My first two questions go unanswered. My last doesn't require a lengthy deliberation. He is an FBI agent, and I am a cabaret dancer who solicited him for sex. The only way we will ever get cozy is when he is circling cuffs around my wrists.
As if he heard my unspoken words, the unnamed man suggests I make a dash for it. I shake my head. “I can’t. You don’t know what we did to him. He’ll shoot me.”
When I remain frozen in place, the man steps out of the low-hanging tree sheltering him from the agent's view. The agent's attention snaps to him so fast, I'm certain his neck will feel the effects for weeks to come.
“Are you an idiot? What are you doing?!” My scold is barely audible over the agent’s repeated demands for the man to raise his arms above his head.
Although he does as requested, his eyes remain locked on mine. “Now we’ve only got two options. You either run with me or I die. The choice is yours, Regan.”
“If he has no intentions of shooting me, why would he shoot you?!” I stop badgering him with myyou’re such an idiot voicewhen the crook of a finger steals my words. The agent’s trigger finger is no longer straight and flat. It is curled in a soul-stealing way.
Shit.
“On the count of three, I’m going to run. You either run with me or watch me be carted out of this field with a bullet hole in my back.”
“I can hear you, you know,” the agent growls, pissed we’re talking about him as if he isn’t here, much less the only player holding a gun.
The gray-eyed stranger smirks as he mockingly states, “I know.”
He charges for me so fast, the agent barely has a second to blink, much less yank back his trigger. His theory that the agent has no intention of gunning me down is proven without doubt when his dash behind my back coincides with the lowering of the agent’s gun.
“Need more proof?”
Not waiting for me to answer, the gray-eyed man steps out from behind my shoulder. The instant he is unblanketed from my body, the agent curls his finger around the trigger of his gun. When he steps back, placing me in the firing line, the agent’s finger goes as straight as a board.
The unnamed man’s husky laugh is barely audible over the hammering of my heart. With the unusual range of emotions hammering me, I can’t declare if it is a good flutter or a bad one. If I had to choose, I’d say it is a bit of both. I hate that we’re in this predicament, but this is the first time in a long time my heart has thumped this way. Luca was the instigator of any trouble we got into, so he was the one left answering for it. I’m not saying I’m totally innocent, but compared to Luca’s antics, I appeared to be a saint.
The stranger's minty breath fans my earlobe when he whispers, "On the count of three, I'm going to spin and run. If you come with me, we'll be scot-free. If you stay put, I'll be dead."
I don’t get the chance to protest before he counts down, “Three. . . Two. . .”
"Rae, don't," the agent warns when my feet shift an inch to the right. "I can protect you. I can keep you safe. You just need to trust me."
The honesty in his tone makes me believe his pledge of protection, but apart from my dad and brother, there has only been one other man who gained my utmost trust. He is buried under six feet of dirt. He took my secrets to his grave—just as I will his.
For that alone, I turn and sprint when the stranger screams, “One!”
With my brain on the verge of shutting down, I focus on one thing and one thing only: keeping my body aligned with the man two feet in front of me. The closer I stay to him, the less likely he’ll be bitten by a bullet.
I hear the agent chasing after us, shouting my name on repeat, but I also smell freedom. It is there, right over the railroad tracks. I just have to keep running like I did the night Luca guided his car toward a massive tree trunk.
Did you know if you sprint fast enough, the entire world blurs? That’s what I do to forget haunted memories. I run until the tears streaming down my face are replaced with sweat, and running home is the last thing on my mind. I run until my legs give out, and my toes bleed as heavily as my heart did that fatal night three years ago.
I run and run. Then I run some more.
The stranger waves his arm in the air three times when we cross a railroad track. A dark blue sedan skids to a stop in front of us two seconds later. When the suit-clad man gestures for me to enter before him, I shove him into the backseat with a grunt. Can’t he sense the danger surrounding us? The agent is so close, his hot breaths are quivering on my neck. They’re the reason my heart is battering my ribs even more than my overworked lungs are struggling for air.
I dive into the car with barely a second to spare. The driver floors the gas pedal, leaving the agent standing on the road edge with his gun pointed our way, but his bullets intact.
I’d like to say my heart is in the same condition. Unfortunately, I can’t.
Chapter Three
My feet are planted shoulder-width apart, and my aim is perfect; I just need my head to get the memo that my target is a criminal. She chose evil over good, the villain over the hero. She chose him instead of me.
So do your fucking job, Alex! Shoot out the goddamn tire!
Pain rockets through my right cheek when I peer down the barrel of my gun to line up the back left tire. One bullet and my pursuit will be over. The sedan will flip, most likely injuring the assailants inside. That shouldn't be an issue. If they weren't fleeing a crime scene, they wouldn't get hurt. But her, for some fucking reason, I can’t hurt her.
