Rules of Protection(20)

“Two minutes? That’s not enough—”

“That’s all you’re getting. Take it or leave it,” he said, walking up the stairs ahead of me with his gun still in hand. I marched after him, making a mental list of everything I should grab.

Jake checked out the room before he relaxed a bit, but I ran back and forth trying to fit everything into a suitcase. It was hard to do with shaky hands. He grabbed his laptop from the desk and threw it into the bag as well. Next, we visited his room and did the same with his limited amount of clothing.

Then, cautiously, Jake led me down the stairs and into the kitchen. I don’t know why I was surprised to see the two dead men still lying on the floor. I mean, where were they going to go? I guess it’s because, in the horror movies, the bodies are never in the same spot as before. And this situation was as creepy as any thriller.

Jake surveyed the garage first, allowing me to enter after he deemed it safe. I tried to open the passenger door on the blue Ford Explorer, but he grabbed my hand to stop me. I watched as he slipped under the vehicle for a few seconds. Then he slid back out and popped open the hood.

“We don’t have time for an oil change,” I said with sarcastic frustration.

He closed the hood. “I was looking for a bomb,” he said, his tone cavalier, as if it was an everyday thing.

“A what?”

“Don’t worry. There isn’t one.” He grabbed the suitcase and chucked it into the backseat. Then he walked around to the driver’s side. “Get in.”

“No.”

He lowered his gaze to look through the car windows at me. “Emily, get in.”

“No f*cking way! I’m not getting into a car that might blow up.”

“That’s why I checked. It’s not going to blow up. Now get in.”

I stood there, still not moving. Jake sighed and marched back around the front of the vehicle. “This is the last time I ask you nicely,” he threatened.

“You’re insane if you think—”

He snatched me up by my arm, opened the car door, and then manhandled me into the front passenger seat, slamming the door closed. Jake muttered expletives and shook his head as he walked back around to the driver’s door. He got in and ripped the GPS off the dash, tossing it out the window.

I shook my head with disgust. “Feel better now, you big baby?”

“Tracking device,” he explained.

When he cranked the Explorer, I nearly jumped out of my seat, waiting for an explosion that didn’t happen. Then he pulled out of the garage, and I slid down in my seat, waiting for the stray bullet that didn’t come. By the time we got to the highway, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to die. At least not tonight.

“Why haven’t you called this in?”

“Because.”

“Generous with words, aren’t you? Care to elaborate?”

Jake glanced over at me. “Nope.”

“Well, then at least tell me where we’re going.”

“I need to hide you somewhere safe.”

“And where’s that?”

“I don’t know yet.” He shook his head, as if contemplating something, then blew out a breath. “Shit.”

“Something wrong?”

“I know somewhere I can take you. No one will find you there.”

“Yeah, you said the same thing about the other place,” I reminded him.

“It was safe, but things changed. I promise you, Emily, I don’t make the same mistake twice. Once we get a few hours down the road, I’ll need to stop.”

“Wait, aren’t you going to rename me?”

“The only identification you have is for Emily Foster. So, no, I’m not going to rename you. You aren’t a pet turtle.”

…

“Are you sure we’re safe here?”

“We won’t stay long. I need to check a few things on my laptop and make some phone calls. You can get some rest, if you want.”

I peered around the room, wrinkling my nose. “If you wanted me to actually use the bed, then you should’ve chosen a more suitable motel.”

Jake shrugged. “Nothing wrong with this one. It’s functional.”

“Sure, if you don’t mind bedbugs and pubic lice,” I said, glancing at the yellowed walls, dingy carpet, and stained comforter.

Jake didn’t say anything as he opened his laptop.

“I guess I’ll go rinse off, though I’ll probably end up with fungus on my feet afterward,” I said.

“Don’t lock the door.”

I could’ve taken his comment to mean he’d be joining me, but since he didn’t look up, I figured I was on my own. Probably a good thing, since I couldn’t imagine the bathroom being any more hygienic than the rest of the room. I didn’t want an infected vagina any more than he probably wanted a sore on his dick.

I hurried into the shower…then hurried right back out. It was as disgusting as I’d imagined. Hardened soap scum coated the walls, rust stains encompassed the drain, and there were black, curly hairs in the bottom of the tub, none of which belonged to me. Instead of bathing, I used one of the washcloths—though it smelled funny—and sponged myself off at the sink. It took longer, but was more sanitary. Barely.