After stealing money from her wealthy but controlling stepfather, Nataly Collins makes the bold decision to run away with her four-year-old sister. But as she does, she crosses paths with an escaped convict from the local penitentiary, and he plans...
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"Please don't kill me," I beg, squeezing my eyes shut. "You can have it all."
This is what I get for being such an idiot. Counting all that money in a murdery-vibes gas station? I might as well have had a neon sign over my dumb, unsuspecting head.
"Shh," he says, driving the barrel of the gun into the back of my neck. The cold metal kisses my skin despite my thick hair, paralyzing every muscle, ligament, and joint. "This isn't a stick up, Princess Buttercup."
Horror laces up my spine. I had mistakenly assumed this was about the thousands of dollars in my trunk. It hadn't even crossed my mind he could want something else.
"W-what do you want?" I force myself to ask, unable to disguise the tremble in my voice.
The guy leans in closer, gripping my left arm as if he's afraid I'll start running. He doesn't realize I have one good reason to stick around and she's currently fast asleep in the backseat—who knows for how much longer.
"I need you to take me somewhere," he says in a low, almost seducing sort of way. "That's all."
"W-where?"
"That's for me to know and for you to find out as you drive. Keys?"
Reluctantly, I pass him the keys to the Mercedes. Only then does he slightly ease up on the gun and push me forward, forcing me to walk to the passenger's side.
My brain automatically logs a couple of notes. For one, he's strong. Almost as immovable as brick. Also, he's way taller than me. Probably a whole foot. And by the sounds of it—young-ish? Can't be that much older than twenty-five.
My gut clenches as we pass a sleeping Nova in the back.
He stops dead in his tracks, peering in. "The fuck...you gotta kid? You look way too young for a kid."
"She's my sister." Idiot. "Please, please don't hurt her. I'll drive you wherever you want."
He cusses a string of expletives—very creative expletives. They involve Jesus and Mary—the whole divine family, actually. Ken would have a brain aneurysm. And then he drags in a huge breath. "No one will get hurt as long as you do exactly what I say. Got it?"
I nod rigidly.
He forces me to stand to the side while he opens the passenger door and slides in.
In my peripheral, he tucks the gun away in his Lenny's Auto jacket, which carries an aroma of grease and rubber. Go figure.
Obviously he works at the dinky auto shop across the way, which elicits a whole new field of questions. But I don't have the courage to look him in the face, let alone ask him about my pressing curiosities.
Maybe if I don't look at him, he won't kill me.
"Okay, princess, walk to the driver's side."
Easy enough, except I fumble when I turn, smacking right into the gas pump.
