After Her by Amber Kay Page B

rude.
    “I’ll meet you back at the apartment later,” Sasha replies. When leaning in to hug me, she whispers in my ear, “Check her out. She could be harmless.” She leaves before I can object, obliviously subjecting me to Vivian Lynch. My body feels cold, empty, as if something important was stolen from inside.
    “Don’t worry, I promise to deliver you home in one piece,” says Vivian while standing too close to me. Our shoulders graze, elbows mere inches apart. I flinch away to widen the space between us.
    “You’re a very skittish girl,” she teases. “I hope you aren’t afraid of me.”
    “The last time we saw each other, you almost broke my arm,” I retort.
    Her smile fades. “I’m sorry for that, but you didn’t leave me any other choice.”
    “Excuse me?” I fashion a glare, wishing I could set her aflame with my eyes. “What the hell does that even mean?”
    “If you had just talked to me in a civilized manner, I wouldn’t have gotten so assertive,” she says. I storm toward the exit, heaving the door open. Vivian follows as I cross the parking lot, but lingers at a safe distance without saying a word. I peek at her through my eyelashes. Her lips pout purposefully as she concentrates on me.
    “Do you intend to walk home?” she asks. “You’re free to leave. I won’t hold you against your will if you’re determined to get away from me, but I do urge you to hear me out. Decide then whether or not you want any more to do with me.”
    I look at her, unsure of what to say or how to say it. I don’t have a rehearsed response for her like I do for my mother and Sasha.
    “What do you want?” I finally ask though the words sound more desperate aloud than they had in my head. Vivian smirks, reaches into her purse and removes a carton of cigarettes along with a ring of keys. She tosses me the keys then saunters toward her Porsche.
    “Why are you giving me your car keys?” I call out.
    “You’re driving,” she replies over her shoulder. I scurry to catch up to her, but she’s already claimed the passenger seat, leaving me no choice, but to helm the steering wheel.
    I saunter to the passenger side, poking my head in through the window. “Ms. Lynch, I can’t—”
    “Rule number one,” she interjects. “Call me ‘Vivian.’”
    “But I—”
    “Rule number two, don’t second guess any decision I make from this point forward. If I want you to drive my damn car, you’ll drive it whenever and wherever I tell you to take it. Now get in, put the key into the ignition and drive, Cassandra!”
    I flinch at her tone, like my own mother has just scolded me. I hesitantly obey. As she lights her cigarette, I start the car up and turn to her, expecting additional instructions. She takes a few heavy puffs of the cigarette and sits back against the passenger seat with a loud contented sigh.
    “Oh, I’ve missed these things,” she says. “I was kidding myself thinking I could give up smoking.”
    “Those things will kill you,” I say.
    She chuckles, clearly unintimidated by my warning.
    “We’re all going to die someday,” she says. “Some of us are leaving much sooner than planned.”

6
     
    “Take the highway and keep driving until I say otherwise,” Vivian orders. I obey without stopping to think, stomping the gas pedal and veering out of the strip mall parking lot.
    A heady stench of tobacco and rubber fills the car, making gas fumes coagulate in my throat. Breathing takes effort. Vivian’s lips pucker like a wound corset around that cigarette, exacerbating the wrinkles near her mouth.
    “What kind of music do you prefer?” she asks while fiddling with the radio buttons. 
    “Anything is okay, I guess,” I say and she turns the volume up until Madonna’s voice blasts from the speakers. Vivian sings Like a Virgin at the top of her lungs, as I remain hostage behind the steering wheel.
    I don’t blink. I don’t even look her in the eye. I just drive. Going eighty on the