Predator - A Stand Alone Suspense Romance(13)

I rush out of the room and straight into the cold air. It’s still dark out. I don’t even know what time it is. I wrap my arms around me for some extra warmth.

When Damian’s arm falls over my shoulders, I flinch. He pulls me into his side and then starts to walk. I don’t look up. I keep my eyes on our feet until he pulls at me to stop.

The car is silver, a plain looking sedan type. Everything is plain but him. He nudges me into the passenger seat and I keep my eyes on my feet. I feel the car give under his weight and listen to the motor purr to life.

His movement is sudden as his hand comes at me and I press into the door, turning my face away from him and bracing myself for the impact.

When he places his hand on the headrest, embarrassment and relief courses through me. Our eyes meet for a moment before he looks behind him to back out of the parking. I shoot him an apologetic glance, one he doesn’t even see.



We drive in silence with only the buzzing of other cars and the hum of the wheels breaking the stillness of the night.

We don’t stop once and I don’t look up.

I think a lot.

I remember for the first time, and I don’t have tears to ease the flashes away.

It’s as if the motel was a cocoon of safety from my memories and now that we’ve left, I’m assaulted from all sides.

I remember the smell of the car when Damian put me on the back seat a few days ago. I remember the blankets he covered me with and that he never took them off, not until I woke up in the motel room.

I don’t know how long I was out for the first time, or the second, or until I finally woke up that day.

But I also remember the look in his eyes when he killed them all.

He killed people.

“They’re all dead. You killed them all.” My voice sounds as neutral as his has been the past few days.

“Yes,” he says. It’s all he says.

“Why?” I don’t know why I’m asking. A part of me wants them dead. Another part of me doesn’t want to think of them, doesn’t want to care whether they are breathing or not.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” he asks. I feel his eyes on me for a moment before he looks back at the road ahead. I look at his hand holding the steering wheel, the other is resting on his thigh. His whole demeanor is casual. Everything - but his eyes.

“Yes,” I whisper. I do want to know why he does what he does, and what exactly he does for a living.

“I do various things, mostly I track and clean,” he starts. I keep my eyes on his hand, the one on his leg. He doesn’t make a fist; it stays relaxed as if this is just another conversation for him. “People hire me if someone goes missing and I find them before things get ugly. I make sure to remove any evidence that they were ever there, and I take out those responsible so they don’t come back. It’s what I’m good at.”

My eyes glue themselves to his hand. It’s the hand that pulled the trigger. That hand has killed. How many people has he killed? Does he feel remorse? Is he a serial killer and as soon as I let my guard down, will he kill me too?

“Who do you think deserves to die, an innocent child or a drug lord?” he asks me all of a sudden, yanking me from my panicked thoughts.

“Of course not the child,” I mumble from under my breath, aggravated that he even asked me such a thing.

“You or Henry?”

He knows Henry? The information shocks through my body and I clasp my arms tighter around myself. I shake my head not even answering him.

“You or Attridge?” he asks again.

I start to hunch over and wish he would stop now. I don’t want to hear their names. I keep shaking my head.

“You or Steven?”

My body jerks and the old shivering returns. “Stop.” It’s a low growl from the back of my throat.

“I clean up after people. It’s what I do. Your dad and uncle left a mess and I have to clean it up so you can live. You understand that?” He keeps going.

“Stop … the car,” I wheeze the words out and reach for the door as bile pushes up my throat. Shit, I’m going to be sick. My torso convulses and I press my hand to my mouth.

I jerk forward as he quickly brings the car to a stop. A moment later the door opens. It’s already building into my mouth by the time he gets my seatbelt off. I lurch forward and fall onto all fours, heaving over the road. Tears mix with a cold sweat dampening my face, while I heave until all that’s left are weak, dry croaks.

“So much for no one noticing us,” I hear him sigh.

I’m too drained to be embarrassed and his don’t-give-a-fuck attitude really makes it easier not to care what he thinks of my puking on the side of the highway.

He presses a bottle to my lips. “Water.” A whisper, not meant to be kind. I rinse my mouth a couple of times but the burn of the bile remains in the back of my throat. I keep the rest of the water as I get back in the car. When he closes the door, I lean my forehead against the cold window.

He takes hold of my chin and turns my head until I’m looking at him. Murderous eyes bore into mine. “You asked and I don’t lie. I kill but I don’t lie, Cara. Careful what you ask me because you will always get the truth.”

I nod in his hand to show I understand. I don’t know if I’m scared shitless of him, or if I feel safer knowing what he does. All I know is I’m tired, and I feel old, so very old.