Kota crossed his arms over his chest, setting his jaw. “No.”
“No?” Hot Guy snapped.
“Yeah, no. How do I know you’ll do a good job? How do I know you won’t just frame me for this murder? I’m not leaving until we call the cops. Got it?”
The man huffed like an angry bull, tucking his gun into the back of his pants before offering Kota his hand. “Yeah, got it.”
Kota let out a relieved breath. It felt shaky. “Finally. Jeez.”
He looked down to wipe the grime from the parking lot off his jeans.
Turning his back on a guy with a gun was just one bad decision in a long, illustrious career of bad decisions. A large hand clamped over his mouth, then an arm came around his waist, lifting him clean off his feet. The world tilted. He struggled, kicking and thrashing, but he was no match for the much larger man. Panic detonated in his chest, wild and immediate.
Those muscles were not just for show.
By the time he got back to the killer’s—theotherkiller’s—rig, Kota was no longer struggling, just hanging there like dead weight, determined to be as heavy as possible. A protest in the only way he had left.
The man didn’t notice. He wrestled Kota into the back of his rig. One of the biggest rigs he’d ever seen. It had a bed, a fridge, even a stove and a TV.
And a…cat. A ginger cat with amber eyes that blinked at him slowly, looking as annoyed as his owner. Judgment radiated from the animal in palpable waves.
Kota barely had time to process that detail before his hands were yanked behind his back and wrapped with something. Duct tape, maybe? The adhesive tugged painfully at his skin as it tightened.
Cute for a murderer or not, this was officially the worst rideshare experience of his life.
Hot Guy shoved him onto the bed. Kota had just enough time to right himself and shoot the guy another nasty look before a strip of tape landed over his mouth, pressed down hard enough to sting. Kota muffled a curse behind the silver strip, heart hammering so hard he was pretty sure it was trying to escape through his ribs.
“Stay put.”
Dakota did his best to cuss him out from behind the tape, muffled fury vibrating in his chest, but the man just grinned.
For a second, Kota was sure his heart actually stopped. Not skipped. Not fluttered. Fully fucking stopped.
Jesus Christ. Why did this man have to be hot?
Up close, it was worse. So much worse. Perfect white teeth, pointy incisors like a vampire, a mouth made for sins Dakota was absolutely not prepared to contemplate right now. His eyes were impossibly green—too green, honestly—and Kota briefly wondered if they were contacts before deciding that would somehow be less unsettling than them being real.
The guy huffed out a weird sound.
Kota glowered at him, pulse roaring in his ears, when he realized—horrified—that it was a laugh.
“You’re right. You are way too pretty for prison. And a helluva lot cuter with your mouth taped shut.”
Kota told him to eat shit. It came out as a wet, indignant noise that did nothing to maintain his dignity.
The man’s grin widened just a fraction, like he found Kota’s reaction deeply entertaining. He shook his head, stepping back toward the door of the rig.
“Behave,” he said lightly, like he wasn’t leaving Dakota restrained in the back of a murder-mobile.
Then he hopped down from the cab and disappeared, the door slamming shut with a final, echoing thud.
Kota tipped onto his side, bringing his legs up onto the thin mattress. He hoped he was getting dirt and grime all over his space. It would serve him right. Asshole.
Silence rushed in to fill the space he left behind, making Kota’s ears ring and his thoughts spiral. He wasn’t the type anyone should leave alone with his thoughts.
Kota lay there, taped and shaking, staring up at the ceiling. His heart was still trying to beat its way out of his throat.
A soft weight landed near his hip.
