Drive

by Stephanie Fournet

  He pulled into Rainey’s driveway to find her descending the porch steps with a red portable ice chest in one hand and a backpack over her shoulder. The moment he saw her, the apprehension in his gut vanished. Whatever happened, his aim was clear. All that mattered was that he helped Rainey. If he focused on that, he couldn’t go wrong.

  Chapter 18

  Rainey’s 4mm hook flew through the third row of half-double-crochet stitches in what would soon become a beach tote in Lily Sugar n’ Cream Country Stripes. The project looked nothing like a beach bag yet, but in her frazzled state, the thing would be completed before they got to the Mississippi state line.

  This is madness.

  Every five minutes or so, Rainey’s stomach would seize with the thought — that she’d never done anything as crazy in her life as driving seven hundred miles with a guy she barely knew in search of a brother she’d never met.

  And it wasn’t just crazy that she’d only known Jacques a little over a month. What was insane was that she knew him enough to know that she should avoid him as an act of self-preservation. She knew him enough to know that he was kind and funny and smart and talented — not to mention beautiful to a heart-stopping degree — and if she let him in, he’d completely annihilate her. Rainey had foolishly agreed to friendship with him, but she never imagined that as friends, they’d be thrown together for days on end.

  Rainey reached the end of the row, turned the piece, and started half-double-crocheting her way back, chewing her lip as she did.

  Then there was the madness of their quest. If Gloria Lopez-Craine didn’t like hearing from Rainey on Facebook, she wasn’t likely to break out the champagne when she and Jacques drove through four states to show up at her salon. And even if she did agree to talk to them, and she actually listened to Holi’s story, what was the likelihood she’d even consider having young Ray Charles tested for a bone marrow match?

  Jacques was giving up days of actual paying work and putting close to fifteen hundred miles on his vehicle, and it would probably all be for nothing.

  Archie was snoring softly in the back seat. Jacques had put on Spoon’s Gimme Fiction when they pulled out of her driveway and let it play through. They were driving over the span of the Atchafalaya Basin — with nothing but marsh and cypress trees for miles — and it should have been a perfect moment. A spring day, the sun high and glinting on the water, turning the Spanish moss and the cypress knees black with its brightness. A crochet hook in hand. A sleeping dog. Good music. A gorgeous guy.

  And it was everything Rainey could do to hold the panic at bay.

  So when Jacques spoke, she would have shot out of her seat if she hadn’t been belted in.

  “Hey, you wanna—” He caught her jolt out of the corner of his eye. He would have had to have been blind not to see it. Even Archie startled awake. Jacques spared her a concerned glance. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she lied. “Just… nervous.”

  He scanned her quickly before putting his gaze back on the interstate. “Crossing the basin can do that.” Rainey found this comment generous, and she didn’t feel it necessary to correct him. “On the one hand, it’s beautiful. The water and the trees that go on forever. On the other hand, it’s nineteen miles of marsh, and we’re trapped on a bridge in the middle of it.”

  Rainey looked out her window at the basin, the water’s brown, murky surface scarred with tree stumps. She gripped her crochet hook as though it were a lifeline. If the girder bridge beneath them gave way…

  “I hadn’t really thought about that,” she gulped.

  Next to her, Jacques chuckled. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

  “Well, you sort of did.” She shook her head, wadded up the still unrecognizable beach tote, and stuffed it into her backpack.

  He cleared his throat, and Rainey looked back to find him mastering his grin. “We’ll be out of it in ten minutes. Let’s play a game for ten minutes.”

  “A game?” How could she play a game when she was a nervous wreck even before she pictured plummeting to her death in an alligator-infested swamp?

  “Yeah, when I was a kid, my grandparents used to drive me to Gulf Shores every summer,” Jacques said. “And riding in the back seat listening to Cajun music was not my idea of a good time. When they thought I’d spent enough hours on my Nintendo DS, they’d turn off their music and make me play a game with them.”

  The thought of a young Jacques Gilchrist moping in the back seat of his grandparents’ car made her mouth twitch and piqued her curiosity.

  “What did you play?”

  “Oh, the alphabet game or some such hell.” Jacques flashed her a rueful grin. “But my favorite game was one my Grandma Lucille called Unlock the Lyric.”

  Rainey found herself smiling. “What’s that?”

  His face alight, Jacques said, “It’s when you recite lyrics to a song without any singing or humming. Pretty much the opposite of Name that Tune. The more obscure the lyric the better.”

  “You played this with your grandparents?”

  Jacques grinned at her tone. “Admittedly, most of the lyrics we knew in common were to Cajun songs, but they were still pretty good with classic rock.”

  “So, like what? Give me an example of a classic rock song they knew.”

  In profile, Jacques fought to keep a straight face. The sight of it made Rainey smile hard.

  “Okay, ready?”

  She nodded. “Ready.”

  Jacques turned off the music. He cleared his throat again, and his deep voice became an announcer’s, even and detached. “‘Though his mind is not for rent. Don’t put him down as arrogant.’” He spoke slowly as though deadpanning a nursery rhyme. Rainey frowned, completely clueless.

  “Huh?”

  He glanced at her. “Want me to keep going?”

  “Uh, yeah, I have no idea what you’re quoting.”

  Jacques snickered. “Yeah, I bet you do. Okay, here’s the next line.” She watched him sober again, though now she knew by the light in his eyes it was all an act. Mirth hid just beneath the surface. “‘He reserves the quiet defense. Riding out the day’s events. The river.’”

  “The river?”

  He nodded.

  “The river? That’s it? That’s the whole line?” She felt her left brow quirk up. “What the hell. I swear, I’ve never heard this song. Classic rock? Are you sure? I know my classic rock.”

  Jacques was now laughing at her unchecked. He wasn’t even trying to fight it.

  “Next line,” he said when he’d almost stopped laughing. ‘‘‘What you say about his company is what you say—’”

  Rainey gasped and flapped her hands. “‘ABOUT SOCIETY!” she shouted. “‘Catch the mist. Catch the myth. Catch the mystery. Catch the drift.” She sang the rest of the Rush lyrics as Jacques took his hands off the wheel and clapped for her.

  “Aww-right! Not bad, Reeves. Now, for the point, artist and title,” he demanded.

  “‘Tom Sawyer’ by Rush,” she practically squealed, bouncing in her seat.

  “Excellent,” he crooned, his deep voice filling her with a ridiculous pride.

  “Okay, okay, my turn.” Rainey kicked off her sandals, drew her feet up onto the seat, and sat lotus-style.

  From the corner of his eye, Jacques’s gaze swept up from her bare feet, and for a moment she thought she saw a flash of heat there, but in the next instant, his eyes were back on the road ahead of them.

  “Ready when you are,” he said to the interstate.

  “Okay…” She searched her memory for another classic rock song that wasn’t too obvious. Stumping him was going to be hard, and she so wanted to stump him.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Jacques teased about a minute later.

  Rainey scowled. “Can I use my phone?”

  He wanted to laugh. She could see it in the tightness around his mouth. “Sure. It’s your first time. You can use that handicap if you need.”

  She narrowed her eyes and a
ttempted a growl that sounded — judging from Archie’s perked ears — like a puppy squeal.

  Beside her, Jacques’s shoulders shook once, but he made no sound. Ignoring him, she Googled “Top 100 Classic Rock Songs.” She found her favorite Tom Petty song — one she hadn’t heard in years — and tried to school her voice in the same flat monotone Jacques had used, aiming to forget the pacing and emphasis Petty gave the song.

  “‘She grew up in an Indiana town—’”

  “Had a good lookin’ mom who never was around,” Jacques interrupted, his rumbly voice curling around the lyrics and caressing them in a way that Rainey felt in her panties. “But she grew up tall and she grew up right with them Indiana boys on an Indiana night.”

  “No fair,” she protested, clutching her phone to her chest and hoping he didn’t notice the blush of desire on her cheeks. “You cheated.”

  Jacques chuckled, shaking his head. “I did not. You’re the one who looked at your phone, not me.”

  She smacked her knee. “How did you get that so fast?” If she pretended to be annoyed, he wouldn’t see how much she liked him. Would he?

  He shrugged with artificial innocence. “What can I say? I’ve covered a lot of Tom Petty.”

  Three songs later — songs that he got within the first line — Rainey threw up her hands. “Unfair advantage. We’re ditching classic rock,” she snapped, scrolling through her phone. “Let’s see how you do with 90s’ Top 40.”

  “Okay, whatever you say,” he murmured, his words practically fermented in amusement.

  “Oh, perfect,” she muttered, landing on Depeche Mode in her iTunes library. Who could quote Depeche Mode? No one. She looked up the lyrics to “Enjoy the Silence,” hoping she’d be enjoying some silence when Jacques scratched his head in confusion.

  “Ready?” she purred, confidence brimming.

  “Oh, I’m ready,” he rumbled, his own confidence like a hand on her belly.

  She sat up straight and shrugged off the imaginary touch. Rainey cleared her throat, eager for the taste of victory. “‘Words like violence… break the silence…‘“ She paused and raised a brow at him. Jacques’s jaw clenched in humor, but he said nothing.

  Ah ha!

  Glee nearly lifted her off the seat. She kept going. “‘Come crashing in… into my little world…’” Rainey frowned at the lyrics on her phone. Had she said the words come crashing in… into my little world to Jacques? She forged on, but the next line wasn’t much better. “‘Painful to me… pierce right through me—’”

  “’Can’t you understand… Oh my little girl…’” Jacques broke, his pitch perfect, his tempo precise. Then his dark eyes turned to hers, and his voice enveloped her. “’All I ever wanted… all I ever needed… is here in my arms…’”

  She broke her gaze and brought it back to her phone, pretending to check the accuracy of his lyrics.

  “’Words are very unnecessary… they can only do harm.’” Jacques finished. “‘Enjoy the Silence’ by Depeche Mode.”

  Rainey shook her head, putting on a show of frustration. “You’re too good at this game.” But even as she said the words, all she could hear was Jacques’s voice.

  All I ever wanted… all I ever needed… is here in my arms.

  The sound of it was so enticing, so addictive, she wondered for a moment if that would be all she could ever hear.

  “Nah, that took me a minute,” he said, forever humble. “Good one. Depeche Mode. Man, I haven’t heard that song in ages.”

  Rainey felt her jaw drop. “Then how do you know all the words?”

  Jacques shrugged. “I just do. Learning lyrics has always been easy for me.”

  “Oh, now you tell me,” she teased, making him laugh. Relief stole over her. If he noticed how rattled she’d been a moment before, he gave no sign of it.

  Rainey looked out the windshield expecting to see marsh, but only interstate stretched ahead of them, the tip of the Capitol Building and the Baton Rouge skyline just visible in the distance.

  “Hey, we’re off the basin bridge!”

  “Yeah, we have been for like ten minutes.”

  She faced him in shock. “You’re kidding me.”

  He pointed out the windows and windshield as though the surroundings should have been proof enough.

  “Admit it. It’s a good game,” he said, teasing.

  Rainey raised her palms in surrender. “I admit it. I didn’t even realize we’d escaped the terror of the swamp.”

  Jacques shrugged. “At least until the trip back.”

  She swatted him on the shoulder, which Jacques seemed to find hilarious.

  “And if we survive the Mississippi River Bridge, I’m going to want a sandwich,” he added. The summit of the cantilever bridge was coming into view.

  “You know,” she said with a good humor that surprised her. “I don’t list riding over bridges as one of my phobias, but after this trip, I might have to change that.”

  Jacques nodded. “I’m still going to want that sandwich.”

  This time she laughed. And her laugh came from deep in her gut. With Jacques, her fears seemed abstract and hypothetical, not immediate and threatening. Of course, being with him didn’t make her suddenly want to get behind the wheel of a car. She’d pretty much resigned herself to the fact that she’d never drive again. But now that she’d ridden with him a handful of times, she felt as safe as she did with Holi or Ash or her mom and Kendall.

  Maybe even safer.

  Because with him, she felt no judgment. No worry. No frustration or impatience. And when he teased her about swamps and bridges, Rainey knew he wasn’t making fun of the fears that kept her from driving. He was just trying to make her laugh.

  And she loved it.

  “Fine. I’ll give you a sandwich,” she said with mock irritation.

  “Okay. And after that, I’m going to need you to make a decision.”

  Rainey glanced at his profile with a frown. “About what?”

  “Which way we want to get to Kentucky,” he said, meeting her gaze for just a second. “We can take I-55 at Hammond through Memphis, or we can take I-59 in Slidell through Birmingham. Both will take us about ten and a half hours.”

  “I-59.”

  “Through Birmingham?’ he asked, a strange light in his eye.

  “Yes. I don’t want to go near Memphis if we can avoid it.”

  She saw the realization overtake his face, and he nodded. “In that case, I think we should make our first pit stop in Covington. There’s a Starbucks in a shopping center there with a pond and geese. I think Archie will approve.”

  Archie did approve.

  Jacques agreed to make a second lap with him around the pond while Rainey went into Starbucks for drinks since she insisted on buying. It was the most crowded Starbucks she’d ever seen, and when she emerged twenty-minutes later with his Grande Flat White and her Toffee Nut Latte Macchiato, she scanned the perimeter of the pond and saw no sign of Archie and Jacques.

  She walked back to the Impala to find the windows rolled down, Archie wagging at her as he stood on the armrest of the door, and Jacques fast asleep in the front seat.

  Chapter 19

  “I still can’t believe you let me sleep that long,” Jacques groused. They’d just crossed the Mississippi state line — an hour after they should have.

  Beside him, Rainey just smiled. “Clearly, you needed it.” She quirked a brow at him. “Though I don’t know how someone your size managed to crash for an hour in the confines of your front seat.”

  “I blame Pal for that,” he grumbled.

  Her giggle reminded him of bicycle bells and daisy petals, joyful and summery. “What does your grandfather have to do with it?”

  Jacques rolled his eyes. “Because he never lets me sleep in. If I sleep past eight, he wakes me up no matter how late I’ve worked.” As soon as he closed his mouth, Jacques felt a twinge of guilt about complaining. “But it’s alright. He’s just set in his ways.”

>   “What does he want you to do instead of sleeping?”

  He shrugged. “The same thing every day. I make his second pot of coffee. We talk. I eat something for breakfast. I drive, and he piddles around the house.”

  “Maybe he wakes you up for the company,” Rainey said, her voice so gentle it tickled his ear.

  Jacques thought of the way Pal stared at Grandma Lucille’s empty chair even now. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he admitted, but then he pictured the look of mischief Pal wore every time he woke up Jacques with Cajun music. “But I also think he gets a kick out of waking me up.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he picks up his accordion, stands at the foot of the stairs, and plays traditional Cajun songs, singing at the top of his lungs.”

  “No way.”

  Jacques stole a glance at her to find her eyes wide. The stretch of highway in front of them was arrow straight and near empty, so Jacques beat time on the steering wheel and did his best Pal imitation — including Pal’s house-rattling volume.

  Hey! Lâches pas la patate mon neg. Hey! Lâches pas la patate

  Une chose qu’est claire, j’fais mon affaire… Mais j’lâche pas la patate

  J’vas au bal tous les samedis, pour escouer mes vieilles pattes

  J’danse avec toutes les belles filles… Mais j’lâche pas la patate

  J’fais tous les clubs que je peux faire ent ‘Lafayette et la Ville Platte

  Oublies-moi pas des fois ça chauffe… Mais j’lâche pas la patate.”

  Of course, he only got to the second line before Rainey had doubled over, her shoulders shaking with laughter and tears filling her eyes. When he finished, she sat up straight and clapped with fervor.

  “Encore!” she cheered.

  “Hell, no,” he muttered, and she threw her head back, cackling again. Jacques had to rein in his smile. Making her laugh was almost as sweet as kissing her. What would it feel like to make her laugh while she was pressed against him?

  “Oh my God. That was amazing,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Do you even know what you’re singing?”