Chapter Forty Four
I pull over to stretch and relieve myself a total of three times over the course of the day. Each time, the smell of cheap coffee and gasoline washes over me and I can’t wait to get back in the car, itching to finish this journey.
Meg is back by my side, in the passenger seat I mean, swamped in an oatmeal-colored hoodie above gray jeggings.
She’s pulled her hair up in a ponytail that swishes as she hums along to a song in her head.
Anyone looking in would think we’re on a romantic road trip for the weekend.
If only they knew what Meg’s efforts to keep herself distracted were really in aid of.
“Okay,” Meg suddenly replies to a question that wasn’t asked.
“Let’s play a game.” I huff out a quiet laugh, unused to the casualness between us.
I suppose being away from campus, away from the noise and the expectations and whatever invisible line we’ve been toeing for weeks, we can breathe just a little.
“What would you like to play?” I glance over briefly. Meg’s blue eyes light up, her body turned to face me. Somehow, she’s managed to cross her legs and withdrawn her arms from the sleeves so she’s just a hoodie and a head.
“Two truths and a lie. I’ll go first.” Gesturing lazily with one hand, I fight to keep my eyes on the road.
It’s not often I get this up close and personal with Meg before she starts scowling at something I’ve said.
She clears her throat dramatically, like she’s about to deliver a speech she’s been rehearsing in her head. I hide my small smile.
“One, I broke my ankle running away from a dog when I was eight. Two, I’ve never skipped a class in my life. Three, I had a concussion during the Harrogate match last year – that I scored the winning goal on if you don’t remember.”
“Of course I remember. You turned up at my house and threw your winning ball at my chest,” I quickly glance at her again, raising one brow.
“Actually, if you were concussed and somewhat medicated, that would make perfect sense now. That one is true, as is your pathetic dog story.” Knocking the indicator, I switch lanes before returning to Meg’s pointed stare.
“You favor your right foot when pivoting. So that leaves skipping class as your lie, which I would have gotten anyway. Your attendance rate is appalling.”
Meg’s mouth drops open. “There’s no way you know my—”
“Sixty-eight percent attendance since returning to Hollowbrook this semester.” At my smug smile, Meg slithers her arms back into her sleeves and promptly, yet playfully, smacks my bicep.
“This is slander,” she huffs, although there’s a heavy dose of humor in it. “I’ve given as much of myself as I’m able. Sometimes a break is needed, especially when I have to deal with you once a day.” The corner of my mouth hitches while Meg folds her arms. “It’s your turn. Two truths and a lie.”
Rolling my shoulders, I count my facts with my fingers against the steering wheel.
“I’ve been arrested twice. I hate anything with garlic in it. You’re the only girl I’ve ever slept with.” A pause follows, as I knew it would, and I catch the flicker of interest before Meg rolls her eyes.
“You’re not meant to do it in order, idiot. It’s too obvious that way.” She tuts, clearly unhappy with my responses, but it’ll have to wait.
“Hold that thought,” I cut in, spotting the sign up ahead.
“This is our exit.” The energy in the car changes instantly.
Taking said exit, the terrain around us changes quicker than expected, civilization falling away in the rearview mirror.
Thiago gave me thorough instructions to follow, describing the route from his computer screen.
We sharply turn off manmade roads in favor of dirt ones that my Lexus doesn’t appreciate.
The smooth hum of the engine turns into a low, irritated growl as gravel spits beneath the tires, dust kicking up in thick clouds behind us.
The freeway noise fades, replaced by an eerie silence.
Just a faint whistle of wind cutting across open land.
The further we drive, the more exposed we become.
Acres of farmland stretch endlessly on both sides, sagging fences bordering patches of overgrown grass that haven’t seen proper maintenance in years.
I keep one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh in case Meg should feel the need to take it.
I’m not surprised when she doesn’t, preferring to sink into her seat, arms wrapped tight around herself.
For some reason, she’s tucked her mouth and nose into the hoodie, which she’s inhaling rapidly instead of unfiltered oxygen.
Eventually, when I can’t stop noticing the heavy rise and fall of her chest, I relent and place my hand on her thigh.
I hate that she flinches but I don’t retract, hoping the warmth pressing into her thigh is somewhat comforting.
Avoiding my gaze, Meg’s eyes dart around the outside, her heartbeat almost audible as she struggles to control her breathing.
As if she expects the boogey man to jump out of the tall grass.
I ease off the accelerator as the track narrows further, becoming an indent of dirt rather than an actual road.
The land is desolate, patches of light in the distance suggesting the presence of farming cottages beyond large machinery and sheds.
An ideal backdrop for someone who doesn’t want to be found.
No neighbors close enough to hear anything.
No one passing through unless they have a reason to.
The sort of place Harrison didn’t pick by accident.
In the distance, I spot the barn I’ve been told to search for.
The red paint has long since faded into a dull, weathered brown, its panels warped and splintering with age.
Exactly where Thiago said it would be. I don’t want to know what strings he pulled, what excuse or threat he’s used.
Only that my Lexus is supposedly going to be safely concealed inside and no one will be snitching on us to the cops for it.
Guiding us around the side and through open doors, my tires crunch over loose stones before I finally cut the engine.
The sudden silence is deafening, pressing in from all sides now that the constant rumbling beneath us is gone.
For a moment, I just sit there, hands still on the wheel, glancing up at the rickety old barn.
I’m dubious if the structure will even hold long enough, but regardless, I will myself to slip out before heading to the passenger door.
Meg is sitting forward, her legs drawn up to her chest. Her gaze is fixed somewhere ahead, but I don’t think she’s actually seeing anything in front of her. She’s somewhere else entirely. Carefully opening the door, I lower to a crouch, easing Meg’s hand away from where it’s clenching her thigh.
“I’m going to be with you every step of the way,” I try to reassure without crowding. Meg’s lack of reaction stirs an uneasiness in my chest.
“Why?” she whispers beneath her breath, not taking her eyes off the windscreen. Swallowing, I briefly close my eyes. She needs something real in this moment, something she can cling onto until we’re safely back in this car.
“I want to do this for you. With you. Because I want to mean more to you.” Meg’s eyes flick to mine, the hesitation and fear she’s trying to bury under layers of stubbornness showing through. Her bottom lip is trembling slightly, as is the hand I’m holding.
“Most guys settle for dinner and a movie.” Despite myself, I huff a small laugh. Her resilience will never fail to amaze me.
“Most guys don’t have my little-dick syndrome,” I parrot back her comment from yesterday. This earns a laugh from her direction, the pair of us smiling, albeit sadly. Leaning up, I press my forehead against hers. “First step is getting out of the car. Then we’ll deal with what comes next.”
Exhaling shakily, Meg nods, her fingers tightening around my hand. I shift back to help her stand, then lead her to the trunk.
“We need to change. Thiago’s instructions,” I quickly hold up my free hand when she opens her mouth to argue.
Not wanting to release her hand until I have no other choice, I awkwardly pop the trunk and wrangle the zip on a bag Thiago provided.
Or rather, a random student he paid to provide.
Amongst spare clothes and medical supplies, as we don’t know what state Laura will be in, there’s black walking boots, cargo pants, long-sleeved tops and gloves for Meg and me.
We hardly look at one another as we strip down, our thoughts elsewhere. Stuffing our car clothes back into the bag, I turn in time to see Meg pulling a post-it note out of her cargo’s pocket. Her lips twitch at the cursive writing, and I just can’t help peering over to see what’s so interesting.
Get in, get out, get back to me. T.
The bottom is signed with a heart and I struggle not to throw up. I pinch the note out of her hand and toss it into the trunk. She clearly has opinions about my reaction but doesn’t comment on it, for once. I’m playing the hero here, Meg’s attention should be solely on me.
In that same vein, as Meg heads to the barn door to peer into the setting night, I reach into my personal duffle and uncover the semi-automatic pistol I stashed there.
It was deemed a necessity by my father that I know how to defend myself before I left home, not that the gun has left its case since.
Now though, when I’m about to walk Meg into a madman’s house, some form of protection was required.
Pushing the barrel into the back of my pants, I pull my top over to conceal it and shut the trunk.
Meg is visibly prepping herself, bouncing on her heels to expel nervous energy.
Looking up at me, she gives a wobbly, somewhat reassuring smile and I shoot one straight back.
Our fingers interlink as if pulled together magnetically, a mutual arrangement taking place between the single nods we give one another.