In a turn of events that was a surprise to exactly nobody—nobody being Dakota himself—he realized his error in judgment about five minutes after it would have been helpful. Which, frankly, felt on brand. To say he was a bad judge of character would be the understatement of the century.
There’d been the girl with the red hair and the dragon tattoo who’d stolen his heart, then his bank card. There was the bartender who disappeared for days at a time with both his car and his cash. He still had no idea where his car ended up. The guy swore he wasn’t an alcoholic, which was pretty much the only thing he hadn’t lied about. It wasn’t alcohol, it was heroin.
Still a dealbreaker.
Even Kota had standards. Low standards, sure, but standards nonetheless. He blamed his shitty childhood, just like everyone else.
And now…now, he was about to be murdered by a serial killer. He almost laughed. Almost. A thin, hysterical edge buzzed under his ribs, the kind that meant his brain was frantically trying to protect him from the reality of what was happening. Itwas just so fucking absurd. Ten minutes ago, his life was falling apart, and now, it was about to end.
He stared at the door of the cab of the eighteen wheeler, noting the lack of door handle and the missing door lock, the metal panel smooth and unforgiving where an escape should’ve been. He’d watched enough ID to know that wasn’t normal.
He glanced over at the man who’d agreed to take him at least halfway to his destination just moments ago, after they’d struck up a conversation outside the truck stop showers, then shared a meal together. Thinking about it now, he could see where he’d ignored some major red flags…
That felt like a lifetime ago.
The guy did look a little more menacing now that they were at the far corner of the truck stop and out of the bright fluorescent lighting of the diner. Inside, he’d seemed a bit sad. Receding hairline, watery blue eyes, a little bit of a paunch hanging over his overly large belt buckle that said something clever about truckers never dying. The kind of guy you forgot about the second he walked away. The kind of guy nobody would remember.
Dakota had thought, at worst, the guy might demand a handjob or something, but not that he would literally kill him. Maybe he was overreacting? Maybe it was just an old truck? God knew Kota had a flair for the dramatic. But his spidey senses weren’t just tingling, they were sparking like metal on an electric fence. His heart was racing, he was suddenly sweating despite the cold of the air conditioning pumping on high through the vents, and his body was on such high alert he was almost positive he could hear color. Everything felt too loud, too sharp—the hum of the engine, the creak of vinyl, his own pulse pounding in his ears.
What the fuck was he going to do? He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t run. He could possibly offer the guy sex, but the ideahad his stomach churning and he really didn’t think sex—specifically, sex withhim—would be enough to wow anyone into not killing him. And the fact that his brain even went there felt like a personal insult.
“Um, everything good?” he asked, tongue clicking as he unstuck it from the roof of his mouth. His voice sounded wrong to his own ears—too light, too hopeful.
The man turned to him with a greasy smile. “It will be.”
Dakota managed a whispered, “Oh, fuck,” a moment before the man was on him.
For a few sparkling seconds, he thought maybe he was trying to fuck him, but then his hands closed around his throat. Jesus fuck, how was someone so out of shape so strong? He clawed at the man’s face, kicked his legs, but his attacker was relentless. His back slammed into the door, the impact rattling his teeth, pain blooming sharp and immediate. Kota’s head was going to explode, was going to pop off like he was a cartoon character. Sparks danced behind his eyelids, and his lungs burned as he struggled for even a sip of air. The world narrowed to pressure and panic and the awful certainty that this was it.
It seemed to go on for hours. How long did it take to strangle someone? Longer than movies made it seem. Long enough for your brain to start bargaining. His arm went limp, landing in the wheel well as his vision grew fuzzy at the edges. That was when he felt it: something solid and heavy. It was cold against his sweaty palm. It took three attempts for his hand to close around the object, and every single bit of energy he could scrape up to swing the item at his attacker.
There was a weird thud and a sickeningly slick sound, like someone’s skin sloughing off. The vibration of the impact traveled straight up his arm, rattling bone and nerve. Something wet dripped on his face. Blood. The man was bleeding. But he wasn’t unconscious. No, he was pissed. He growled at Kota, spitflying as he attempted to get his hands around his neck once more. The smell hit him then—iron and sweat and something sour beneath it.
God, this sucked so bad.
Dakota tried to swing the object again, but the man grabbed his wrist, and a sharp pain lanced through his entire right arm, white-hot, immediate, like something tearing inside him. Just when he was about to give up, a bright light blinded him and he was being yanked backwards, like something had sucked him out of the vehicle. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of his already nearly empty lungs, falling at the feet of the man who’d rescued him.
He was large. Well over six foot, a wall of muscle. Dark hair. Broad shoulders filled Kota’s vision as he struggled to suck air back into his lungs. He opened his mouth to tell him to be careful, but the words died as the stranger lifted the gun in his hand and fired a shot into the truck.
Kota gasped, his brain struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. He was sure the man had fired the gun, but there was no sound. He might have thought he’d gone deaf—could that happen from being strangled?—if not for the sounds of the highway nearby. Cars roared past like nothing in the world had changed.
“You shot him,” he wheezed. “Right?”
The man glanced down at Dakota with a scowl, like he was interrupting his “me” time. Whatever Kota was going to say slipped out of his brain the moment the man looked at him. He was gorgeous. Annoyingly, offensively gorgeous. His hair was a deep, rich color, his face covered by a five o’clock shadow that did nothing to hide his chiseled jaw and sculpted cheekbones. His eyes were dark in the dim lighting, assessing, way too calm for someone who’d just executed a man.
He was so busy staring at him that he didn’t realize the man was speaking until he nudged him with his dirty boot. “Did you hear me?”
Kota thought about lying. The man looked really fucking mean. But then thought better of it. “N-No. I’m—I’m sorry. What?”
The guy scrubbed a hand over his face with his free hand, like Kota was ruining his fucking night. Sadly, Kota was used to that reaction.
“Christ. This is a fucking disaster. You need to go, kid.”
Kota snorted. “Go where?” he asked. His shirt and face were covered in something brown and sticky. Blood. The victim’s blood. It was drying fast, tacky against his skin.
His gaze landed on the gun dangling at his rescuer’s side. A silencer—was that what it was called? A suppressor? Something like that. One of his mom’s crazy boyfriends had been into guns. There were magazines all over the house and gun parts strewn over the counter of their trailer.
“We need to call the cops,” Kota said, trying again to reason with him.
