him with the door on his way out. But she had to realize that her explanation was sketchy. “So, was there any particular reason you reached for the first glass?”

Obviously a ton of people didn’t have any particular reason for drinking a glass of wine other than the fact that they enjoyed it. But they stopped before they drank—Diesel checked out her coffee table—almost two entire bottles.

Tuesday pointed her finger at him like she was about to give a lengthy explanation, but then the only thing she actually said was, “Yes.”

He sat down next to her, waiting for the follow-up, debating taking his shoes off. He was spending the night until her buzz wore off, whether she liked it or not. But he probably should take her out for food and some coffee. “Yeah?” he prompted, hoping she’d continue.

Instead she picked up her phone and started fiddling with it. “Listen to this.” She shoved it at him. Diesel put it up to his ear.

A voice mail started to play. “Hi, hon, it’s Mom. I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be able to meet you tomorrow after all. Tom Reynolds and I are seeing each other.”

Okay. He wasn’t sure why he was supposed to be hearing that, so he just made a noncommittal sound.

“So what the hell do you think that means?” she asked, studying her phone really intently, having obvious focus issues, before pushing a button to resave the message.

He had no idea. “Can you give me some context here? Who is Tom Reynolds? And what do you think it means?”

“Tom Reynolds is my mother’s high school boyfriend. She always joked around that he was the one who got away. So does that sound like a date to you, or what?”