[hmm. now they're accidentally holding hands, when kavinsky had meant to be grabbing a dude's dick. but of a genre clash. he doesn't mind too much, considering they are definitely about to die in a fireball.

he slides his thumb along what seems to be a firm, lax line concealed inside rupert's trousers. maybe the kid really likes those industrial, heavy-duty falshlights? everybody has a thing. he slides his thumb back the other way, feeling the calluses on the underside of rupert's hand against his tattooed knuckles, wondering what kind of life they came from. (the roughness of kavinsky's own hands have been nearly explicable most of his privileged life, other than his proclivity for touching what he shouldn't.)]

I wouldn't say that, [kavinsky remarks.] You got some talent. But it seems like you got the objective kind of mixed up in your head, sweetheart. Driving for most people is about getting from point A to point B, all efficient, without fucking nobody up.

[there's another little squeeze for good measure.]