Re: Exterior: a rest stop, desert.
"What kind of thing?" The boy arched a brow, more snarky than superior as he leaned back against the leather that stuck to his skin where his shirt was rucked up at the back. The weight of the Driver's scrutiny was like a steel collar biting into his nape, rust-colored and cool like dead hands and heavier than his sapling-stick of an arm had been around the boy's shoulders. "Money? Or expecting a stranger's wallet to open only so wide?"
He leaned his head on the cushioned seatback, the look on his shaggy-stubbled face one of bored affectation as he blinked big eyes at the man. Only turning away when the waitress walked her wide hips and faded apron over to their table, glancing between himself and the older man. Looking doubtful as she pulled out her little blue notepad and one of those golf pencils, like she thought she knew just what this was about. Maybe she'd seen the boy slouching around when she stepped out to haul down one of the cigarettes that he could smell on her thick fingers, or maybe she was just familiar with his type.
Whatever she thought she knew, the boy gave approximately zero fucks. He sat up and jammed both his elbows against the tabletop, propping his chin up in his hands (surprisingly clean, like maybe he'd caught a rare shower at the truck stop a few miles back and taken extra care to pry the grime out from under his stubby nails) and batting lashes long as sin up at her as he ordered a double cheeseburger, fries, and a slice of cherry pie à la mode.
Then he smiled, just the opposite of his Driver with his bared fangs, pink lips pulled tight over his mouth and tucked towards twin dimples. "I guess it depends on the stranger."