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Chapter 38: What Does Furniture Have to do with Sex?

Next, he passes me a napkin and I manage a small thanks. Against my best efforts, a small tear works its way past my eyelid and I hurry to wipe it away. I hate throwing up, especially around other people. No one wants an audience. Car sickness isn't something that should happen to adults. My doctor promised my mother I'd grow out of it, but I never did.

"I'm sorry. I think I got the tire dirty." I contemplate throwing up again as Davis leans his body in the front seat, trying to see out the door and the damage I've done.

"It's okay. I have a subscription to the car wash."

"I don't normally get carsick," I lie.

As if he senses my fib, he doesn't even nod but holds open a small bag for me to throw my napkin and empty water glass into before he folds over the top. "Would it be better if you rode up front?"

I nod. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all," he says patting the seat beside him. "Just let me know when you think you're safe to go."

I wait a few more minutes, breathing
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