I stopped looking out the window.
I needed some kind of distraction. I glanced at the radio console in front of me, but I couldn’t quite bring my hand to turn it on without permission.
“Did you want some music?”
“Yes, please.” How did he do that? Was it some sort of extra-sensory, mind-reading ability? What else could explain the way he seemed to know everything I was thinking?
Instead of turning on the radio though, he waved his hand in front of the console, motioning for me to put something on. My anxiety level soared through the roof. I had no idea what kind of music he liked now. I’d grown accustomed to having no choices, to having every decision made for me. Picking a radio station felt like a monumental task. Would he punish me if chose wrong?
Stop it, I chastised myself. He wasn’t going to punish me. In the motel room, he’d made it quite clear he was never going to do anything like that again. The same disappointment I’d felt then washed over me again, and chaos reigned supreme. I was terrified of his punishments one second, and longing for them the next. Perfect. I really was going batshit crazy. Someday soon, I was going to need a whole lot of therapy.
When I made no move to turn on the radio, he did it for me and then flipped through the stations.
“Wait,” I blurted out when he pressed the button to skip past a song I remembered him listening to often in his room a long time ago. I covered my mouth, but instead of getting angry, he pressed the button to go back to the previous station. The notes of ‘In the End’ filled the car. I couldn’t help but smile sadly, remembering him sprawled out on the floor in his room, homework in front of him and singing along with Lincoln Park.
“You remember this?” he asked, a new kind of tension in his voice, though I had no idea what had sparked it. Anger? Memories?
“Yes,” I whispered, trying to make myself as unobtrusive as possible. He said nothing else. He cranked up the volume and turned his attention back to the road. He didn’t change the station when the next song came on or the next. We listened to the music in what passed for contented silence.
Three hours passed that way, and by the time he pulled off the highway and into a gas station, it was taking all my concentration not to fidget in the seat. My bladder was ready to explode.
Instead of pulling up to the gas bar though, he passed it and parked in front of the small store where the attendant was.
“Wait here,” he said and left before I could respond.
Oh god, I should have told him I needed to use the bathroom because there might just be a puddle on my seat by the time he returned.
Fortunately, I was still hanging on when he came back a moment later and opened my door. He reached for my hand expectantly and I went with him when he pulled me out.
“Sorry, I should have stopped sooner,” he said with an apologetic grin while he guided me to the door marked “Ladies” behind the store.
One of these days, I was going to find a way to keep something from him, but right then I was grateful for his intuition. He unlocked the door but stepped ahead of me when I went to walk in. I followed behind him, more than accustomed to this lack of privacy.
As I moved to the toilet though, he slipped back toward the door and opened it. A new punishment? A new humiliation? I tried to swallow back a sob while my fingers lingered in the waist of my pants.
“I just wanted to make sure it was safe. I’m going to get some gas and I’ll be right outside when you’re finished.” He kissed the top of my head and left, closing the door behind him.
I followed him out a couple minutes later after taking an extra minute to splash some water on my face. True to his word, the car was right outside the bathroom and he was leaning against the passenger side door. God, he looked sexy as hell.
It didn’t escape my notice that I wasn’t the only one thinking that. I caught a young woman gawking at him from inside the store out the corner of my eye, and another one was standing at her car, gas pump in hand, just staring at him.
A tiny thrill shivered down my spine knowing he was mine—this man who no doubt drew appreciative glances from women everywhere he went.
How long would I be able to keep his attention though? Was I just a toy he would one day grow tired of and move on? Even if I was more than that to him, I had no illusions that Derek had a wealth of sexual experience. He hadn’t gotten that from a monogamous relationship.