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CHAPTER FOUR
“So, what do I do?”
Angela snapped out of her hamburger-induced stupor and looked over at Jae, who was systematically taking apart his cheeseburger; putting mushrooms, cheese, bun, and meat into four small, kept-apart piles. He wasn’t even looking at her. If the only other people in the joint were two overweight parents and their girl in a Dorothy dress and toddler boy, a pair of old ladies, and two wrestlers with smoke-rough voices she’d have to wonder whether or not he had even spoken.
“Huh?”
He met her gaze. “What’s my job?”
“Interviewer, obviously--and back up muscle. Same as always,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. She put her hamburger back on the crinkly paper it had been wrapped in. “Why?”
Jae rolled his eyes. “No, what is fake-boyfriend me’s job? I mean, I can’t be some doctor or lawyer because either way it would be over my head, but your parents would probably want you to not date some jobless slump.”
“How about a lab rat?” Angela suggested.
Jae looked at her blankly.
“You know, like a genetic researcher or something,” she tacked on, heat rising to her face.
“Don’t know genetics well and doesn’t anything scientific-y add up to atheist and baby-killer around these parts?” Jae asked, gesturing around wildly.
So, they are in Gadsden, Alabama, but still, going by the dirty looks automatically shot his way, that was the wrong thing to say. Say that loudly, anyway.
“I suppose you’d know.”
Jae huffed. “Why? I live a few hours from New York City.”
“Yeah, but remember our little--”
“Whatever,” he snapped, interrupting.
She blinked, one hand freezing an inch away from the Sprite she’d been reaching for. It was his turn to look embarrassed.
“Anyway,” he said, “what should I do?”
“How about historian? You know a lot of stuff no one else really cares about outside of school--like the Battle of 1812 and King’s march to Selma.”
“He road in a limo.”
“What?”
“Dr. King rode in a limo to Selma. He didn’t march.”
She clapped her hands. Jae jumped. “See? You can totally be a historian. You could probably even be some theology professor, too, with all you know on myth and religion and stuff.”
Jae finally started eating his deconstructed burger. “Whatever. I suppose I’ll think on it and tell you when we get there.”
Angela nodded. That’d work. That is, it’d work if she could lose the itchy sensation that had gotten under her skin--like she’d been rubbing up on insulation. She didn’t like the fact Jae knew way more about her personal life than he had before. Sure, it’d been her idea, but, as per usual, she hadn’t really thought it through. He’d needed to know everything. He’d even gone a bit overboard on that once he realized she was uncomfortable, asking all sorts of things. So, how many boyfriends have you had before? Are you more nun-ish or more whore-ish? Were you ever abused as a child? On and on and on.
She had to wonder if her steering wheel now had finger and nail imprints in it from how hard she’d been holding it.
Jae then flicked a fry at her, snapping her out of her already unhappy thoughts. “So, what’s your favorite color?”
“You can’t be serious.”
He looked frickin’ earnest. She grabbed the fry off the table where it had fallen and tossed it back. “Fine, Persian blue. Happy?”
“What the frick is Persian blue?”
Angela shot him her best long-suffering look. “Can we focus on our case now?”
Jae bobbed his head, a faint smile on his face. “Sure.”
She had to wonder if that’s what he’d been waiting her to say all along.
She opened up her messenger bag, it hanging on the corner of her chair, and dug out her case notes and avoided grabbing the fake IDs she’d gotten made for the occasion, badges, too. She handed Jae the two folders she had, them too thin for her liking. He snatched them up quickly and propped their backs against the table, opening them with eyes already darting about.
She went back to her meal when she realized that the door relating any kind of talking they might have done as they finished up their meal had just gotten slammed in her face.
She decided not to mention that they still hadn’t decided where to stay. She knew of a few small motels about twenty minutes from where her parents lived but she wasn’t sure which to pick. She hadn’t been down south in so long. She didn’t know which places had the right price and which were probably not infested with wolf spiders, wood roaches, camel crickets, or red ants.
Speaking of the south, she really hated the bugs the place had. Hated them.
