Page 7 of Not Another Dark Romance

It doesn’t take all that long for the city to become suburbs, then farmland. I keep driving though, not wanting to choose somewhere too close. After about forty-five minutes of me questioning every single life choice I’ve ever made and imagining how horrible life in prison would be, I decide enough’s enough. I turn down a random dirt road, and then another, and another. The farms are spread out, and at least two of the last three I passed had no signs of anyone living there.

I think this is as good a place as any. I pull over next to a cluster of trees, hoping they’ll provide the privacy I need and guarantee his body won’t be dug up with the next planting season or whatever the fuck farmers do. After turning off the car and headlights, I grab my new shovel from the back.

Shit, I’m so on edge, I don’t know how much longer my adrenaline will last. I hope digging his grave doesn’t take me hours.

I have no idea how big to make the hole, so I open the passenger door, intending to use the shovel to compare to his height as a sort of measuring guide, and I swear to God I nearly jump out of my skin when I lock eyes with the dead body.

Because they’re open.

3

Wow, I must’ve fallen asleep in a really shitty position. My neck is killing me.

Is that why I’m awake when it’s still so dark? And did I put on some sort of nature white noise before I drifted off?

Out of habit, I reach over to rub Piet’s head as I fall back asleep, but he isn’t there. My hand bumps something much harder than my dog.

Where the fuck am I?

I attempt to force my eyes entirely open to take in my surroundings, but it’s a struggle. Shit, I’m in a car. How did I pass out in a car, and why am I so tired? Whose car am I even in?

Before I can try to remember anything about last night—maybe I was drinking, that’d explain it—the car door opens to reveal a gorgeous man I can only vaguely recognize in my sleepy state.

I might not remember his name, but I immediately relax in his presence. “Oh hey, what are you⁠—”

4

What the actual fuck?

I don’t think, and before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m swinging the shovel, connecting it with his head.

“Shit. Shit!”

Why did I do that? The hit knocks him out, and I drop the shovel as his body goes limp in the passenger seat.

Obviously my decision-making is horrendous tonight, but I killed someone! Or I thought I did? I should check if he’s got a pulse, not that it worked well the first time. My hands were probably shaking too badly. This time I put my whole hand on his neck because I have no idea where to actually check, and press in slightly. Okay, definitely still beating. Shit, I should’ve checked there the first time and not his wrist.

Because he’s alive. How the hell did I miss that?

I’m a fucking idiot.

For a moment, I feel such extreme relief that I have to fight back tears again, because I didn’t actually kill someone. I’m not a murderer.

At least… Not yet.

Fuck.

The relief is quickly followed by an even more soul-crushing, completely overwhelming sense of dread.

I might not have killed this guy, but I did hit him with my truck hard enough that he was unconscious for who knows how long. And, when I thought I had killed him, I tried to cover up the crime. I moved the body, left the scene, and didn’t report anything.

I fucking kidnapped this guy instead of killing him.

The Salty Duck Bistro is on the Missouri side of Kansas City. Which means I drove across state lines to the middle of nowhere after buying a shovel with the intent to bury his fucking body.

Holy fucking shit.

I have to bite back a scream on the off chance anyone hears me, but I’m back to full-blown panic now.