Not the truck, though.
Fear trickles through me as I think of the kinds of people who could dwell in these woods if my stalker feels comfortable enough to call it home.
Moving toward the treeline, I watch headlights getting closer from the direction of the cabin.
Not headlights… a headlight. Singular.
When he gets closer, my stalker stops, leaning onto one foot as he flips up his helmet’s visor. “Get on.”
“No.”
“Poison,” he says, pulling something off his hip and pointing it at me. A gun, I realize. He’s pointing a fucking gun at me. “Get the fuck on the bike.”
I swallow.
I don’t know if he’s taking away my option to lie here and be stubborn knowingly or accidentally, but I’m thankful. I’m tired and hungry, and probably sunburnt.
He shows me how to get behind him and tells me how to hold onto him and where to put my hands on the gas tank when we’re slowing down.
It’s unnecessary if we’re going home, I think.
Until I realize we’renotgoing home.
Holding onto him from behind, I close my eyes as the world speeds past, and since he can’t see me, I let a smile lift my lips against his back as thrill races through my veins.
When he leans, I lean. When he slows down, I do as I’m supposed to. For a fleeting second, it’s as if we’re not killer and hostage, but something… more, which is stupid to think.
He doesn’t take me anywhere. We ride and ride, and somehow, a renewed sense of calm has washed over me before I realize we’re back on the driveway, headed toward the cabin.
When we pull in, he taps my leg to get me off first, offering his arm for stability.
Bear lifts off the porch from a nap, stretching before bounding down the steps.
“You’re a traitor, you know that?” I whisper, kissing his head as I crouch to pet him.
“There’s food on the stove. Eat. Shower. I’ll be in soon.” With that, he closes his visor on his helmet, driving off toward the back of the property, leaving me standing with my mouth agape.
Remembering how he held me at gunpoint has me moving back inside the house, more confused than when I left this morning.
I move through the motions of showering before dressing. When he walks into the cabin, I’m peering into the pot at what looks to be chili.
“It’s not drugged,” he says, stepping next to me with a spoon in his hand, taking a bite in front of me to prove he’s not lying.
He’s just as covered in clay as I was from the bike ride.
“What was that about?” I ask him.
“What?”
“The bike.”
He shrugs. “Looked like you needed it.”
I did.
I won’t admit shit to him, however.
“Eat. Then, we’ll deal with all the details of your stay here.”
