Chapter 11
Eleven
An indeterminate amount of time passes between us in silence, and only the bus hitting a pothole, making us bounce in our seats, shakes me from my thoughts. I let out a deep sigh. The land whipping past the window is beginning to make me nauseous, so I stare at the seat in front of me.
“Tell me what we’re doing in Virginia . . . please.”
“Safe house,” he mutters, “and resources.”
He leans across me to peer out the window and then peeks down the aisle and pulls out a gun I didn’t know he had. I raise a brow as he checks the clip, but he doesn’t look at me.
“Gather your shit.”
I glance at the shoulder bag between my feet and furrow my brow. “Okay.”
He surges to his feet and walks up the aisle. I grab my bag and look around before standing slowly, but he’s already at the front of the bus. I move out of the row and follow him, watching as he whispers something to the bus driver and taps the copy of his license displayed on the dash.
The bus begins to slow, and when it comes to a stop, the doors hiss as they open. York gets off, and I creep down the stairs behind him, confused and sore as all my muscles ache. The doors close behind me, and I watch the bus pull away, leaving us behind.
“What did you say to the driver?” I ask as I follow him off the road.
“I told him to pull over or I was going to put a bullet in his head.”
“You know he’s going to call the cops, right?”
“No, because I have his license number and therefore everything I need to track him down if he does.” He turns to me, looking past me at first and then to his left before digging into his pocket and extracting a folded scrap of paper.
“What the hell are we doing out here?” I say, exasperated.
“Looking for something.” He ventures into the field beside the road. “It’s this way.”
Trailing him at a distance, it takes ten minutes to cross the field we’re in and hit a line of trees, which he disappears into.
Stopping, I take a deep breath and stare at them for a moment.
Despite telling him that I’m not running from him, every other minute I question that decision.
I’m not running from him now . . . but I might change my mind later.
Selective honesty.
Letting out a long exhale, I resume walking.
The trees aren’t dense, and when I reach the other side of them, I’m standing on a narrow dirt access road.
I glance in the direction of the interstate, but there is nothing on it, and when I look the other way, York is in the distance but disappears off the side of the road a second later.
Groaning, I march in his direction, but a black car pulls out from a road or driveway I can’t see from where I am and turns toward me, rumbling as it pulls up and stops.
“In,” he orders through the open window.
I move around the old car and tug the door open. Despite its age, it looks to be in great shape, and the interior gleams with polished leather that smells new. I’m admiring it when he gets impatient and climbs out, coming around to my side.
“In.”
“Jesus,” I mutter and sink into the low seat as he slams the door shut. I squint at the sound. “Where did this come from?” I ask, digging my fingers into the leather as he slides back in.
“I told you I have resources.”
“Friends?” I prod, and his eyes cut to me.
“That’s not the word I’d use,” he says under his breath and shifts into gear. “The bus was too risky if they found footage of us buying the tickets or boarding.”
“Very cloak and dagger,” I say sarcastically.
If someone does track us, they’ll still track us to the right area .
. . but they have been quick to catch up with us twice now, so it’s a good precaution, not that I’ll tell him that.
Virginia is a ridiculous idea altogether; Washington is a stone’s throw away, and that’s where the Agency is headquartered.
We’re going toward the viper’s nest instead of away from it.
Blood pressure rising in the wake of realization, I turn my head stiffly to regard him. “Why Virginia?”
“I already told you.”
And spies lie. I look back out the windshield. This can’t be a coincidence, although I don’t know why he’d want to be anywhere near the Agency proper. Whatever he wants from me . . . it better not be anything to do with them.
“Do you have a specialty?” I ask, changing the subject so I don’t overthink myself into an anxiety attack.
“In what way?”
“In the way you kill.”
We turn onto another road. It’s paved but still only two lanes, and he flips the stereo on, ignoring me again.
“Women?” I guess. “Easier targets . . . more fun when they beg for their lives, I’m sure.” His jaw tenses. “Yeah, I bet they make all kinds of bargains with you.”
He punches the dash, and the stereo cuts out.
“Close quarters.” He grits his teeth and pulls on one of the nubs at the side of his watch. A garrote wire stretches out from it, and when he lets it go, it retracts and disappears.
I fixate on the watch for a prolonged minute and clear my throat. “Do me a favor and just shoot me when the time comes.”
Barking a curse, he slams on the brakes and kicks his door open.
Just when I think he’s going to get up and escape me for some air or something, he reaches across and grabs me by the neck and hauls me across him.
The pain in my shoulder flares, and I choke on a cry of pain as he wrestles me down on his thighs.
A hand slams down on my ass, and I shriek as I stare down at the road with my chest against his one thigh and my hips on top of the other. Another stings my skin through the denim, and I twist against him, seething and swearing as I fight the arm holding my upper back down.
“You son of—”
He does it again, and my stomach twists into knots as the warmth of the strikes spread across my skin. The next one sets off a little pulse of pleasure between my thighs that travels through me and leaves me blinking rapidly. I gasp when the next blow lands and snap my eyes shut.
I stop fighting him, and he starts caressing the sting away between strikes. Each subsequent slap sends its own little wave of need through me, and I let my head droop over the side of his leg as my breaths become shallow.
Grunting softly, he turns me over, and I sit up, ass sore and face warm with a sense of shame and bewilderment. He tucks my hair behind my ear and kisses the corner of my mouth.
“Watch your fucking mouth, Theresa,” he whispers.
Nodding faintly, I shift back into my seat and fasten the seatbelt. Slamming his door closed again, we pull back onto the road and carry on in silence. Being spanked outside of sex feels very different. Still good . . . Maybe even better, but different.
I scratch behind my ear absently and clock him from the corner of my eye. His hand flexes on the gearshift, and he lets out a deep breath as he focuses on the road. My gaze falls on his hand, and my cheeks warm as I bite my lip behind a curtain of hair.