45. JAKE

Patel is sitting on my lap, and it's fine—as long as I keep imagining how gruesomely we're going to die on this hovel of a bus. Think of smushed up bodies. Eyeballs rolling around and guts spilling. Severed limbs.

My mind should be fixated on survival odds, not how soft, warm, and incredible she feels on my thighs.

The road gets rougher and I'm ready to die, because her back presses against my chest. Guess we've reached the gravel portion of this outback adventure. The driver is taking us deep into the woods, pushing this structurally unsound vehicle to reach some perfect location for wedding shots.

There better be a fucking waterfall at the end of this.

Not that I'll make it. Patel is sitting on my lap.

The bus hits more bumps.

"Stop bouncing on me," I snap, forcing my eyes to look up at the ceiling. Better to be horrified by run-down metal than stare at the cleavage by my face, or the dips of her collarbone, or the curve of her waist my hands crave to span…

Her outfit today is not helping the situation. It's fucking fitted, and not the baggier style she prefers.

Patel bounces again. "It's not my fault," she hisses.

It's not, but her wriggling is going to kill me. Looking at the dense trees outside, I should be grateful it's scenic here. At least I'll be buried somewhere nice.

Someone hands her booze in a can. It's not beer, but a hard seltzer. She hastens to open it and starts downing it like she's parched. There's a glug sound with the speed she's going.

I'd like to give her mouth something else to glug on.

Andmy cock just twitched in my trousers. It's my fault completely. I forget to stay focused on loose body parts littered across the road. Fuck. It's getting hot in here. I need to loosen my tie and unbutton the top of my shirt. If I trusted myself to move, I'd at least take the suit jacket off, but I don't. The plan is to stay frozen until this hazy, wonderful nightmare ends.

She angles herself sideways on my lap and holds up the can. "You want some?"

"Is there any left?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes or no?"

"My hands are busy at the moment," I say. It's true. They are gripping on the edges of the seat. You would think I'm making up for the lack of a seatbelt, but it's to stop myself from holding her. If I do, I'm confident it will be my worst mistake, compounding all the other ones I've already made. How I've seen, heard, and felt too much of her this week. That since that first kiss, I've developed a craving that tortures me into the night. Her taste is a drug I shouldn't have taken. I get that now. And yet, I was so fucking close to taking her mouth in the washroom earlier today. When she'd felt better and laughed after the crying, all I could think about was pushing her against me. To convince her that if my words weren't enough, I had no problem proving it with action. In what reality was she ever not fucking beautiful?

I know now I've ignored that fact for years, locking it somewhere in a box. But that box has cracked open, and I don't know how to seal it back up.

"Tip your head back," she says.

My eyes snap open. At some point, they'd closed. Her fingers rest on my chin. We maintain eye-contact as she very carefully pours alcohol into my mouth. I can't help but swipe the rim of the can with my tongue, because it's a spot where her lips were. Yes, it's fucking pathetic. I'm aware.

She does it again, feeding me more alcohol.

When the bus swerves, a drop escapes down my chin. She catches it with her thumb and brings it to her mouth so as not to waste it.

Women on their knees begging to taste your cock are sexy. Having them climb you until they sit on your face is sexy. Edging them over and over again until they're literally shaking with the force of their orgasm is sexy.

And somehow, despite all those incredible options, the sexiest thing I've now seen to-date is Patel taking a drop of alcohol that spilled out of my mouth and putting it in hers. If she leans back further, there's going to be a wool-clothed bulge pushing against her middle back as proof of that.

I let go of the seats and anchor my hands onto her hips to keep her away.

She makes a noise at the contact. A muffled whimper?

Now she is looking anywhere but back at me. Distantly, I register that guests are talking about how they can't wait to party at the reception tomorrow. To me, it feels as if we've been partying all week, but apparently tomorrow is about to get madder. The reception is the big finale.

A relative lobs a question in my direction, but I'm not sure if it was for me specifically to answer. Opinions are getting surveyed. People are wondering what experience everyone has liked the best so far. Patel's sister is stoking the conversation eagerly. My answer doesn't seem coherent to me, but I say enough about the food and hospitality that people are nodding along.

Ever the stubborn mule for truth, Patel has decided my answer is too vague. She angles to face me again and repeats the question in a lower voice, so it's a conversation between the two of us. "What have you thought so far? Is it a big hardship being here?"

If she looks down, she'll see the Biggest Hardship thus far. Thankfully, my jacket has shifted to hide most of that.

She waits, and it seems like she wants a serious answer. Her mouth has flattened. This morning after I saw her cry, I had a dangerous thought. That I'd give her anything she asked for her to never cry like that again. That thought is back again.

Blood slowly routes back to my brain. "It's not been torture."

"Pity."

"Ha-ha."

"So that's it? That's your answer?"

"No," I say, deciding not to be an insincere prick. "More seriously, there's a generosity to the whole wedding I didn't expect. Your family wants everyone to have the most fun, to eat the most, to drink the most, and to celebrate the most. It's like they are opening their hearts because each person needs to feel welcomed."

She smiles. "I love that part, too."

"So you're happy?"

Not that I'm gauging her mood. Or monitoring it closely.

"I've missed seeing everyone," she says.

"Has there been no reason for you to get together in a while?"

"No.I've been… skipping large family events."

Was it to avoid the pushiness of certain relatives? There's been strong opinions thrown around, but I've also seen Patel laugh with others. What made her stay away?

Her words from the morning sound in my head.

Everyone is happy when I look like this. They—all—want me to be this—person. You can't go backwards.

There's a mystery to be solved. She is hiding something. A two years ago, something.

"Why have you been skipping family events?" I ask into her ear.

She bites the edge of her lip. "There was—well, I had to recover."

That's not what I expected her to say at all. "Recover from what?"

With terrible timing, someone calls out her name. She's getting another drink tossed to her. They steal her attention and they chit-chat. By the time she's turned to look back at me, she's broadly smiling.

"Recover?" I ask, reminding her.

She shakes her head, forcing that smile wider. "It's nothing to worry about. All good. Fine."

I think about pushing, especially in the face of her fake insistence, but a bus full of rowdy family members spilling alcohol everywhere isn't the best place for investigation. I mean—conversation.

"For now, I should say I owe you for being here." She delivers a buddy-like punch to my shoulder. "For the record, if you ever need me to show up to your family events, I will."

Instantly, I imagine her at my side during a family dinner. It takes no effort at all.

Against all four six-foot-plus brothers and my short but emotionally loud mother, she would hold her own.

My mouth is a wry twist. "Thanks for the offer."

We don't say anything else for a while. At some point, I see her hair has fallen over her forehead. A strand is stuck to her lip. She's not noticed, but I have. Slowly, I tuck that piece behind her ear. She makes a noise that sounds like gratitude. When I try to pull away, her head follows my hand, so I press my fingers through her hair again. Goosebumps show up along her arms.

Okay, she's not unaffected by this. And there should be a lot of satisfaction in pulling her down to my desperate level, but all I feel is good. Her eyes are big, brown, soft, and dreamy as they meet mine. I can't stop running my hand along the back of her head, and on a random stroke, she relaxes into me. The swell of her breast presses against my arm. Her arm curls around my head, and her fingers start playing with the hair on the nape of my neck. It almost breaks the limits of my self-control not to groan.

"Keep going," I urge in a low voice.

"Only because I'm bored. Not because I want to," she argues, her voice also a whisper.

"Same."

We'll blame the fact that we're in this death trap for our behavior. I'm not unconvinced gas fumes haven't made me feel this way. How it would be everything if I could pull her onto my lap any time I wanted. That she needs to be mine to pet, and stroke, and joke with, and tease, and make laugh. That any tears—however much they ruin me to see—are my responsibility to tend after.

Time loses meaning with us cuddled in this seat, touching each other. Suddenly, I'm not wanting this precious nightmare to end.

But it does.

"Are you staying on or going out?" barks a loud voice.

The driver looms above us. Around us, the bus is empty. Apparently, we'd arrived at some point and everyone already left, likely assuming we'd follow behind being the last ones sitting at the end.

Patel jumps off my lap. "Yes, we're going out!"

She makes a rush for the exit, stopping only to grab a water bottle from one of the coolers near the front. Instead of drinking it, she presses the ice-cold bottle to her forehead as she hops off the bus.

I take longer to get up, mentally trying to slap some sense back into myself. We're pretending. It's Patel. None of this is real.

Outside, I find her standing at the mouth of a hiking trail.

"They must have gone this way," she says. "But there's so much mud. How did everyone get across? Though I see their footsteps. And I hear voices, so it's not like they are very far off."

She's testing the ground with the edge of her heel and bracing her shoulders as if ready to sprint across the trail.

I don't let her.