The Savage Road: Journal of the She-Hulk

Ride Share

Damn, it feels nice to be off my feet!

I'm sitting in the back of a rideshare car, nothing you would call fancy, but to me this is like being in a limousine. This mid-size silver sedan may as well be a black stretch limo if I close my eyes. Complimentary bottled water? More valuable than champagne to me right now.

Having somebody chauffer me, to tell the truth, is making me feel like a million bucks. Which is great because I definitely don't have a million bucks right now. Don't even have $100 to my name at the moment.

So how am I affording this on empty pockets? Okay, I'll fess up: Somebody booked it for me on their dime. A little flirting outside a bar with a man who had definitely imbibed too many drinks, combined with a flattering v-neck shirt I had scored, and within five minutes he had ordered me a ride across the city. 

I should feel ashamed, as I'm sure some of you are thinking, but I'm already dealing with enough shit as it is, thank you very much. Look into my brown eyes and tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing in my desperate shoes. Plus, do you really want to see me upset? You know what happens when I get upset. Nobody likes who I become when I get upset.

There's a laugh that echoes through my head. Her laugh.

"Funnite?" It's the driver, pulling me out of my own head. 

My brain doesn't register. "Excuse me?"

He laughs. "Fun night?"  I'm caught off guard by his voice. It sounds... youthful.

I look up and catch his eyes in the mirror. Blue eyes. They're kind of striking, even in the darkness of this car.

"It's been a good night," I answer truthfully. I really shouldn't engage in conversation. When you're forced to be on the road like I am, and have to remain as under the radar as possible due to the monster that lives within my core, connections usually end up being a bad thing. The extrovert in me, however, is excited to have somebody to talk to and doesn't give a shit what my rational side thinks. 

(With these impulsive decisions it's a wonder why I Hulk out so much, right?)

The driver laughs and nods. "Glad to hear it."

I try to catch any further glimpses of my driver's looks in the rear view mirror. His face matches his voice: Mid-20s I'd say, with a few days growth of beard framing an attractive jawline. His hair is brown and looks naturally curly. I want to reach out and unfurl a strand of his mane, but I resist. 

I settle for reaching out with a question, instead. "How long have you been driving?" (Ugh, that's the best I can do?)

"Tonight or in general?" His blue eyes meet mine in the mirror again.

"Umm," I stumble. "Both?" Wow, real smooth, Rebecca. 

His laugh puts me at ease. "I've been driving since I was 16, so about nine years." He pauses and flashes a nice smile back to me. "Ride shares, about two years now."

His arm, draped with a long sleeved shirt rolled up to his forearm, reaches out toward his dashboard and two fingers tap on a digital clock embedded in the middle, showing 2:17 a.m. "Tonight, since 10 p.m."  He paused again for a moment, before looking back at me. "That said, you're definitely the prettiest woman I've seen in these four-ish hours."

I feel my face flush. He's flirting with me! Even after my dumb questions! 

"Well, at least I'm at the top of the four-hour competition," I strike back. 

He laughs, and I'm hooked. The game is afoot! It feels good to feel like a normal human, engaging in conversation. It feels good to feel like a normal woman, getting legitimate interest from a man. My skin doesn't always have to be green for people to notice me, thankfully.