CHAPTER 25
My heart flips inside my frozen chest as Jake’s eyes meet mine. I try to read what I see there, but I don’t have time. Skunk has noticed the knife in my hand. He knows what I intended to do. And he’s not happy about it.
He straightens up, eyes gone black with anger. His lips curl back from his teeth, hands reaching for me as he snarls, “You b—”
But I’m not looking at him. Barely register the incoming attack. Because I only have eyes for Jake.
I’m frozen as he pulls a pistol from the back of his pants. A gun that I bought him. That he’s now raised, aimed in my direction as his mouth forms words I can’t hear.
I watch as his finger curls. Jump back as he pulls the trigger. Fall to the ground as the blast of the gun fills the narrow building, echoing off the rafters while my heart spasms erratically inside my chest.
The blood on my shirt is searing hot against my skin. I can’t stop staring at the wound, the dark crimson it leaks spreading in a growing pool across the floor, not quite believing my eyes. But it’s true.
Jake just inflicted what is sure to be a lethal injury.
He rushes over, falling to his knees beside me. Reaches a hand toward my face tentatively, like I’m a ghost and might vanish at his touch. His thumb brushes feather soft against my cheek, his eyes full of sorrow.
“Are you okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I only nod.
Jakes turns toward Skunk, runs his fingers through his dark hair, tugging at it as he looks at the dying man with regret. “I told him to stop.” A shudder rolls through him as he whispers, “He didn’t listen. I couldn’t take the chance that he might hurt you.”
Twisting back toward me, he clears his throat and says, “We’ve got to get out of here.”
I observe numbly as he plucks the knife from my fist, folding the blade that I struggled so hard to open back into the handle before slipping it into his pocket. He grabs the backpack with the money in it, slings a strap over his shoulder, then scoops me up off the floor.
He takes a big step to the side, avoiding Skunk’s outstretched hand as the man makes a feeble attempt to grab him. His moans have grown weaker. There’s now more blood outside of his body than in. By the time we reach the door, the man will be dead.
It could have been me. Almost was. Most likely would have been, if not for Jake. All my doubts and worries are temporarily silenced, buried under relief.
I lean my head against Jake’s shoulder and close my eyes while he carries me away.
Try my best to stay conscious, not wanting to miss a second of the feeling of his arms around me, the heat of the sun on my face as we step outside, the tenderness he uses as he places me ever so gently in the passenger seat of his truck and straps me in.
I’m grateful and relieved—and overwhelmed with questions.
“I’m so sorry.” His voice hitches over the words. “I’ll cut you loose as soon as we put some distance between us and this place.”
I nod my understanding. I want to ask how he found me, but I already know. I just can’t comprehend what it means yet.
The seat beneath me is soft, the air is cool, the hum of the tires rolling across the asphalt soothing, like a lullaby. I want nothing more than to sleep right now. Instead, I study the man beside me.
His suit is rumpled. Dark circles ring his eyes. He clearly hasn’t shaved in days. His gaze stays in constant motion, darting between the road in front of us to the mirrors and back. Finally, the vehicle slows, bumping onto the shoulder.
“I think we’re good. I haven’t seen another car in ten minutes,” he says, though he’s still staring behind us. He swallows hard, then turns to face me. His expression buckles. “This is all my fault, Cassie. I never should have left.”
Jake reaches out, gingerly running his palm across my cheek, his fingertips pushing my hair behind my ear. He hisses, making a face.
“You need a doctor.”
“No.” The word rasps out from my parched throat.
“Cassie—”
I shake my head and croak, “Water.”
He fumbles for a mostly full bottle in the cupholder. Uncaps it and holds it to my lips. I try to drink too fast, making myself choke and sputter. Setting the bottle down, he uses his thumb to wipe my chin dry.
A sudden wave of self-consciousness strikes me as I realize what I must look like. Filthy, bruised, covered in blood and probably my own vomit as well. Despite that, he leans forward, pressing a soft kiss against my forehead. Then he opens the glove box.
Pulling out a multitool, he extracts a knife much larger and sharper than the one I’d been trying to use to free myself and makes short work of the rope that binds me. He passes me the water, watching closely as I grasp it in both hands, forcing myself to take tiny sips.
“We have to get moving again. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”
I nod. And though he gives me a worried look as he pulls back onto the road, he doesn’t argue, which is a blessing. Because odds are, I could use some medical attention, but judging from the way he’s acting, we can’t risk it.
This is more than him just being nervous because he killed a man.
He’s spooked, his eyes already back to scanning our surroundings like he’s being hunted. I suspect that might be true. And, if it is, that whoever’s after him is after me as well.