He hadn’t so much as blinked as he’d stopped the car by the ditch. It had been shaded by the overhanging trees, pools of muddy water collecting where the sunlight hadn’t reached. He’d acted as if everything was normal; as if it were any other day.
That was where he’d taken her. There and then. On the passenger seat of the valeted Ford that her mate Ryan had tried to hotwire. She’d tried to resist initially; the shock and surprise of his forcefulness had stirred an automatic response in her. She’d balled a fist and jutted out her arm, striking him awkwardly and clumsily in the throat. He’d choked on his spittle reflexively; gasping for breath through the peculiarly-angled blow. Then he’d cleared his throat – once, twice, three times – hurling a ball of spit into her eye as he’d pinned her
