Confessions of a Carpool Captive Page 2

  “I caused quite a scene today. I suppose I made people even later to work than usual, if that’s possible. I’m originally from New York and I didn’t own a car until I moved here. I love driving. I find it… invigorating. It gives me this sense of freedom I didn’t know I was missing living in the city.”

  I roll my chair backward in an attempt to put some distance between us, but it only moves a few inches before I hit the back wall of my cubicle. I’m trapped.

  He continues, “I drive everywhere I can now. There’s nothing like the windows down, your favorite tunes on the radio, the heat of the sun on your face, and the wind in your hair.”

  Is he for real? I remember he works in marketing and his enthusiasm begins to make more sense. He’s smiling at the ceiling as if he sees something there in la la land, where he’s obviously a frequent visitor. I glance upward briefly, following his gaze before focusing back on him. He’s too close. I can smell him.

  “Please get up,” I insist, my voice shaking.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” he asks.

  I jolt up from my chair and he stumbles backward. “While I’m certain your tales of driving vigor entertain and entice many people, I am not one of them. Do you have a point to this madness?” I question as he lifts to his feet.

  He straightens his tie and smiles, unaffected. I’m certain I was just insanely rude, but it doesn’t appear to have altered his mood in the slightest.

  “Right. So I have a proposition for you. Since we both make the long commute to the same company every day, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to ride together?”

  Is he serious? I can’t help but smile at the absurdity of his question. A small huff of air escapes my lips and then it’s an actual chuckle. I can’t control it. He seems amused. He’s taking my laughter the wrong way, so I decide I’d better enlighten him.

  “Hell to the no.”

  He furrows his brows and appears to study me. I don’t like it. I take a deep breath and attempt to be kind.

  “Thank you for the offer, but just like I eat by myself, I drive by myself. I have no interest in sharing my commute with anyone.”

  “Really?” he questions. “It’s such a long drive. I wouldn’t mind a little conversation or some company. Don’t you get lonely driving all that way by yourself?”

  The word lonely echoes briefly in my ears, but I shake my head. “There’s a reason I work in accounting.”

  He stares at me for what seems like forever. I watch his eyes move from my eyes to my hair, to my nose then my lips. He’s still smiling and I don’t think he’s getting my point.

  I break the silence. “I prefer not talking,” I state matter-of-factly.

  “I see,” he responds. “We can take talking off the table. I can be quiet.”

  “Ha!” I reply sarcastically. “And I have a bridge I can sell you.”

  His lip curls slightly. “What if I promised to not talk too much?”

  “Still no.” I shake my head.

  “What if I brought tea every morning?”

  I push a loose strand of hair behind my ear and do a quick visual search of my desk for a hair clip. “I don’t drink tea.”

  “Coffee?” he asks, stepping forward.

  “No,” I state, stepping back.

  “You don’t drink coffee either?”

  “No. Yes. Yes, I drink coffee, but my answer is still no. Good day, Mr. Walsh.” I sit back down in my chair and turn away, hoping he’ll leave.

  “Good day?” He laughs. “What are you, eighty-five?”

  I sigh. “I assumed good day would be more pleasant than please leave, but since you haven’t taken the hint, then please leave.”

  “You’re tough,” he says with a smirk, crossing his arms. “What if I drive every day?”

  I sigh again and shuffle the papers around on my desk.

  “Hmm…I can see this isn’t your first negotiation,” he says. “What will it take to convince you to give me a chance?”

  He crouches next to me again and I turn quickly in anger. Before I can respond, he speaks again. “What if I don’t charge you for gas? See, I really just want to drive in the fast lane.”

  “What part of no do you not understand?” I ask roughly.

  He stands and smiles. “Okay, I’ll stop pestering you.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a card. He places his hands on his chest then feels around his pants pockets. I roll my eyes.

  He points to the pen on my desk. “May I?”

  I push it toward him and take a loud, deep breath. He chuckles lightly as he scribbles away on the paper. “In case you change your mind, here’s my cell. I haven’t gotten my new business cards yet, so here’s one of my old ones. Call me anytime.”

  He holds it out to me. I take it and immediately toss it into my trash can without making eye contact.

  “Just so you know, I like you and your attitude, Beth Foley.”

  I turn to face him. “My name is Liz.”

  “That’s short for Elizabeth, right?” he asks.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Like I said, I like you, Beth.”

  Before I can spout something off about how I don’t appreciate his renaming me, he turns and struts away. He has some kind of nerve. What an asshole. I shake him off and try to remember what I was doing before his interruption. I glance down at his number in the trash can, but quickly turn my eyes away, pushing him and his lingering energy out of my head.

  It’s late, later than usual for me. I hear the cleaning crew beginning their rounds on my floor and I check the time on my cell. I’m never here until this time of night, but for some reason I’ve had a hard time focusing today. The overhead lights dim and I decide I can quickly finish up the rest of my report in the morning. Yawning, I click save just as the janitor rounds the corner. He stops in his tracks when he sees me. “I’m leaving. Sorry.” I push my arms into my sweater and lift my purse from the drawer.

  He smiles politely and reaches for my trash can to empty it. I don’t know what possesses me, but I stretch my hand out to stop him. “Hold on.”

  I move a paper or two until I find what I’m looking for. I pull the weirdo’s business card out of the trash and stuff it into my pocket. The janitor nods his head as I lift my bag off the ground. Making my way to the elevators, I place my hand over the card in my pocket, twirling it around in my fingers.

  I’ve been thinking about this damn card all day and I’m angry with myself for finally giving in and taking it out of the trash. As I step into the elevator I roll my eyes, hating my curiosity, and remove the card to finally see what it says.

  The printed side of the card says Finnigan Walsh, Chief Marketing Consultant for Universal. Holy crap. No wonder he’s so happy. He must make a fortune.

  I turn the card over nervously, not sure what I expect to find. I read it out loud, “I knew you were interested.”

  Dammit! He even left a smiley face next to his number. I’m beyond angry at myself for picking it up. It’s not like I was ever going to call him. How did he know I’d do it? I don’t like being predictable.

  As I make my way past security and through the practically empty parking garage, I search for a garbage can. Not finding one, nor being one to litter, I push it into the depths of my purse, vowing to rip it to shreds when I get home. I might even use the scissors to release my pent-up anger.

  I open my car door and sit, briefly closing my eyes. Sometimes I like to take a quiet moment. It helps center me. It’s like I’m meditating or doing yoga. I spend so much time in my car, maybe being in it is like being home. After a few deep breaths, I turn my key in the ignition. The car sputters a bit and refuses to turn over.

  “No!” I shout to no one. “Come on. Don’t do this to me. Not today.”

  I sit in quiet prayer for a moment before I try it one more time. Nothing. It’s dead. I grasp my long black hair and twist it in my hand a few times, trying to decide what I should do. I pop the hood and make my way to the
front of the car. As I stare at the engine, I wish I would have paid more attention when my dad tried to explain cars to me. I continue to stare like I know what I’m looking for and try my best not to freak out.

  “Is everything okay?”

  A voice from behind causes me to jump and I spin around, ready to karate-chop any would-be attacker.

  “Whoa,” he whispers, backing away with his hands in the air.

  “You again?” I say to Finnigan Walsh as he stands in defense in front of me. “Are you following me?” I question, placing my hands on my hips.

  His head flops to the side. “Why, yes. I used my magical powers to know you were working late and arranged for us to finish at the same time. I also made sure to find your car in a ten-story parking garage and park one row away from yours to run into you tonight.”

  I shake my head at my ridiculous accusation. “I’m sorry. I’m not in the best mood. I never leave this late and the one night I do, I have car problems.”

  “Do you want me to take a look at it?” he asks with concern.

  My eyebrows raise in question. “Didn’t you just start driving a couple of weeks ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “So even though you’ve never owned a car, you now know everything about what makes them work?”

  His lip curls upward as he sets his briefcase down on the ground and steps forward to stand in front of the hood. “Well, I’ve seen a lot of movies and that’s usually what the tough guys say, so I figured I’d give it a whirl.”

  I let out a small huff in amusement.

  “Could it possibly be your battery?” he asks.

  I snap my fingers at him. “Yes! Maybe it’s the battery! Could you give me a jump?” I ask.

  “Liza, how forward of you,” he says, placing his hand on his chest. “We’ve just met and although I’ll admit I find you adorable and challenging, I think it would be best if we focused on your car. At least, for the moment,” he adds with a wink.

  I frown in irritation and he laughs. “Do you have cables?”

  “Yes, in the trunk.”

  He opens my car door and pops the trunk before walking around the back and removing the cables. “Do you always travel with a blanket or is this from a special occasion?” he asks.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I always have a blanket in my car. I also have a flare and snacks. You can never be too careful.”

  “I see.” He nods appreciatively and I grab the cables from his hands before treading back to the front of my car. He stands next to me, watching me hook them up and when I finish, he leans forward as if to inspect my work. I cross my arms and he smiles.

  “Your car? We kind of need it,” I remind him, pointing toward it impatiently.

  “Oh, right.” He springs into action and rushes hurriedly toward it. I smile briefly, observing the way his suit coat hugs the chiseled muscles of his back. I stop myself mid-thought, turning my gaze back to the car.

  He pulls his SUV in front of mine and we attach the cables. After several attempts at starting it, we decide it’s a lost cause.

  I kick the side of it out of frustration. “This car has almost two hundred thousand miles on it and has been great up until the last six months. What in the hell am I going to do?”

  “Is there a Mr. Foley at home you can call?”

  “My dad passed away six years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. So no husband either?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Boyfriend?” he seems a little too eager.

  “If I had another option, I wouldn’t be talking to you.” I open my door, lifting my phone and scrolling for nearby mechanics.

  He clears his throat and I do a double take at him. He waves in a grand gesture toward his SUV. “Welcome to the Walsh Wagon of Wonder. Ride in comfort as you sip hot coffee and listen to gentle music while we cruise the carpool lane in style.”

  “Did you mess with my car?” I shout.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious. Are you that desperate for company? What did you do, cut the transmission line or something?”

  “Bethany, please. I don’t know enough about cars to even know there is a transmission line. I would never do that to you. I’m not that kind of guy.”

  What is his problem with my name? “I don’t…”

  “You don’t what?” he asks when I stop mid-sentence.

  I consider that I’m being paranoid and decide not to tell him I don’t believe him. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll be fine. You can go.”

  He motions around the empty garage. “You most certainly will not be fine. Let me give you a ride.”

  “No, I’m going to call a tow truck or something.”

  He stretches out his right arm to reveal his watch and studies the time. I take note that his watch is on his right wrist, which might mean he’s a lefty or doesn’t follow fashion rules. Judging by the way he dresses and the shine in his shoes, I’m going with lefty. I’m guessing all he owns are suits. He probably sleeps in one.

  “It’s late. Why don’t you let me take you home and you can arrange for a tow in the morning when rates are cheaper.”

  “Thanks, but…”

  “Don’t be stubborn. Please. I can’t leave you alone here. It wouldn’t be right and I’d worry about you. Let me give you a ride home and to work tomorrow. I promise I won’t pressure you about commuting with me. You can get your car fixed while you’re at work and be on your way tomorrow.”

  Rolling up the cables from my car, I focus on his words. Get my car fixed. I wonder how much that will cost. I fumble with the cables in my hands for a moment before taking them back to my trunk and closing it.

  He stares at me expectantly. I really don’t want to ride with him, but I have no one to help me other than him. This sucks. I don’t like depending on people.

  “What do you say?” he asks with a genuine smile.

  I slam the hood of my car and wipe my hands on my sweater. “I guess I don’t have another choice.”

  He laughs lightly. “You’re going to have to stop flirting with me. I might get the wrong idea.”

  I roll my eyes. “Never mind, I’ll call a tow now then you can…”

  He rushes to me and gently tugs at my arm. “I’m teasing. It seems my humor isn’t as appreciated here as it was in New York.”

  “Really? People in New York don’t strike me as easily amused.”

  “They’re not.” He becomes distant for a brief second before the grin returns. “Anyway, what do you say?”

  I study him for a moment. “How do I know you’re not a skinner?”

  “A what?” he asks, leaning forward as if he didn’t hear me correctly.

  “A skinner. You know, someone who kidnaps girls and then skins them alive.”

  He laughs. “That’s not my thing. I like the skin on my women.”

  I ponder his words and bite my lip, wondering if a guy with a blow-up doll is at all trustworthy. “Where is she?” I ask.

  “Who?”

  “Your passenger from this morning. Or would she prefer being called by her name?”

  He grins. “She’s in the trunk. Want to see her?”

  “Um, no. I’m uncomfortable enough without being reminded you’re a pervert.”

  He doesn’t correct me, and it makes me wonder if I’m right.

  He takes a step toward his car. “If it makes you feel any better, you can sit in the back seat.”

  Riding in the back seat sounds much more appealing. “Where do you live and how do you even know I’m going to make your drive better and not worse?”

  “I live out toward Huntington Beach. Anywhere you’re headed is fine by me. I’ll re-route.”

  “You live near Huntington Beach?” I ask skeptically. He doesn’t seem like a beach kind of guy.

  “Yeah, why?” His face changes. “Is that a bad area?” He moves his fingers through his hair and continues without giving me a chance to respond.
<
br />   “My real estate agent said it was nice, but I haven’t had time to look around. I heard it’s a big tourist area in the summer, but I’m fine with that as long as I’m near the water. I thought about Santa Monica, but there weren’t any houses that interested me. He found me this great place on the corner of—”

  I hold up my hand to stop him. “Do you always talk this much?”

  He smiles. “Too much for you?”

  I nod with wide eyes and he zips his lips. I open my car door and remove my bag. Immediately he’s at my side, taking it from me. “That’s not necessary,” I tell him, attempting to retrieve my bag from his hands.

  “It is for me.” He steps toward the front of my car, picks up his briefcase, and places both in his back seat. I lock my doors and edge toward his back passenger door. He rushes around and opens the front for me. I guess he was kidding about the back seat.

  “Again, not necessary.”

  “No, it really is.”

  “Okay, my saying it’s not necessary is my attempt at being polite. What it really means is please don’t.”

  “My mother would have my ass if I let a lady open a door for herself.”

  “While I applaud your mother for teaching you manners, your opening doors for me feels like a date. This is not a date, so please let me open my own doors.”

  He stares at me intently for a brief moment. “I’ll agree for now on the condition that when I do take you out on a date, I get to open all the doors.”

  “Mr. Walsh—”

  He places his hand on his chest as he interrupts me. “Please, call me Finn.”

  “Finn… could you please refrain from implying I’m somehow flirting or that there is anything going on here other than a ride? You’re making me uneasy.”

  “Understood. I’ll try to control myself.”

  I lift up into his seat and he tries to close the door behind me. I hold out my hand to stop him, giving him a look he seems to understand. He backs away and allows me to close it myself.