8
1048 Words
“Sean is an excellent driver,” he says calmly, looking toward the closed partition window. “So there’s a chance we can outrun them. But if they’ve blocked off streets—like I would’ve done—they could be intentionally steering us toward a dead-end.”
He gazes down at me. “Which wouldn’t be good.”
The limo swerves wildly, fishtailing for a moment before straightening and continuing at breakneck speed. Another volley of gunfire rings out. Bullets pepper the rear window and ricochet off, leaving little round indents surrounded by spiderweb cracks.
Struggling for breath, I say faintly, “I have questions.”
“What a surprise.”
“How did you know they’d be waiting for us? What happened to your boss? What happens if they steer us toward a dead end? And why the hell are you lying on top of me?”
He looks vaguely insulted. “To protect you, of course.”
“You said this car was armored.”
That stumps him for a moment. “Right. Sorry. Instincts.”
He withdraws, sitting up and pulling me along with him. I retrieve my cute little pistol from the floor, stick it into the back waistband of my skirt, and turn to face him on the seat.
“What kind of kidnapper has protective instincts for his kidnappee?”
He snaps, “The stupid kind. I should open the door and throw you to the wolves.”
I inspect his expression. “But you won’t.”
His answer is a dissatisfied grumble. Meanwhile, we’re still speeding, the bullets are still flying, and I’m starting to have a good time.
“Ha! You see? I’m charming you already.”
He closes his eyes and sighs. “Dear god, make it stop.”
“Hold on, back up. What do you mean, ‘throw you to the wolves’? Aren’t these MS-13 guys supposed to be trying to rescue me? You know, from you?”
He scoffs. “If you had any brains, you’d be dangerous.”
“Oh, you think you’re better than them?”
“We’re not even the same species, lass.”
I make a face. “That sounds more than a little racist. You might want to check your prejudice, pal.”
Outraged, he glares at me. Then he thunders, “I’m not talking about their f*****g race! I’m talking about what they’d do to you if they got their hands on you, you bloody little gobshite! Them or any other family!” He mutters, “Thick as a plank, y’are.”
His accent gets more pronounced when he’s angry. It’s almost hot.
“You’re not making sense. Why would they ‘do’ anything to me if they’re trying to help me?”
“Help you?” He laughs. “I thought you said you’d spent time with men in my line of work?”
Feeling defensive, I say, “They didn’t raise me from birth. I’ve just dated a few. Okay, one. But yes, I did spend plenty of time with him, and with his buddies, and also some with my girlfriend’s man, so I know the rules.”
His blue eyes glitter in the dim light. “We’re at war, lass. There are no rules. Especially when it comes to the woman who started the whole bloody mess in the first place. If they returned you to New York barely breathing, your Russian boss friend would consider it a solid.”
His tone drops. “No matter how many times you were raped and beaten along the way.”
I know he’s serious, but this is also the man who threatened to rip off my skirt, spank my ass, and let his crew do the same to me—or worse—then turned around and handed me a gun. I’m not so sure his judgement can be trusted.
Besides, Nat would kill Kage if the men he sent to rescue me harmed me instead. He’d be castrated in ten seconds, which I’m sure he knows.
Onward.
“You keep blaming me for starting a war. Why?”
“Because you did.”
“I think I would’ve remembered that.”
“You don’t remember jumping from the car or punching Kieran.”
“I see. So I started this mafia war while under the influence of the drugs you gave me?”
He doesn’t like my tone, which drips sarcasm. I can tell he’s wishing he never took his tie off my mouth.
“I don’t have the time or patience to paint a f*****g picture for you.”
“Calm down. You don’t have to curse at me.”
His blistering glare could peel paint from a wall. “I think you’re lying about not having boyfriends. I think you’ve had plenty, and they all committed suicide.”
“And I think it’s scary that people like you are allowed to vote. You never answered my other questions.”
“I’m too busy planning where I’m going to bury your body.”
He’s grinding his molars again. I’m really bad for his dental health. Pity, because those teeth of his are awfully nice.
“Did you have braces when you were young?”
“What the…? Never mind. Jesus. Get down on the floor. If the car stops and I get out, stay inside. And for the love of all that’s holy, be quiet.”
He shoves me down onto the floor and holds me there with his hand wrapped firmly around the back of my neck. I look up at him, marveling that he actually thinks I’m going to obey a single one of those instructions.
How are men in charge of running everything? They’re clueless.
“Hey. Gangster.”
He closes his eyes, makes a growling noise, and tightens his hand on my neck.
“Oh, relax. I just wanted to ask if you think Reverse Stockholm Syndrome is already a thing, or if you’re about to invent it?”
“How many times did your parents beg you to run away from home?”
Good one. He’s really getting the hang of this. “After the first few dozen, they got used to the idea that I don’t respond well to demands.”
- Writer
