Crash Into Me (Into Me Series Book One)

Chapter Twelve - Awkward

Jet's POV

I sink further into the leather seats of his car. His fucking Corvette. He drives a damn Corvette. He drives my fucking dream car because of course he does. It's black and it's sexy and it's beautiful and it has a 6.2L V8 engine and I'm sitting in it.

We have spent almost this entire car ride in awkward silence. I look at him and act like I didn't see him looking at me and then he looks at me and acts like he doesn't see me looking at him. My brain hurts.

Come on Jet, you're a nurse, small talk is one of your skills. I swallow hard and look out the window. Rain falls gently, creating puddles that reflect the street lights. Jackson sneezes and I mumble a "bless you" to him. Even that feels awkward. How is it that we both have so much attraction towards each other, yet we can't even have a normal conversation. He chews on his chain nervously.

Jackson turns on the radio and "Master of Puppets" by Metallica comes on. I subconsciously tap my fingers and feet like I would my drum kit, my eyes focused on the raindrop that slowly slides across my window.

"So, you're in a band?" Jackson asks, clearing the silence.
I stop drumming and look to him, "Uh, yeah, sorry. I do that sometimes and I don't even realize that I'm doing it, I know it can get annoying," I ramble. I press my hands under my legs and will them to stop moving.
"No, it's fine, it doesn't bother me," he tells me. He looks at me the same way he looks at everyone else; cold, calculated, distant. But his eyes soften when he looks at me. Only his eyes. Nothing else. He looks back to the road, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the song.
"I'm sorry about Riley," I offer.
"It's not your fault," he responds.
"I know, but still," I murmur. I look out of the window again. More strained silence fills the car. I start tapping my fingers and feet again.
"Why are you so quiet?" he wonders.
"I don't know, why are you so quiet?" I counter.
"I don't know," he answers.

Great fucking conversation skills you have here Jet. Really. Astonishing. Why doesn't he just fucking talk to me? What am I doing wrong? He doesn't actually like me, I knew it. I knew this was too good to be true. What the fuck is wrong with me?

"How do you do that?" he asks, breaking me from my trance.
"Do what?" I question.
"Handle all that blood and not freak out," he clarifies.
"Oh," I start, "uh... I guess I just don't even think about it anymore. I just kinda do what needs to be done and handle it," I shrug. "You get desensitized pretty quickly when you work in an ER."
"It doesn't fuck you up?" he questions.
"I didn't say that," I laugh.
"Oh," he mumbles, "well you put on a good front then."

You have no fucking idea.

He pulls into my apartment complex, parking near my door. He shuts off the car and looks over at me, his eyes softening again. We stare at one another, daring the other to make the first move. I mean, I guess I should, it is my apartment. But also, I don't want more awkward silence and weird staring. Like there is some major awkward energy in here. But I also want to spend more time with him that's not in bars or hospitals.

"You... wanna come up? Drink a beer? Watch the Blue Jackets game?" I ask.
"Yeah, that sounds nice," Jackson says.

We get out of his car and walk towards my door. I swipe my key fob over the security box, the lock clicking. Jackson opens the door before I even have a chance to touch it, motioning with his hand to go ahead. I thank him and climb up the stairs to my door. I unlock my door, pushing it open, and hang my keys on the hook right next to it. I hang my purse up on the coat rack and slip out of my Converse. Jackson closes the door behind me, throwing the deadbolt.

"What did you do that for?" I ask, my heart rate picking up. Of course, I would pick the guy that turns out to be a murderer. Great.
"You live in a semi-shitty part of town, you should really keep your doors locked," he responds, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Oh and how would you know? You the FBI or something?" I laugh, opening the fridge and grabbing him a beer and me a seltzer.
"Uh... yeah... actually," he drags, taking the beer from my hand and twisting off the top.
"Wait, seriously?" I ask him, cracking open my seltzer and taking a sip.
"Jet... you met me when the FBI came into the ER... you are wearing a sweatshirt with the FBI intermural hockey team logo on it..." he presses.