No sleep, fast food, and the smell of industrial cleaner Nate had employed on the previously blood-spattered dashboard had me hating the car’s interior. Classic rock tapes – the legacy of his misspent youth in constant rotation – were not helping.
“It occurs to me you’re a lot stronger now,” Nate said casually.
I twitched like a mouse mid-field with a hawk dropping fast. “Little bit, yeah.”
“Did you take my blood from the car?”
“So the smear on your fingers was from when I was out.”
I always forget how well he can punch and drive at the same time.