Free Die Once More by Amy Plum

“So where are you from?” I ask.
    â€œAre you making conversation?” Ava responds, amusement twinkling in her eyes.
    â€œYes, I suppose I am,” I reply. “In fact, I’m the driver and you’re the drivee, which means you’re responsible for keeping me entertained.”
    â€œThere’s the music,” she says.
    â€œAn hour of jazz is quite enough for me, thank you. So, back to the question. Where are you from?”
    She was hoping to brush me off, and my insistence bothers her. She raises her eyebrows defiantly. “I don’t see why I have to tell you my life story.”
    â€œAnd I don’t see why you’ve been acting like I’m your own personal public enemy number one since the moment you laid eyes on me.” Wow. I didn’t mean to say that.
    Ava squeezes her eyes shut and pinches the top of her nose. She breathes in and out, and then says, “I’m from Long Island.”
    â€œI mean your family,” I prod. “Where are they from?”
    She stares at me. “You mean you want to know what race I am?”
    Now I’m afraid. I know about this political correctness thing in the States, and never know which terms are currently acceptable and which will get you slapped. What I wanted to know was the origin of the glowing copper skin, the thick, black, flowing hair that frames her face, the almond-shaped eyes that are . . . I pull my gaze from the road to her face for a second . . . an extraordinary tone between brown and dark green. I wanted to know what factors merged to give her such an original beauty. But something tells me not to compliment her, so I play it safe. “Well, that wasn’t exactly the way I was thinking about it, but sure . . . race . . . ,” I respond carefully. “Why not?”
    She gapes at me for a count, and then bursts out laughing. “Okay, then. One grandma is African American, one grandpa Cherokee.”
    â€œHe must be the Whitefoot,” I say, and she nods.
    â€œAnd my mom’s side is Dutch, Scottish, Irish, I think there’s even a French Huguenot in there. I am the American melting pot,” she says, with not a little bit of pride.
    â€œYou’re New York,” I murmur.
    â€œWhat?” she asks.
    â€œNothing.”
    We ride in silence for a moment while I savor the information she’s given me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a one-on-one conversation with a woman that didn’t consist of logistics in rescuing a human, and I’ve forgotten how the give-and-take feeds me. Every tidbit she offers is like honey . . . a piece of herself. Especially from this woman who gives nothing away. At least to me. Which reminds me . . .
    â€œSo why do you hate me?” I ask.
    Her lightheartedness disappears, only to be replaced by the habitual coldness. Not quite as glacial as before, I note. But it would still qualify as refrigerated.
    â€œI don’t hate you,” she says, sighing. “I just hate your type.”
    â€œMy type,” I huff. “And just what would that be?”
    â€œA rake. A scoundrel,” she responds.
    â€œNow just a moment,” I say, hitting the button on my door to roll up the windows. I need to hear this. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œAs I’ve said before, your reputation precedes you,” Ava says, and now all warmth is gone. Her arms are crossed, and she is as closed as a safe.
    I think back to the council meeting, where I saw her first. “Is this about what Harlem Riots guy said about me seducing half of London at the last convocation?”
    â€œThat was just one of the plethora of stories I had already heard.”
    â€œPlethora? You heard a plethora of stories about me?” I ask, voice raised.
    â€œShowgirls, politicians, even a princess, from what I heard,” she says crisply. “No one is immune to the wiles of Jules