Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
I almost swallow my tongue.
Oh, my god. They’re looking for us.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I try not to let the anguish inside me escape.
This is all my fault.
But Truck is so casual, you’d never know he was hiding me on the floor in front of his legs, just feet away from men who are hunting us.
No, not hunting us.
Me .
This is all about me. And now Truck and his team are caught up in this.
My heart shrivels when I think about how many people could be hurt by my father.
Truck’s voice is casual as he answers their question. “Haven’t seen anyone else in a long while.”
Yeah, since someone was shooting at us. Since he dragged me off a cliff. Since I got them involved in something horrible.
A man on the other boat asks, “Where you heading?”
“Don’t know yet. Just exploring. Took some time off from work. You know…needed to figure my shit out. Nothing like some time on the water to help when your head’s all fucked up with PTSD. They call me crazy, and who knows…”
Truck shifts and laughs abruptly, sounding more than a little deranged. “Maybe I am. That’s what happens when you kill a lot of people, you know? It fucks your head up. Makes you a loose cannon.”
Oh lord.
I hope this works.
There’s a muttered exchange from the other boat, but I can’t make out the words.
Peeking up at Truck, I look on in dismay.
He’s so freaking unaffected—a day of boating. Nothing more. He’s right at home. Sarong around his waist, barefoot. His hair a little disheveled. That feral five o’clock shadow along his jaw.
And then there’s the loose cannon vibe he puts off. I bet they do think he’s dangerously unhinged.
“Nice that the rain stopped,” he says with a lazy grin. “I was hoping my whole vacation wouldn’t be soaked.”
Sweat gathers around my hairline. Not from the heat. One more minute of this charade, and I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.
Fainting would be very bad right now.
The vision of me face planting into Truck’s crotch has my eyes going wide, my pulse zooming.
Our cover would be blown. Then there’d be more shooting or stabbing. God only knows what Truck would do.
No fainting!
Breathe .
One of the men says, “It’s the rainy season, Amigo. Don’t count on that.”
Truck laughs it off, again edging toward unhinged as he laughs too long. “No matter. Sure beats work. Speaking of, I’m gonna get back to my book now, if you guys don’t mind. It’s getting to the good part. It’s one of those romance stories, and the enemies are about to rip each other’s clothes off.”
Wait , what ?
Is he talking about us?
There’s a snort of laughter from one of the other men. “My woman is always telling me about her books. She said she’s gonna make me read.”
Another man on the other boat is laughing hard. “ You? Reading romance books ? That’s funny as hell.”
The first man is quick to reply, “Happy wife, happy life. You’ll understand one day, Amigo.”
As amused as they are, I need for them to go the hell away. I’m on borrowed time under here.
Pain makes me cringe. My legs are at an awkward angle. My foot is asleep. I can’t hold the pose any longer.
Trying to move my deadened foot without making a sound takes all my concentration. Then I mess up big time. The knife slips from my clammy hand.
Thud .
Oh. No. Eyes wide, I freeze.
Don’t breathe. Don’t move.
I can feel Truck’s shocked anger, and I’m not even looking at him.
The conversation dies instantly.
“Goddamned boat.” Truck drops to a knee and glares at me with his nostrils flared and a threat in his snarled lip.
“ Sorry ,” I mouth silently.
He reaches under the console, pretending to fiddle with something, his breath angrily snorting out of him.
My heart goes into a seizure, and I almost wet my pants, only I don’t have any pants on because he took them off of me.
His eyes are snapping, the cords in his neck straining.
Talking over his shoulder as he pretends to work, he says,
“When I rented something cheap, I didn’t expect the fucking steering linkage to be falling apart all the time.”
As he fake-fixes the boat, he shoves the knife toward me. Other than carefully picking it up, I don’t breathe, move any unnecessary muscles, or even bat an eyelash.
Muttered, salty curse words float around me, until he’s satisfied with his performance.
When he stands up, he dusts off his hands on his sarong. “Gonna ask for some of my money back. Anyway… Good day, gentlemen. Good luck in your search and happy reading!”
Without giving them time to say anything else, he presses the throttle, and we take off.
I stay crouched in the little console area for a long time with my hands shaking and my stomach tied into a pretzel.