“First question — and this is a real whopper, so brace yourself…” He drum-rolls his hands on the steering wheel.
“Suspense effectively built,” I say impatiently.
“Three favorites — cocktail, color, and position.” His eyes twinkle. “Sleeping position, that is.”
Color floods my cheeks. “Of all the things you could ask,that’swhat you want to know? “
“I stand by my question.”
“Fine.” I throw up my hands. “I don’t have a favorite cocktail because I don’t drink alcohol. Never have before, never plan to in the future.”
“Intersting…”
“Shh.” I shoot him a glare. “My favorite color doesn’t have a name, or if it does, I don’t know it. But it’s that shade the sky turns right before a big storm, when it’s all brooding and dark. Not black or green or blue or purple, but somehow all of them at once.” I tilt my head. “Oh, and my favorite sleeping position is on my side, preferably with the light on and the door barricaded.”
His eyes get sharp, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding. I’m not, but I don’t plan to let him in on that knowledge.
“See, this is the problem with you,” he mutters. “I think asking questions is going to clarify things, but it only inspires more questions.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Your favorite color is…gloom?” His head shakes. “Christ.”
I try to suppress a laugh, but I can’t. “What’s your favorite color? Oh, is it something cliché, like the color of the last pair of panties a girl left at your place?”
He snorts. “Glad to hear your opinion of me is so high, butactually, my favorite color is black.”
“Like your soul?”
“No, like yours.”
I laugh again. “Touché.”
“Next question.” He clears his throat. “Who’s the song about? The one you sang the other night.”
The laughter dies in my throat instantly. I glance out the window. “My parents.”
The van is totally silent.
“Ask me something else,” I plead after a moment.
“Okay.” His voice is gentle. “If someone handed you a million dollar record deal tomorrow, would you take it?”
“Is it so hard for you to believe I simply have no aspirations of becoming a star?”
“With a voice like yours?Yes.” His head tilts, considering me. “It’s easier for me to believe you’ve at least got a good reason for denying the world your talent.”
“What exactly constitutes agoodreasonin the Ryder Woods rule book?”
“I don’t know.” His voice gets serious as he changes lanes, passing a car going about ten miles per hour. “Maybe you’re keeping a low profile. Maybe you’re hiding from something or someone. I’m guessing your name in neon lights would make that pretty damn difficult.”
I feel all the blood drain from my face at his words. I don’t know if it was a lucky guess or pure intuition, but I’m suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded.
“Nothing nearly so dramatic,” I say drolly, trying to keep a brave face, though I’m almost certain he sees straight through it. “I’m just a classic introvert. Give me my guitar, a pen, and a blank sheet of paper over an arena full of screaming fans any day. I’m happier writing songs than I’d ever be playing them for strangers.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“Tried what?”