Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(29)



We reach the guy on the side of the road quickly. I can see him better now—I can see middle distance, just not far and near. And I can see that the front tire is completely flat, but the rest of them look fine. “Need any help?” Grayson asks.

The man takes one look at Grayson and straightens up, squinting. Grayson’s handsome face and charming, cocksure smile don’t fool him. “No thanks.” He holds his ball cap in his hand; with his big, puffy build and graying flattop he looks like an aging football player, and he knows Grayson’s trouble.

“You got a spare and a jack?” Grayson asks.

“Yep,” the man says. “I’m good.”

“Excellent.” Grayson pulls out his gun—the cop’s gun. It’s giant and scary. The man stills. His eyes dart to me, but I don’t have any answers. “Let’s have the phone. Easy.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” the guy says as he pulls his phone from his pocket.

“That’s the right attitude.” Grayson plucks the phone from the guy’s hand and tosses it in my direction.

My hands come up by reflex—a decades-old reflex that kept me from getting hit with dishes or books or whatever my mother decided to throw at me.

I catch it. The phone is still warm from the guy’s body, and my stomach turns over. It feels like I’m complicit in this, like I’m an accomplice instead of a victim.

But Grayson still has the gun.

My eyes plead my case to the guy, but he’s all apprehension. His gaze darts back and forth. He’s trying to figure us out. Bonnie and Clyde, that’s the conclusion he comes to. He thinks I’m part of this. No, no! I want to yell.

Grayson gestures with the gun. “Now take off the shirt and toss it to my woman.”

My woman. Disbelief rolls through me.

The man unbuttons his blue plaid shirt, eyeing me fearfully, and tosses it to me.

I catch it, shaking my head, short and fierce. I’m not his woman. Get help.

He looks confused, scared. Maybe angry.

“Where’s your jack?” Grayson barks. The man mumbles that it’s in the back, and again Grayson gestures with the gun. “Go get it. We got some work to do.”

The man has some work to do, as it turns out. Grayson, ever the enterprising criminal, forces him to change the tire for us, which the man does with incredible efficiency, jacking up the truck and switching out the tires. He has all the right tools. He’s that kind of guy.

I feel like an idiot for not doing anything, but every idea I come up with seems more likely to make things worse than better. Only one car passes by in the time he’s working on the tire. It slows, maybe thinking about stopping, but Grayson just grins at them like everything is just fine, and they speed back up. It’s a dream. Or a nightmare.

It’s dark by the time the man finishes, bare chest dripping with sweat. Grayson makes a big show of testing the tightness of the bolts. Then he nods. “Get out of here.”

The man looks at him with disbelief.

“Go,” he says. “There’s a gas station a few miles down. Can’t say it’ll be open by the time you reach it, but…”

The guy takes three rapid steps backward, covering more ground than should be possible. I don’t want him to go, to leave me alone with Grayson again.

The man turns and runs. He was definitely a football player, maybe twenty years ago. That’s how he runs, like he’s going to tackle something. Not like the truth, which is that he’s scared.

Anyone would be scared. A big tough guy is terrified of Grayson.

Horror and frustration bubble up inside me.

He winks. “The FBI won’t know which way is up. Were you helping me all along, Ms. Winslow? Are you secretly my lover?”

I throw the phone at him, which he catches, of course. One-handed. “I will never touch you,” I say.

He turns to me. “Yes, you will.” There’s no triumph in it. He says it like a statement of fact. He takes a step forward.

I back up until the truck stops me. I’m sweating, but the hot metal is almost a relief. Warmer and more human than the flesh-and-blood beast that looms in front of me.

But I have something to say too. Something true. And I want him to listen. “You might hurt me. You might touch me. But I will never, ever touch you. Not of my own free will.”

I’m shaking by the time I’m finished talking. Tears are threatening again, but I don’t care about them. They don’t make me weak. I know what real weakness is. I saw it inject itself with drugs and hook up with abusive men just to get its fix. I watched it die. That will never be me. Never.

He reaches up to cup my cheek—the side without the scrape. On purpose? I don’t know. He trails his thumb over my eyebrow and down my temple. Places he couldn’t touch when I had my glasses. Like he’s learning me, mapping my face. The inside of my chest feels bright and quivery, but I keep my frown.

“So I can touch you?” he asks gently. “But you won’t touch me back?”

My voice trembles. “I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t you?” His hand trails lower, down my neck. Goose bumps rise all across my chest and over my arms despite the heat.

He caresses my skin right where my collarbone is, softly, with the back of his knuckles. I clench my fists at my sides, dreading what comes next. He’s going to keep moving lower, until he’s touching my breasts. And then what will I do? Cry? Scream? There’s no one to hear me. The guy from the truck has disappeared over the ridge.

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