Off Limits by Lola Darling

where a dingy painted sign advertises a small bodega.
    She nods, though I'm not sure she really heard me. She's too busy leaning against the car door, unsteady in her heels. I'm not sure if she's suffering from the world's worst hangover, or if she's still drunk, but either way, I think I know the remedy.
    By the time I return from the bodega, she's managed to hoist herself into the passenger seat, where she's doubled over, her head pressed between her palms, her forefingers rubbing at her temples. She’s swapped her sunglasses for her regular glasses, at least, now that she’s realized it’s the usual degree of still-foggy San Francisco morning out here.
    I much prefer her real glasses. Makes it easier to see her eyes.
    "Drink this," I tell her, as I press a cup of coffee into her hands. XL black coffee with a shot of espresso, just the way I've seen her order it in the work cafeteria a dozen times.
    “Why, did you poison it?” She peers out from under her hat suspiciously. But when I thrust the cup at her, she accepts it.
    “Don’t you trust me, Chloe?”
    Her eyes lock onto mine and hold there for a fraction of a second. Somehow, it feels like much more time passes, as we’re frozen there, memorizing one another. There’s tiny flecks of gold dotted through her hazel eyes. I never noticed that before.
    She accepts the cup and takes a tiny sip. Almost immediately, her shoulders relax a fraction, and she sits up a little straighter. "What’s in this?" she asks, her voice still broken. It's kind of sexy, that throaty tone. I can imagine her calling my name in that voice as I drive into her, fucking her so hard she can’t think anymore, can’t do anything but beg me to let her come.
    I shake my shoulders, dragging myself back into the present. "Espresso. One shot, just the way you like." I hop over the driver's side door into the seat, keys in hand.
    There's a long, pregnant pause, during which she doesn't drink any more of the coffee. I can feel her eyes boring into me, and from the corner of my eye, I notice the strange expression she's wearing. Half confusion, half grateful relief.
    "How did you remember that?" she finally says, before she takes another drink, a longer one this time. Her eyes close as she savors the caffeine.
    I shrug one shoulder and turn the key in the ignition. "Guess it's just a memorable order. That stuff could probably strip the paint off a wall, you know."
    "It gets the job done." She clears her throat gently. "Especially right about now. Thank you, Max."
    "Don't thank me yet," I say. "We still have a four-hour drive ahead of us."
    Chloe groans softly. "Forgive me if I pass out. Or puke."
    I lean over to tap the glove compartment as we pull out of the parking spot and onto the street. "There's some bags of salad and sandwiches in there. Try to take the food out first if you need to puke in the bag, though."
    "You packed lunch?" She squints through the side of her glasses in my general direction.
    I avoid her eyes. Because, really, I'm used to packing food for Travis, for days when we meet up after school at the mentor program. His mom is pretty busy, and money's tight, so she doesn't always have the time or the cash to give him much more than ramen for dinner. I try to make sure he gets at least a few other food groups into his diet, on the nights when I can.
    It was just second nature to prep for this road trip the same way. For some reason, though, I don't want to talk about Travis with Chloe. She’s made up her mind about me already—I’m just the office playboy. I wouldn’t want to spoil the illusion for her.
    "I figured it would be faster than stopping along the way," I reply.
    She's quiet for another stretch of road. Actually, I would think maybe she'd fallen asleep, except that every now and then she's still sipping at the coffee gripped between her palms. As we reach the highway, though, the wind whipping around us, with the top down the way I have it to catch the fresh, sunny