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“Maybe we can bum a ride.”
“Yeah, because we don’t look shady at all, wearing sunglasses at night.”
He groaned. “I don’t fucking know, Ari. I’m not the one who’s part of a goddamn secret society. I don’t associate with stalkers and kidnappers and assholes with helicopters.”
I winced at his under-the-breath outburst. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I got you into all of this.”
He pulled his hat down lower on his brow and shook his head. “You didn’t. I sort of volunteered, didn’t I?”
“And you can un-volunteer at any time.”
“Right,” he scoffed. “Leave you to fend for yourself?”
I smiled, despite the tense moment. “You just can’t resist being a hero, can you?”
“Well, someone’s gotta be.”
Since that fated day at Meg and Sean’s wedding, when Dane had swooped in to save the day—for me and the groomsmen—Kyle had been trying to prove he was a good guy. And continually did a great job of it.
I squeezed his hand and said, “You’re pretty awesome.”
“Regretting marrying the Terminator?”
“I think of him more as the Bruce Wayne/Batman type.”
“You would,” Kyle said wryly.
“Anyway, that’s currently neither here nor there. We have to find an escape that doesn’t put anyone in jeopardy, so I don’t think asking for a ride is an alternative.”
“Then I guess we’re stealing a car.”
I sighed. “There has to be another way.”
He glanced around our immediate surroundings. My gaze followed. He paused. I did as well.
“What?” I asked as we both stared at two officers clearly focused on crowd control.
Kyle put his hand at the small of my back and guided me away. “Just play along.”
“Okay.”
I had no clue what he was up to. We wound through the large groups gathered about, everyone laughing and drinking, having a great time. A part of me envied them, looking so carefree and … safe.
We strolled casually toward the food court, not drawing any real attention, thankfully. Then we passed through plastic white-picket gates and I halted abruptly.
“The beer garden?” I stared up at him, incredulous.
“Play along,” he reminded in a quiet tone.
I huffed a little but followed him to the booth. We stood in line for a few minutes while I apprehensively glanced about. Not that I would know whom to search for—I had no idea who’d been in the Camaro. I kept my eye out anyway.
When we reached the front of the line, Kyle ordered two beers and paid for them. We stepped away and I said, “I can’t drink this. I’m pregnant.”
“You don’t have to drink it. Spill some on your jeans. Your shoes.”
I didn’t know, but the plan did as requested.
“Slosh a little over the rim of the cup,” he added, “onto your hand.”
