I know we're not off scot-free—whatever the hell that means—but we've bought some time to come up with a plan, at least.
For now, I keep driving north. It's not until a construction detour takes us westward that I realize where I'm taking us: Rochester. Pugli's last known location.
Beside me, Brys continues to sleep, mouth slightly ajar, head tipped against the window, one hand curled beneath her chin. Her eyelashes are thick and dark, swept against her cheeks. Her lips are plump and pink—she took her makeup off, and is all the more beautiful for it. She was a sophisticated bombshell when I ran into her—wrapped in an expensive dress, wearing unutterably rare and expensive shoes, carrying an equally unutterably rare and expensive handbag, hair done just so, makeup perfect—smoky eyes, dramatic red lips, delicate, skillful contouring. Breathtaking. A sleek, lovely, elegant New Yorker through and through.
But this version of her? Jeans that hug her generous hips and ass, a simple tee, sturdy boots, a biker jacket, no makeup,hair braided? She's real. Still elegant and breathtaking, but…I don't know. The polish and hauteur of a wealthy white-collar executive are gone. In her place? A woman who, despite the unexpectedness and terror of the whole situation, kept her head and stayed calm. This is a woman who doesn't panic when shit hits the fan.
My mind wanders as I drive steadily north and west.
She wanted to hold my hand.
I'm still not sure what to do with that, how to feel about it. It was strange, at first, holding her hand. I wasn't lying or making things up when I told her I’d never held a woman’s hand in that fashion before. I never had a childhood girlfriend. I was educated at home by a dour, hard-faced, unforgiving, cold-hearted tutor. I had no friends—my social circle consisted of my mother, father, nanny, and my tutor. I was, in a very real sense, isolated from the world. Looking back, I've often wondered why—what were my parents hiding me from? I’ll never get an answer, I know. Doesn't stop me from wondering.
And then my mother died. My father killed himself. And I was sent here, to America, to NYC. When you're a sheltered rich kid from Prague, to call America the New World doesn't feel all that archaic or anachronistic. It feels accurate. It is a whole new world. A strange and scary one. And I was here for about five minutes before I was thrown to the wolves by my father’s cousin.
God, why am I maundering through all that old, awful mess?
Because Brys wanted to hold my hand.
Why?
Comfort? I'm the reason she's in this situation, so why would she expect me to comfort her? Why would holding my hand be that comfort? Yet, despite the questions ricocheting around my brainpan, I can't help but acknowledge that holding her hand was…pleasant—more than pleasant. Simply holding herhand made me feel grounded. Connected, somehow. To her, to something indefinable.
I'm overthinking the whole thing, probably. She was scared and reached for the only source of comfort available—me.
But that doesn't explain the kiss. The tension—sexual, emotional, psychological. It doesn’t explain the way she looks at me sometimes—with heat, with interest, with…I'm not sure. She's got a hell of a poker face, for the most part, and it's not always easy to read what she's thinking or feeling from her facial expressions.
Passing through a midsize town—the kind of place that's almost indistinguishable from pretty much any other midsize town anywhere in the US, with identical strip malls and department stores and fast food restaurants and gas stations—I spot a Kohl’s set back from the highway that runs through the town, the out-lots packed with the usual suspects.
When I pull into the yawning lot and park near the back, Brys stirs. "Mmm?"
Watching her stretch and yawn is distracting—but then, everything about the woman is. "Where are we?"
I shrug, shutting off the motor. "Not sure exactly. Upstate New York somewhere."
Brys scrubs her face with both hands. "Kohl’s?”
I tap the front of my shirt, and my fingernail clicks audibly against the dried blood. "Need some new clothes."
She makes a disgusted face. "Ew." Then a concerned face. "I just realized I assumed none of it was yours."
I snort. "It's not. But I appreciate your concern."
She gives me a sheepish look. "Sorry, my first time running for my life."
I wave her off. "Forget it. What you can do is take that cash I gave you and go buy me some clothes. Jeans, tee, maybea hoodie, and some sneakers. Cross trainers, running shoes, I don't care."
"A hundred and sixty bucks isn't gonna go all that far, Jakob."
I shrug. "Then scour the sales racks. Do the best you can."
She pauses with her hand on the door handle and looks at me with fear written on her features. "What if they find me while I'm in there by myself?"
"I can see the door from here," I tell her. “I’ll be watching. And you keep your head on a swivel. Watch for lone adult males."
She snorts. "I'm a single woman who lives in Manhattan. I'malwayswatching out for lone adult males. There's no creature on this earth as dangerous as a lonely adult male."
"Lone and lonely are slightly different," I say, "But point taken. Just keep your eyes open, and if you feel like your gut is telling you to run, you listen."
