Blaze

Forty-Nine; Blaise

The red digits scream at me from the dash, chastising me for my tardiness. I tried gracefully sneaking out of my own party, but kept getting stopped and pulled into drunken conversations. I finally made up a lie about needing more ice to escape. It's eight-fifty already, so I pull onto the bypass to avoid town traffic. There's no way I'll make it to Hummingbird Lane in ten minutes, but it'll be close.

I pick up my phone to call James, but there's no service yet. As soon as I make it over this hill I should be fine. I toss my cell on the passenger seat and step on the gas. I see blue lights flashing behind me almost immediately. Another glance at the dash lets me know I'm going almost eighty miles per hour in a fifty-five zone.

I pull over, cursing at my bad luck. This is going to cost me at least a hundred bucks and, even worse, a ten minute delay. I see Wyatt in my rear view mirror, striding toward my car, and curse again. It's amazing the range of emotions I am able to feel in the short seconds it takes him to reach my driver's side window. It's like I experience all the stages of grief at once. Shock, denial, anger, bargaining and depression. I don't make it to acceptance. I don't know if I'll ever get there. It was easier when I was just pissed off at him. But I've started to miss old Wyatt. The easy friendship we had before. It's almost like mourning a death. Except this ghost is tapping on my driver's side window.

"Are you okay?" He asks the second I roll down the window. His eyes are wide and wild, frantically scanning my face and body. I barely register his words.

"Blaise? You okay?" He repeats. I shake my head.

"Um. Yeah, why?"

"I clocked you at almost eighty. You never speed. Is everything okay? Do you need a police escort somewhere?" Oh, Wyatt.  He's worried about me.

"No. Everything's fine. Sorry, I'll slow down." I smile sweetly at him, hoping he'll just let me go. I dare another furtive glance at the clock, my insides writhing with anxiety, but Wyatt catches me and narrows his eyes.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" He straightens and tilts his head to the side, examining me with his boyfriend face, not cop face. 

Well, ex-boyfriend. I'm off to meet your arch-nemesis for what I hope will be a weekend of steamy, scandalous, secret sex. Thanks for asking. 

Despite my best effort, my face immediately heats. I can feel the blush working it's way up my neck to my cheeks as I chew on a cuticle and try to come up with a believable lie.

Wyatt stiffens and crosses his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow to slits before his expression transforms to one of cool confidence.

"License and registration, ma'am." His stare is ice cold. He's wearing his law enforcement hat now.

"Wyatt, are you serious?"

He glares at me as he places his hands on the frame of my open car window and bends down, inches from my face. He's serious.

"It's Officer Montgomery. And I said license and registration." He condescendingly enunciates each syllable of "license and registration." 

I pull my driver's license out of the wallet sitting on the passenger seat.

"I'm going to reach into the glove box for my registration now, Officer." I mimic his condescending tone, but he seems unbothered. He just nods his head and watches me as I retrieve my registration with shaky hands. He pulls a flashlight from the utility belt around his hips and takes his sweet time examining my paperwork. When he bends down to hand my things back, his eyes fall on the duffel bag in the back seat and he again tenses.