Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(54)

“Should I speed up and risk, you know—”

“Getting a ticket? Fuck, yeah!”

“You hang in there,” I say. “I’m doing ninety.”

He doesn’t answer.

“If at any point I think you’re unconscious, you will be dropped at a hospital.”

No answer.

Don’t leave me alone.

“Or I’ll just drive you back to the prison myself. Straight to the clinic and check you in.” I reach down and touch his dark hair, damp against his clammy forehead, inches from my thigh. “Got it? So stay with me.”

“Yes, Ms. Winslow.” The words are faint, but they’ve never sounded sweeter. My chest expands with relief. At his core he’s a fighter. A warrior.

And he fought for me.

Nobody ever came for me or fought for me, and it means everything that he did.

Everything.

I come to a four-way stop and let my foot off the gas. He grunts in protest, like he can tell I’m slowing.

“Okay, okay.” I check all directions—there’s nobody around. I check again; then I blow through it, pulse pounding.

Sirens don’t sound. No cop car tails me. Nothing at all happens as I drive down the empty lane. “I just ran a stop sign.” Exhilaration pulses through me. I feel so alive.

I rest my hand back on his forehead. I have to save him because we’re connected.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. He’s aware…barely. My lips press together.

His skin is ashen. And God, the way he’s curled up on the seat. Even sitting is too much. There’s a lump in my throat the size of a baseball.

My mind goes to the day my mother OD’d. I called 9-1-1 for real, and I did CPR on her lifeless body until they arrived. I couldn’t save her.

“Grayson?” It comes out as a whisper. When he doesn’t answer right away, his name forms a chant in my head. Grayson, Grayson, Grayson. When did he start mattering so much? Why do I care about him?

“North on the interstate. Don’t stop,” he finally says, his eyes still closed—and I know he means the car. Keep driving. Get away; get safe. Don’t stop.

I grip the steering wheel with both hands and speed up. But my mind goes back to last night.

Did I tell him to stop last night? I remember flashes of fear and relief. I’m not sure what it means, except that he was over me. Inside me. The worst part is, I can’t remember if I told him no.

My eyes prick with unshed tears, because I could have cared about him. I already do.

“Did I say no?” I whisper. It’s eating at me, not knowing.

He’s injured now and only half-conscious. It’s the worst time to question him about something so important. Or maybe the best time. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. He knows what’s important here. “Doesn’t matter,” he grates out.

Heat flashes through my body, white-hot and incandescent. I think it’s anger. It might be arousal. “Of course it does.”

A sound comes from his throat, like a growl. “It wasn’t your fault, understand? It doesn’t matter if you say no. Doesn’t matter about right or wrong. You do what you need to do to survive. That’s all that matters.” He cuts off with a hitch of breath. His hand presses against his shoulder.

His other hand rises like he might reach for me. Before last night he might have held my neck in that possessive, controlling grip he uses to steer me. And I think that much hasn’t changed. Sex is no guarantee of tenderness. Maybe I don’t want it to be. At least when he’s cold and cruel and strong, he’s alive.

I tighten my hands on the wheel. “Where do we go? Where can I take you?”

“The Bradford Hotel…safe house…two hours from here. Get to the interstate and head north.”

I’ll have to really squint to make out the signs. He presses his fist to the glove compartment door, knuckles white with the force. I feel an answering tug in my gut.

“South Franklin City,” he continues, “176 Gedney.”

Will you live that long? I can’t ask the question.

He seems to hear it anyway. “Whatever happens, don’t stop. Just drop me there and leave.”

“A hotel is your safe house? Grayson?”

He goes limp. I think if he dies, I might just keep driving forever. North past their hotel. Past the Canadian border. I’ll drive right off into the Arctic Ocean because I can’t deal with another dead body beside me.

But as the afternoon light limns his body through the window, I can see his broad chest rise and fall, even from the corner of my eye. He’s alive…for now.

God, what a pair we make, both running for our lives. Both tripping over ourselves to escape the past. But you can’t—that’s what I figure out as I speed along in a luxury car with this delirious man beside me. I can’t escape my past. I’m stuck in that movie, Groundhog Day, doomed to repeat my mistakes until I finally get it right. That means keeping him alive.

And after that? I don’t know. I’ve never made it that far.

*

We drive for an hour. When I’m well rested and well fed, a two-hour drive is nothing. Maybe my legs get a little stiff or something. But right now there’s a knot in my back. My hands are actually shaking on the steering wheel. My eyes are tired because of not wearing glasses. Things are getting blurry. And we need gas. That’s what finally forces me to stop. I pull into a gas station. That’s enough to rouse Grayson.