I was having a panic attack. The rapid heartbeat. The fact I was sure that doom was on my horizon, inescapable and fatal, my lungs unable to suck in enough air.
I was not about to hyperventilate in the cab. Cry. Pass out. Throw up. Though I did feel like doing all of those things. I wouldn’t give that to this man who was certain I was nothing but a damsel in distress. But not one he wanted to save, one he was getting paid to keep alive. I got the impression that if he had a choice in the matter, he would leave me on the road and not lose a second of sleep over it.
“Well then, why aren’t we flying?” I said, careful to keep the hitch from my voice.
He glanced toward me. A quick glance. It managed to scathe like it was intended to. “You fly, you go into all sorts of systems, caught on hundreds of CCTV cameras. Something that’ll be picked up by the multiple men and women looking for you. Not only that, you’re gonna get about a thousand star-struck assholes recording you, uploading to shit. Easiest way to get yourself killed.”
Well shit. I hadn’t exactly thought of that.
It was rare I forgot who I was. Forgot that there was no such thing as anonymous with me. I couldn’t go to the fucking drugstore without a handful of cars trailing me, waiting to get a photo of me that might hint I’m pregnant, fat, or on drugs.
“Why are we going to Montana?” I asked, furious at myself. At this situation.
He didn’t look at me this time. I was pissing him off with the questions, but his anger birthed some of my own. I welcomed it. It was easier to deal with than fear or panic.
“Because it’s off grid. Fucker has a lot of power at his disposal. Can’t scour the whole country.”
I bit my lip. They had taken my phone from me, obviously so I couldn’t contact people, or book flights to New Zealand once reality set in. And so I couldn’t Google this man, who would apparently kill me once he found out I was testifying against him.
It should’ve filled me with panic, the loss of something almost permanently attached to my hand. But it was the one part of this whole scenario that didn’t fill me with anxiety. It was almost peaceful being untethered from the constant stream of calls, messages, emails, and demands from people who wanted to suck me dry.
“Where in Montana are we going?”
He still didn’t look at me.
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cuss at him. Worse, I wanted to cry. Sob and beg him to be kinder, to treat me with more care, pretend like I was a warm woman.
Instead, I stayed silent.
Silent like death.
“Can you tell me a little more about this safe house, at the very least the quality of the beds?” I asked Duke, trying to roll the kink from my neck.
It was the first time we’d spoken today apart from bathroom requests. And let me tell you, having to ask the hostile, tight-lipped man protecting you from murder to stop so you could pee at a filthy gas station was not fun.
Nor were the accommodations the night prior.
Now, I was well practiced at sleeping in squalor. Especially in those shitty, roadside motels that either charged by the hour or by the month. Half my childhood was spent in one or the other, where I’d never known Egyptian-cotton, new clothes—or clothes that fit—a clean bathroom, or full stomach.
When I turned eighteen, I vowed to myself that I would never stay in one of those places again. That I’d never try to wash myself in a shower that only made me feel a little less dirty. That I’d sleep in sheets made for royalty.
I’d managed it for over a decade.
And when Duke pulled into the motel outside of Utah, I knew my promise to myself would be broken. I couldn’t exactly request the nearest Four Seasons. No, I would not cement his opinion of me.
So I sucked it up—the greasy food that I barely touched and he didn’t comment on, the room I shared with him with scratchy sheets and a dirty bathroom. I didn’t sleep a wink with the TV blaring and knowing he was right there in the other bed, quietly seething.
We spoke as little as possible. It made me uncomfortable, which I was sure was his goal, so I did my best not to let it show.
I didn’t like talking to strangers, as a rule. I especially should not like talking to the man who was only little more than a stranger, was macho as fuck, and somehow fascinating to me, despite the fact that macho man was so not my type.