Thea
I’ve never had to run for my life while awake.
For some reason I’m always being hunted in my dreams—probably something I should talk to my own therapist about.
This feels eerily similar. My legs won't move fast enough, the dulled noise swallows my screams, and I have no idea where to go to get free. Maybe I never will be.
In my dreams, I’m usually alone—another thing I may need to consider—but here I have a muscly giant of a man who may or may not be a spy. Which is totally not important when we are being shot at.
“They think we are murderers, don’t they?” I whisper; I can’t manage anything more.
“Yes.” He doesn’t even try to sugarcoat it. He dodges a stray trash can, and somewhere behind it a cat hisses.
“Why did he shoot at us?”
“He shot above us. He wants us alive. There’s a reward for our arrest.”
“Arrest?” I squeak. They want us alive so they can torture us. I’m going to die here.
“Can we save the talking for after I’ve saved your life?”
“If we must, but then I’m left to my own anxiety, and I don’t prefer it.
” Twin tears drip down my face, and Pierce squeezes my hand harder as we sprint.
He’s crushing my knuckles, but I barely notice.
A bullet hits the brick building somewhere behind us, and I bite hard on my lip to keep myself in this moment.
“Trust me,” he whispers.
“I do.” Whatever hesitations I previously had vanished the second he threw his body over mine to protect me from gunfire. Only a good and trustworthy man would risk his life to save mine. I won’t doubt him again.
Okay, I definitely will. But I’ll try not to.
We hit the end of the alley, and Pierce holds me back, sticking his head out just enough to see. I thought he was nuts when he insisted on parking two blocks from the casino; now I know for sure. Bullets travel much faster than my legs do; we are never going to make it that far.
“It’s clear,” he says, then pulls me into the open. Pull is too soft a word. Drag, yank, hurtle… I trip over my feet but don’t hit the ground because he’s tugging me so fast behind him I’m nearly flying. My hat drifts off my head.
Maybe I am dreaming.
We weave in and out and around people and buildings. The world blurs around me, but somehow I keep moving until we reach his truck. I nearly cry in relief.
He opens the truck door. “In,” he barks, as if I’ve let him drag me all this way only to refuse him now. I jump in but barely have time to buckle before he’s in himself and lays on the gas.
“Is he following us?” I hardly dare ask as I massage my hand from his death grip.
“If he’s not, someone will be soon.”
“I don’t understand.” Anything really. I thought I was an educated woman, but after this trip, I’ve come to the only logical conclusion: I know nothing.
He doesn’t say anything as he checks the rearview mirror again before taking a sharp right turn.
“That other bartender was so nice. He asked me where I was from and—”
“You told him?” Pierce snaps, his dark eyes finding mine.
I cling to the middle console and the handle above the door. “Yes?”
He curses, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he grips the steering wheel harder. “I can’t protect you if you don’t even take the basic precautions to protect yourself. No more talking to anyone about anything. Got it?”
I bob my head, though I’m tempted to salute him out of sarcasm.
“What else did you tell him?”
I unwind the scarf from my neck that is acting more like a noose at the moment. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to speak to anyone.”
“I’m obviously the exception,” he mutters darkly.
Despite the terror of the moment, the words slip off my tongue. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?”
“Thea…” he grounds out.
“He was nice. He seemed interested in me and my profession. He said he wanted to be a psychologist and wanted to pick my brain.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Pierce mutters with a hint of… what was that? Jealousy? It feels strangely rewarding, much like jealousy. Whatever it is, it looks good on him.
Pierce flies over a dip in the road, and my head hits the window. “You’re a terrible driver.”
“That depends on your qualifications. If your goal is a smooth ride, then yes. If your goal is to lose our tail, I’m the best you've got.”
“What?” I screech, looking back, only for Pierce to hit another bump, sending my body sideways into his broad shoulders. My right hand lands on his chest, and I clench the fabric of his shirt.
The physical touch slows my heart rate… and my panic. No wonder I always recommend it to my clients. I usually recommend a willing participant, but desperate times and all that.
“I lost him. Because I’m a good driver.” He insists gruffly, glancing down at me.
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll buy myself a helmet next time we are out.”
A dimple creases his right cheek, and I nearly combust at the sight of it. “You have a dimple, and you didn’t tell me?”
He raises a brow. “How is that pertinent information?”
“Because dimples are adorable. I’d immediately trust anyone with a dimple.”
“That’s incredibly concerning. And please never call me adorable again.”
“Well, now that I know how much you like it…” I muse. The amusement is short-lived when he flies over a pothole, then jerks the truck to the left. I fly to my side of the vehicle, which could have been his sole purpose in doing so. My stomach leaps into my throat.
I’m going to be sick.
I drop my head to my knees, praying the bumps and swerves ease soon.
“You good?”
Funny that he asks now.
I shoot him a thumbs up. Then immediately press my hand to my head.
He drives forever in his wild hit-every-pothole-in-the-world manner.
I’ve never been carsick in my life, but I suppose there is a first time for everything.
Every moment is pure torture as I try to keep the contents of my stomach where they should be.
The truck slows, and the second it’s in park, I throw open the door, emptying my stomach on the ground in front of his house.
Two black boots stop on the edge of my periphery. “You killed my flowers.”
I glance at the murder victims. “That’s a cactus.”
“Same thing.”
I stand up straight, adjusting my jumper and inconspicuously checking it to ensure it didn’t get splattered. “I’m beginning to understand you, Pierce the Mysterious. Cacti are a metaphor for—”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off. “Don’t analyze me while I’m trying to save your life.”
“After, then. Got it.”
He ignores me as he unlocks the front door. “Grab your stuff. We’re leaving.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you home.”
He says it so soft, almost tender, and for a split moment I imagine hearing those words under different circumstances.
“Finally.”