“Jesus, I’ll take my chances!”
Oh my God.
This isn’t happening.
My fingers curl around the door handle. The wind is howling outside, rattling against the car, promising a wintry mix of hypothermia and death.
I probably wouldn’t survive ten minutes in this dress and these heels, even with the cropped faux-fur jacket I threw on for style over substance. But I refuse to let that be the reason I end up murdered.
This guy just kidnapped me.
A messy mop of light-brown hair swings back and forth as the man scrubs a hand from forehead to jaw. “Christ.” His fingers tighten around the wheel, his knuckles pale from the force of his grip. “Look, I’m not dangerous. This was a mistake. I didn’t know you were back there.”
My hands are trembling, my nails biting into my bare thighs beneath my cocktail dress. “Where are we going?”
He exhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut for half a second too long before focusing back on the road. “Jesus. I need to think.”
“You need to explain yourself! Where the hell is my brother?” I bounce up and down in the seat, tears pricking my eyes, my pulse acting as the percussion in a marching band. “Did…did you hurt him?”
“No, God—I told you I’m not dangerous,” he insists.
I cup a hand around my mouth, my stomach coiling with alcohol and anxiety.
One minute I’m gulping down cocktails, dancing the night away with Kenna, and the next I’m trapped in a stolen car with a frantic stranger and no way to call for help.
I glance outside at the precarious weather conditions, then at the emergency brake. I’m not sure if pulling it would increase or decrease my chances of dying.
My mind races with different scenarios: hydroplaning on the icy road and flipping over in a ditch with the car bursting into flames, or becoming the tragic main character in a true crime documentary.
Neither was on my bingo card tonight.
Swallowing the fear, I try to reason with him. “Listen, you don’t want to do this. You’re a good person, right? I’m sure you are. We can still chalk this up to a random, terrifying, extremely far-fetched accident and giggle about it later.” Feigning a nervous laugh, I take in his reflection, and it looks like he’s in pain. I’m rambling. And that’s never been a great motivator for getting my way. “If you’re not dangerous, then drop me off at the next gas station. Or just—” But the words die in my throat as my gaze dips, and the moonlight catches on something dark and wet.
His jeans are soaked through, the fabric clinging to his thigh.
“Wait, is that blood?” My voice raises an octave as I jerk forward in the seat to get a better look. “Are you bleeding? Oh my God.”
He clutches his injured leg, blood seeping through his fingers. “Someone shot me.”
“Excuseme?” My stomach does backflips. Surely, I misheard. “Someone shot you? Why? Are you in a gang?”
“Jesus, no,” he says, wincing through the obvious distress. “Gas station clerk.”
“Holy shit. Is Tag okay?”
“Who the hell is Tag?”
“My brother!” The car briefly swerves into a ditch again, and I slam against the side door, bonking my head on the glass. “Jeez, you’re going to get us killed!”
The guy saws out a breath, struggling with the wheel, the movement making him hiss before he regains control. “Last I saw, your brother was fine,” he finally says. “I was leaving with something I couldn’t pay for. The clerk panicked and lost his mind.”
“You were stealing?”
His jaw tics, but he doesn’t deny it.
This horror-movie evening has just taken a sharp turn into full-onReservoir Dogsterritory. “And then you stole my brother’s car?”
“I didn’t have a lot of options, okay?” He cuts me a sharp, poignant glance in the mirror. “I was bleeding all over the floor, and I didn’t exactly have time to weigh my moral choices.”
