“Yeah, that.”

I gawk at him. “No.”

“Why not?” he questions, his voice muffled through his cigarette as he lights the end. The embers glow bright, a deep orange and crimson. He sneaks a peek at me when I don’t answer right away. “For Mandy. She wants us to be friends.”

“Unless you plan on getting a personality transplant, I assure you that Hell will freeze over before I consider you my friend.” Dramatic, but true.

“Shit, Cora, I’m not that bad.”

His statement forces me upright in my seat, my neck craning backwards in outrage. Is he being for real right now? I huff my disagreement. “You called me ‘Cor the Bore’ all through high school because I’d rather study than party every night. You set me up on a blind date with Stinky Steve and videotaped my reaction, then posted it on MySpace. You reenacted The Ring the night I watched it for the first time and scared me so bad, I actually fainted. Mandy thought I died, and she had a panic attack. I still refuse to have a TV in my room.”

“High school stuff. That was years ago,” Dean dismisses through his laughter.

“You replaced my sugar jar with salt when you came by to pick up Mandy, so I had some pretty interesting coffee to start my morning. Yesterday.”

“Well…” Dean scratches his shaggy, brown hair, half-cringing, half-amused. “You give it right back to me, Corabelle.”

“You call me Corabelle. You know I hate it.” I could go on. I could go on and on and on. I’m tempted to, but it’s only boiling my blood further, and I don’t have the energy to fight. “We’ll never be friends.”

I’m looking straight ahead again, but I can see Dean gazing at me from the corner of my eye. I swear there is a hint of softness there. A small, white flag, waving in the wind. “That’s your name.”

“My name is Cora. Corabelle is the abomination my parents gave me because they already used the pretty, normal name on their favorite child.”

Okay. So, I’m taking this to a very personal place. I need to stop.

“Listen…” Dean is about to respond, but we are both distracted when flashing lights pull up behind us, blinding us with their incessant strobes. He slows down, annoyance etching across his features as he stares into the rearview mirror.

“Dammit, Dean, what did you do? I just want to get home.”

“I didn’t do shit. I was going the speed limit. My plates aren’t expired.” He pulls over to the side of the gravel road, smacking the steering wheel with his fist. “This is bullshit.”

The car comes to a complete stop and I fall back against the leather seat with a sigh of exasperation. “There’s probably a warrant out for your arrest. Maybe you killed someone. I’m not going down for murder. I’m not your accomplice.”

“You think I could kill someone?”

Well, no. “Probably. But you’re too dumb to do it right, so now you got caught and you’re taking me down with you. This is just great.”