“Where’syourcar?”
“It died. I walked.”
“And your phone?”
“In my car.”
I let out a stunned sigh, my head spinning, temple throbbing. I don’t know anything about this guy, except that he’s committed multiple felonies.
I’m so screwed.
“Listen,” he grits out. “I’m telling the truth. I just need to get home and deal with this. I wasn’t thinking. I’m not a bad guy—”
“You’re not a bad guy?” I interrupt, my voice cracking under the weight of everything. My pulse is a damn train wreck. “You’re hemorrhaging all over the place, and you’re driving me through a snowstorm. I don’t know you. I don’t know who the hell you are!”
“Chase,” he answers quickly. “My name’s Chase. Please, just let me get home, all right? I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”
“Home…” I gawk at him, my focus shifting from his face to his bloody leg. “You clearly need a hospital.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “You think I can walk in there with a gunshot wound, a kidnapped woman, and no story? Cops would surround me before I even sat down.”
“Not my problem!” I shake my head, trying to make sense of the mess, the chaos, the fear pooling in my gut. “But if you pass out behind the wheel, thatismy problem. You say you’re not trying to hurt me, so prove it.”
A moment of silence stretches.
His jeans are drenched with blood, his complexion ghostly white.
I’m locked in the back seat of my brother’s car with this wounded strangerin control of my fate. And yet I’m not getting psychopath vibes—more like a person on the verge of a full-scale breakdown. I don’t trust him, but he doesn’t look like he knows what the hell he’s doing either.
Tag always says that my inherent trust in human beings will be my downfall one day, and maybe he’s right.
But I don’t get the sense that this guy wants to hurt me. He’s trying to survive.
And I suppose that’s the only thing we have in common right now.
I rake a hand through my tangled hair, my heart rate still in shambles. I should be running. I should be demanding he stop the car, blizzard be damned. But there’s something about the way he’s slumped against the door, hand gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “What were you stealing?”
The car swerves again, tipping me off-balance. Fear creeps up my windpipe, and I wonder if he’s going to lose consciousness before we make it someplace safe.
He steadies the vehicle, flicking me a glance in the mirror. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters. Did you pull a gun on the clerk? Were you robbing the register?”
“No,” he forces out. “I don’t have any weapons. It was just a can of dog food. Fucking stupid.”
My gaze pans to a little tin can rolling around the floor of the passenger’s side.
A can of dog food?
“What’s your name?” he asks me, tone tentative.
I tap my feet in opposite time and wring my hands together in my lap. “You don’t need to know my name.”
He nods once. “Fair enough.” His profile is illuminated by dashboard light, his expression tortured.
When I sweep my eyes over him, taking in the way he’s gripping his thigh, trying to stop the bleeding, I spot the faint outline of ink etched into his forearm beneath his rolled-up sleeve.
