↳ @summertownsend.
It’s a new car. A Jeep Wrangler, because what he asked for he got. The perks of being semi-notorious and praised by the right people, he supposes. He’s already adjusted the seat twice; had to fix the rearview mirror and re-tune the satellite radio so that it played something, anything, other than the tinny-sounding dance music it had been set to. It still smells of leather and carpet fibres and plastic, warmed by the morning sun. The indicator ticks like a metronome as he waits for the signal lights to change, fingers flexed firmly around the steering wheel. “You religious?” Nico asks, glancing at Summer through the tinted shades of his aviators. They’ve been driving for the last ten minutes but he’s yet to figure out whether or not she really needed to go grocery shopping or if she simply wanted to get out of the house. Either that or she was keen to take a look around the place she’d be calling home from now on. He inclines his head towards the bright white-bricked Catholic church to her left, attention swift to turn to the road as the light turns green.Â
“One of you is going to have to make a shopping rota. Unless you’re planning on doing it every time.” There’s a brief pause, filled by thought. The sound of traffic filters in through his open window. “You don’t seem like the sort who would only pick up groceries for herself.” He half hopes that she doesn’t ask what he means by that -- is pretty certain she knows he’ll have read up about her. Police files. School reports. General data. Everything that no longer exists thanks to the witness protection teams’ purge.Â
