He sighs deeply and keeps his eyes closed for a few seconds. “Get in the car, and I’ll tell you what happened.”
“Get in the car?”
Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“Dunno, let’s find out.”
“Get in the car, Damon.”
“Are you fucking insane? I’m not mother fucking getting into anything with you.”
“Look,” he says reasonably, “you have no idea where we are. We could be in the middle of butt fuck Alabama for all you know. You’re barefoot, and I could be wrong, but you don’t strike me as the type who’d flourish in the wild.”
I take in my surroundings. I see mountains and trees. Wide open spaces. Zero people or cars or buildings. My nose tickles, threatening a sneeze, letting me know just how far I am from civilization. I stalk over to the door of the back passenger seat.
“Sit in the front seat, I’m not your fucking chauffeur.” I reach out to open the back door. “Get in the front, or I’ll put you back in the trunk.”
I open the front door and get in with more than a little reluctance. He gets into the driver’s seat and starts driving without so much as a sideways glance at me. As we drive, I try to get my bearings. My infinite powers of deduction lead me to conclude that we’re in the middle of nowhere. We’re not on a highway. We’re on a backroad. It’s narrow and winding. There are trees everywhere. We’re so deep into nature, my skin crawls. Eventually, I see a road sign.
“Are we in the Catskills? Are you taking me to the fucking Catskills right now?” He keeps his eyes on the road. He doesn’t answer or show any sign of having heard me. “Who the hell do you think you are? Johnny fucking Castle?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. He almost smiles but manages to stop himself. “If I’m Johnny Castle, who does that make you? Baby? Guess it checks out, God knows you could use some time in the corner.”
I choose not to dignify that with an answer, though my dick has an unfortunate reaction to it.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened?”
“The job went tits up. We were set up. There was no buyer.”
I have no idea what any of that means. For him, or for me. “What about those guys back at the house, apartment, or whatever you’d call it?”
“Safehouse.”
“Fine,safehouse. What happened at the safehouse?”
“There was a problem. I took care of it.”
I’m not enjoying the way he’s speaking to me. I don’t like his short, sharp answers. After everything he’s put me through, I think the least he can do is give me a decent explanation. “Did you kill them?” I ask.
“I plead the fifth.”
“Why did you do it?”
“They were bad men.”
“Worse than you?”
“Yes,” he says pragmatically. He’s quiet for a moment and then he adds, “They wanted you dead. They had to go.”
My head spins, and I have to admit it’s not because he drugged me. I’m aware of how fucked up it is, believe me I am, it’s just that there’s something about a man like Saint killing for you that hits right, you know?
“Thought you couldn’t stand me. Why’d you go and kill for me?”
“I can’t stand you. That’s why I did it. If anyone’s going to kill you, it’s going to be me.”
I’m stunned into silence.
Is it just me, or was that the most goddamned romantic thing you’ve ever heard?
