I remind myself why I’m there in the first place. Her personal life doesn’t matter to me. “Not my problem. You’re going to drive where I tell you, then you’ll be free to go.”
Her throat bobs against my palm as she swallows, and she makes a point of dropping her gaze to the road in front of her.
“That’s a good girl.” I pull my hand away and let my fingers crawl down her neck, nearly reaching the swells of her breasts before I pull away. I can’t help stealing this moment. It’s been so fucking long since I touched a woman. She’s lucky I have more control than I did over a decade ago. The trip would have gone much differently then. And felt a lot fucking better.
* * *
Selena
I am so exponentially fucked.I shouldn’t have allowed him inside my damn car. He’s runningfromsomething, but I need to run hometosomething. The clock on the dashboard flashes the time, ticking ominously toward nine.
My phone rings, and his name pops onto the screen. My fingers rush to ignore the call, but the man beside me grabs my wrist and hits the answer button instead. I look at him and shake my head. He squeezes my wrist harder.
“Selena?” The voice blares from the car speaker. I’m frozen in fear. The man beside me slaps my cheek hard enough to shake me back into the moment, and I can only hope my husband doesn’t hear him.
“Hi...hello, sorry, bad reception from the rain,” I say, my throat tightening.
“Why aren’t you home?”
“I had to pull over because of the rain. I couldn’t see anything in front of me.”
“You know that’s not true. I’m watching the tracker on your phone. You’re going the wrong direction.” Accusations lurk within his words, as if he thinks I’d run away from him. I’d never be able to.
The man’s face tightens. He grabs my phone off the cradle on the dashboard, drops it on the floor, and smashes it beneath his boot. My mouth gapes as the gravity of it hits me.
“Tracking you?” he asks as he shakes his head, which is really fucking judgmental for a man who’s holding me at gunpoint.
“It’s complicated.”
He stares at me before dropping his gaze. “Drive, rabbit.” He gestures forward with the barrel of his gun.
Rabbit?Ihatethat he calls me that. I don’t want a nickname from him. I want to yell at him and tell him to call me Selena or nothing at all, but when I open my mouth, the words stick in my throat. I catch a glimpse of his strong jaw and realize he probably wouldn’t care if I told him I hate the name. I know nothing about him, but he doesn’t seem like the understanding type. He seems like a psychopath who’s judging me for my life choices, but I’m not the one carjacking a woman to escape whatever they’rerunning from.
ChapterThree
Lex
This girl will not stop chewing on her fucking nails as we drive into the parking lot of a seedy motel about an hour south of where she picked me up. It’s dark and the rain refuses to let up. The rhythmic sound of the rain and the constant click of her nails against her teeth are driving me mad. At this point, I want to cut her fingers off to end the incessant noise.
“For the love of god, stop!” I shout. She slowly draws her hand from her face and puts it back on the steering wheel.
Thank fuck.
I tuck the pistol into the back of my sweatpants and cover it beneath my t-shirt. Rain pelts us the moment we step out of the car. When we get beneath the cheap vinyl awning, I pull her into me, lean down, and whisper in her ear. “Don’t do anything stupid, rabbit.”
“Stop calling me that,” she snaps in a harsh whisper.
“Go on, rabbit. Hop.” I pinch her side, and she takes a hurried step forward with an angry blush to her cheeks. I don’t want to deal with her any more than she wants to deal with me. It would be easier and quieter to kill her and take her car. By the time anyone finds her body, I’ll be in Mexico.
She hasn’t done anything to get me to that point yet, but it would never be entirely off the table.
We walk into the lobby, and a bell rings overhead. Wallpaper struggles to keep its grip on the walls, and what’s still intact is black with mold. I look at Selena. It’s clear she’s never been in a dump like this before. She’s wearing a slightly damp blazer and slacks, for Christ’s sake. She looks clean and professional. I sure as fuck do not.
A squirrely old man waddles from the back room. His eyes jump between us. “Can I help you folks?” he asks with a furrow of his gray brow.
“We need a room for the night,” I say.
“Alright. We just need a photo ID and a credit—”