River puts a hat on my head and grabs a cap for himself. “Take off your sunglasses!” he says, quickly stashing his in the changing stall next to us. I do the same. Somewhere behind us, I hear the men yelling. They’ve probably fanned out again.Employees scatter in all directions, and announcements blare incessantly from the loudspeakers.
“Don’t run. Keep a low profile,” River softly advises as I glance around frantically. “We’re just customers. We’ll buy this hat and the cap, nothing more.” Holding my hand, he saunters to the checkout counter slowly.
He puts the goods on the conveyor belt and whistles “Yellow Submarine” by the Beatles to himself.
My gaze falls on the current newspapers, and for a brief moment, I fear I’ll see my own mugshot in the tabloids. However, that’s not the case. Apparently, the press is in a summer slump because it’s regurgitating the same topics.
Ben Adams still at large. Using almost magical tricks, he escaped from the officers.
Key witness Taylor Harden: That’s why he didn’t want to go into the witness protection program.
Artist Meredith Fox speaks with Samuel from Demons ’N Saints. Who will replace the successful band in Las Vegas?
Nervously, I look around for the security guards but don’t see them. I quickly grab the top newspaper and place it on the belt. The determined-looking cashier scans the prices and then points to River’s cheek. “You’ve got something on your face, sir,” she says with a frown.
Watermelon splatter.
I want to dig a hole into the ground, but River calmly brushes it away and says, “She proposed to me today, and I said yes.” Heplaces the dark hat on my head as if it were the ring he’ll soon put on my finger.
The woman looks at me intently, and I pull the hat low over my face. “Well then. Congratulations, darling,” she grumbles gruffly. “And tell your boyfriend to wash his face before he leaves the house next time.”
I nod stiffly, praying she doesn’t ask me anything.
River puts the cap on his head and pulls it low over his forehead. Now, he looks like a rebel—or a criminal. “In Wyoming, you can’t shower on Wednesday.”
For the first time, something like amusement appears on her face. “That’s nonsense! And that only applies in Cheyenne!”
River smiles his one-million-dollar smile. “I’m a damn lucky guy, aren’t I?” He takes my hand resolutely, and we stroll toward the exit when we hear someone yelling, “Over there!”
I turn my head. Five men are rushing after us, two of them in uniform.
River and I start running at the same time, but my wedge heels suddenly feel like concrete blocks on my feet on the dilapidated asphalt.
“I’ll get the car.” River lets go of my fingers and sprints toward the Porsche. I glance over my shoulder.
The men have almost caught up with me. The young redhead who reminds me of Chester leads the group, a grin plastered on his face like molasses. Automatically, I stop.
“Did your knight in shining armor leave you?” he asks with biting mockery, and the others behind him laugh. He’s not thirty feet away. “They’re all like that. Be grateful we caught you. Who knows what other trouble he would have gotten you into.”
In a blind panic, I continue moving, clumsily and far too slowly.
“Come on, little one. Stay put,” I hear another milder-sounding male voice call out. “We won’t hurt you.”
River revs the Porsche’s engine.
“Look, he’s leaving. Didn’t I tell you he’d do that?” the red-haired man laughs, and another joins in loudly.
My heart skips a beat. What if River does leave me behind?
However, as soon as I think it, the Porsche’s tires squeal. The engine roars again, and the car races toward us at full speed. One of the men shouts something. I jump to the side, and a few seconds later, River brakes sharply next to me.
Without opening the door, I jump into the Porsche, and River peels out. Shaking, I cling to the door handle.
As we turn onto the highway, River throws the cap away and gives me a sideways glance. It’s serious but so urgent that a sparkling hot-cold feeling spreads across my skin like a dark blue silk scarf. For a moment, I’m transfixed. My mouth goes completely dry, but I can’t look away either. It’s holding me. This look. It's so many things.
It conveys so much, tinged with confusion and a hint of anger.
I swallow. Why should he be angry with me? Or am I merely imagining it?
