Chapter 2 #2
See again…too boring.
I really just wanted to see how he’d react to the running away part.
“How many times have you seen the inside of a jail cell?” he replies instead of answering me directly.
“Lost count.” Happens when you spend your college years unsure how to channel your general rage with the state of the world and go overboard with the protests since you have unlimited access to money to bail yourself out.
Oh, how the times have changed. “Out of curiosity, have you ever been arrested?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Just saying, kidnapping is an arrestable offense…”
“I’m not kidnapping you.” He glances in the rearview mirror at me, and I swear I hear him add yet. The car swerves a little, but he corrects it. “You did this to yourself.”
“Yep. Big mistake. That’s my life. A series of little mistakes that turn out to be big mistakes. Is someone extorting you?”
He mutters something that sounds like that would be better than this, then turns up the stereo volume.
Every time he takes his hands off the wheel, the SUV veers before straightening out.
“If it’s extortion, I’m great at talking. Happy to help. You wouldn’t believe the number of situations I’ve talked myself out of.”
“It’s not extortion.”
He’s irritated enough that I believe him.
Also, yes, I understand why he’s irritated.
It’s me.
I’m the problem.
But seriously—dude wouldn’t be swerving all over the roads in the middle of the night if there wasn’t something wrong. Even if I wasn’t in the car with him.
And I’m positive he didn’t know I was in the car with him.
He was too startled when I sat up for him to have known.
Relatable.
I was startled that I’d finally fallen asleep hard enough to not realize the car was moving. Probably rocked me. I do like sleeping in moving vehicles, and I haven’t slept well in almost a month.
“That’s a relief.” If it’s not a woman and it’s not extortion and he’s not fleeing from a crime—and legit, it’s Oliver, he wouldn’t crime well—then my gut is probably right, and that’s bad. “So, since everything’s on the up-and-up, what’s the plan?”
“None of your business.”
“Oh my god, are you on a secret government mission? Was your dad not in jail at all? Are you a spy?”
He makes another noise, and the car swerves slightly again. “How drunk are you?”
“Totally sober. That’s why I’ve figured out you’re a spy.” He’s so not a spy. I’d bet the last fifty dollars in my bank account on it.
Though since my best friend upstate adopted me when my parents disinherited me not long after Oliver broke up with Margot, I do have more than fifty dollars in my bank account. Bea grew up in a normal family with a normal household budget, and she taught me as well as she taught her brothers.
And thinking about Bea makes me feel even more guilty.
I need to get my phone back.
She’ll freak out if I’m not home like I told her I would be tomorrow.
And she doesn’t need that on top of everything else she’s had going on lately.
“I’m not a spy,” Oliver says through gritted teeth.
“But you’re on a secret mission.”
I should stop.
I should.
But one of the many lessons I’ve learned in my life is that when you annoy someone enough, they’ll eventually spill exactly how they feel.
Or in this case, exactly what he’s doing.
He’ll confirm for me that I do, in fact, know exactly what’s going on.
Would be nice if I still enjoyed this game. I’m honestly annoying myself too right now. Am I—dammit.
I am.
I’m getting old and tired of games.
RIP, Daphne of my youth.
“Yes,” he says flatly. “I’m on a secret mission. And I can’t talk about it. You can’t breathe a word about this to anyone when you get home.”
“Hilarious. What are you really doing?”
The car jerks yet again, and Oliver mutters something to himself.
I pinch my lips shut.
But I don’t make it a full mile before my mouth is running again.
“I had to learn to drive a few years ago—I mean, learn how to do it without getting speeding tickets and parking terribly—and I’m pretty damn good at it now.
And contrary to popular belief, I do know how to follow directions.
If you wanted to, you know, let someone competent behind the wheel. ”
“This is how spies drive.”
Did he—oh my god.
He did.
He made a joke.
And it was surprisingly funny.
I start to laugh, try to stop it, and choke on my own spit. So now I’m coughing like my lungs and I are battling out if they’re staying or going.
Oliver looks at me in the rearview mirror again. The car drives all over the lane again.
We have to be nearly to wherever he’s going, don’t we? He’ll run out of gas before too long.
He does know you have to fill a car with gas, right?
He’s heir to a gas station-slash-convenience store empire. He has to know you have to fill this car with gas.
I stifle a sigh, unbuckle myself, and lean close to him so he can hear me over the symphony performing an old Bro Code song.
“Oliver. In all seriousness—why are you running away?”
“I’m not running away.”
“No security, no driver, no assistants. News flash, Tighty-Whities. I might not be Daddy’s ideal daughter, and I might not be a genius, but I am smarter than all of you bigheaded moneybags give me credit for.
I know a runaway when I see it. So what’s the sitch?
You do this often? Get out to the wilderness before getting back to the office on Monday?
Didn’t think you were the type, but then, I didn’t think you’d be the type to install free electric chargers at your gas stations all over the country either. ”
It's a gift and a curse to be able to feel his shoulders tightening as I talk.
“Tighty-Whities?” he grits out.
“Saw you once when you stayed over at Margot’s place.
Want me to keep talking? Or do you want to maybe contribute to this conversation so I can help you through what you’re going through?
I’m a good listener, and since Daddy revoked my trust fund, I’ve learned how important it is to let people help you.
I’ve gotten pretty good at solving problems too. ”
He turns the volume up to max.
The car lurches, I get tossed sideways, and I finally force myself to acknowledge that I can’t fix this right now.
So I strap myself back in and watch the night go by while listening to music that I won’t tell Oliver I like.
He’d probably change it.
And that makes me mad.
Because Oliver Cumberland, the man who hurt my sister and gave all signs that he was ready to do it again, shouldn’t have good taste in music.
Just like the man who hurt my sister shouldn’t be the best CEO that the Miles2Go convenience store chain has ever had.
He shouldn’t be the reason I’ve finally found a purpose in life.
But he is.
He made a difference in the world.
What he’s done as CEO of Miles2Go made a difference in my world. My disinherited-and-found-my-purpose world.
And that’s what makes this situation—the fact that I’m growing more convinced by the mile that what I accidentally crashed is Oliver running away from all of it—worse than him trying to get back together with Margot would be.
I grew up surrounded by billionaires and CEOs and world leaders.
These guys don’t drive themselves places in the middle of the night.
When they travel in the middle of the night, it’s by helicopter or private jet to one of their weekend mansions, escorted by their entourages of security and advisers and assistants.
And their entourages know when they have secret girlfriends or mistresses, and their entourages know when they’re in legal trouble, and their entourages know when they have health issues, and their entourages keep their mouths shut because that’s what they’re paid to do.
To be there through everything and not tell a soul.
This?
This lone wolf stuff?
He’s running away.
My suspicions that I’m right get stronger when he finally pulls to a stop on a gravel driveway at a teeny-tiny dark cabin miles and miles from the highway.
There’s a sedan parked in the clearing that looks a lot like my car.
I peer closer and confirm for myself that yep—that’s a late model Toyota Camry.
Black or dark blue. Blending into the night.
Oliver parks the SUV—though lurches it to a stop might be a more appropriate way of putting it—and climbs out, then wrenches my door open.
He jerks a thumb, indicating I should get out of the car. “Get inside.”
“Fancy digs. I like it.” I’m being obnoxious and I know it.
It’s a defense mechanism that being around people from home brings out in me.
And it’s why I don’t like to go back to New York City.
I don’t like this side of me. I like the side of me that lives upstate in Athena’s Rest with Bea and our other friends and her brothers and my coworkers, where they’re my family and I have a purpose and I’m not angry about everything all of the time. “We staying long?”
His eyelid twitches. Given that he’s only lit by the interior lights of the SUV, it looks less like a twitch and more like a ghost took possession of his eyeballs for a minute there.
The tickle of fear hits behind my breastbone once more. “Or is this where you’re dumping my body?”
“I’m not—Jesus. I’m not a fucking murderer.
Even if I want to be. Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’m taking you to a hotel.
I’ll leave very specific instructions on what you should tell your family and mine about why you needed a pickup in the middle of nowhere, and I’ll leave you with whatever cash you want to keep your mouth shut.
This never happened. You didn’t see me. Understand? ”
He's not saying the words yes, I’m running away, except he is.
And while I don’t want the guy anywhere near my sister, I also don’t want him to disappear.
Not when I know what it would mean for my own future.
And the world, truthfully.
I nod in response to his demand for silence and slowly climb out of the SUV, but as my second Louboutin hits the ground, I lose my footing and tumble forward.
I have not missed this kind of shoe since I got myself disinherited and quit going to fancy dinners and parties. If I could’ve crashed the party tonight while wearing work boots, I would’ve.
Oliver catches me by the arm with a low growl in the back of his throat.
When his hand connects with my skin, I suck in a breath that comes with a whiff of lemon and fresh-cut grass. Goosebumps race up my arm.
I open my mouth, but the smart-ass comment I want to give him dies in my brain before it can make it anywhere near my tongue.
He tugs and straightens me. “Walk.”
I take three steps before my heel catches wrong on the gravel driveway again. My arms windmill. My ankle twists. It’s so dark beyond the SUV’s headlights that more anxiety makes my legs tremble, and I squeak like a mouse as I struggle to get my balance back.
How did I ever wear shoes like this regularly? “If I’d known we were going glamping, I would’ve packed better stilettos.”
He growls once more, and then the world is upside down and cool night air is flowing up my legs and teasing my ass.
The short dress was not the smartest decision tonight. For sneaking into the party uninvited, yes. For a road trip to nowhere, Pennsylvania, no.
But also—who knew Oliver could manhandle a woman like she’s no bigger than a doll?
I never saw him toss Margot over his shoulder like this. And she never talked about him having an iron grip like the hand clamped on my thigh.
Or the way being manhandled could make a girl feel things she absolutely does not want to feel.
Primal instinctive reaction, I tell myself.
Nothing to do with Oliver.
Which is exactly what I hope my entire life gets back to soon.
Nothing to do with Oliver.
Directly, anyway.
But unfortunately, I don’t think that’s in my immediate future.
Because if I’m right and he’s running away—I’m screwed.
My job? My dream job?
The job I have now, working for a nonprofit that saves animal habitats?
Most of our operational costs are covered by a grant from the M2G Foundation.
A foundation that Oliver started almost as soon as he took the reins of the company as a PR stunt to immediately work on rehabilitating the corporation’s image.
If Oliver’s out, there’s very little chance the next CEO will continue to funnel profits into charitable causes like mine.
Because while Miles2Go’s reputation has turned around, stockholders are grumbling that there’s no profit. And there’s no profit because of the current focus on the public image, which I swear I only know because my boss was talking about it the other day.
I need my phone.
And there it is.
In his back pocket.
I reach for it, miss, and touch his ass.
His shoulders tighten beneath my stomach, and then once again, my world spins as he hefts me off his shoulder and sets me on the porch.
He eyes me, and another shiver races across my arms and down my spine.
“Don’t even think about it,” he mutters.
“About what?”
“You’ll get your phone back when I give you your phone back. Understand?”
I smile and nod despite the way I’m suddenly uncomfortably intrigued at how bossy he’s being. He was never bossy to Margot. Ever. “You’re in charge. Whatever you say.”
He sighs the heavy sigh of a man trying very hard to control his breathing.
Understandable.
We both know I’m lying.
Before the night’s over, I’ll have my phone back.
And then I’ll make a plan.
Even if it’s not the plan I want.
Because, much as it pains me, making sure Oliver’s okay before I take off is what Margot would want me to do.
And after the way Bea took care of me when I was suddenly penniless, family-less, and overall lost in the world…I think the universe would call this situation my chance at restitution for what I’ve been given the past few years too.