“Fine, pull over. I’ll get out and fucking walk.” “Don’t be a little bitch, Jacobi. We’re five hundred feet away from the entrance.” “Stop the car, or I’ll do more than kick a headrest,” I purr, in a flat, calm, perfectly amicable voice. “Jesus Christ,” Dash groans. “Let him out before he blows like fucking Etna. There’s no need to get so grouchy, y’know,” he tells me, spinning around in his chair. “You like something about this girl. For some weird reason, you’ve decided she’s the Morticia to your Gomez. There’s no need to let your temporary insanity cause contention between the three of us,
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