932 Pleasant Shocks

Derrick was as aloof a driver as he was a talker, that is to say, he was barely ever even present for either. 

Just me giving directions, as he, in turn, turned toward them. And I'd clutch onto my seat and hold on for dear life. 

If I had known I'd be riding shotgun with a man that takes red lights as mere two-cent suggestions, shooting past them whenever he's run out of his three collective seconds of patience… yeah… I'd rather be walking… rather the chance of spraining my ankle than spraining my freaking neck. 

But too late now. There was absolutely no way out of this lovely gesture of goodwill. Especially not at the speed we were going, clocking in at fifteen traffic violations per hour. 

And counting.

"Want one?" He asked, shaking a carton of cigarettes at me, one hand on the wheel. "You look like you need it." 

Gee, I wonder what gave him that idea. 

"Nah, I'm good," I said, declining. "Don't smoke."