What am I doing? I should just shut up and hope to not be dropped off at a police station.
First, I steal this man’s car and kidnap his brother, then he lies to a cop for me, and now he’s driving me somewhere, hopefully far away from that cop. And what do I do? I lecture him about how he speaks to his brother.
What is wrong with me?
Zander’s glare is piercing, freezing me in place, as he carefully growls out, “How about you stay out of what is most definitely not your—”
“Zander used to have dreadlocks. And once, a spider set up a nest in there. He screamed when Mom told him,” Van rushes to say all in one, long breath.
My mouth drops open in shock for a second before I find myself laughing at the image.
Zander had dreadlocks? This bulky, Navy SEAL, commando-looking guy once had dreadlocks and screamed over a spider in his hair?
“How in the hell do you know that?” Zander gasps, his cheeks reddening when he glances at me and sees me laughing.
“Mom told me once. She had some photos of you, and you looked stupid.” Van doesn’t hold an ounce of apology in his words, obviously happy to embarrass his brother.
“That is”—he takes a deep breath, his hands turning white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel—“never to be repeated again.”
I look back at Van and wink.
“Dreadlocks? How long did it take you to get them?” I ask, grateful to focus on something easier than my own situation.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles.
“They went halfway down his back,” Van supplies.
“How long did you have to not wash your hair for that?” I grimace at what the likely answer will be, which is way too long.
“Doesn’t matter,” he grits out again.
“Mom said his hair smelled so bad that she thought a rat must have died in there.”
“She did not say that!” Zander glances back at Van to glare before facing forward again.
“She did, too.” Van sounds smug, his smile telling me he’s unperturbed by Zander’s grumpiness.
I laugh again, appreciating this lighter topic and the moment it gives me to forget about my own pressing matters.
“I bet you looked a real sight back then,” I tell him, then listen as Van laughs from the backseat.
“I think the photos are in a box somewhere in Zander’s office. I’ll show them to you. So funny!” he says between giggles.
I feel a small pang of sadness that I’m not going to get the chance to hang around Van much longer. He seems like a good kid, and he’s likely the only reason Zander didn’t hand me over to that cop. He’s also the only reason I came back to return the stolen car. So, I guess there is that.
“If such photos exist, they’re being destroyed!” Zander snaps.
I think maybe he’s putting this angry act on a little thick since I see some humor in his expression that wasn’t there before. The twitching of his lips as he tries to hold back a smile, the mirth in his eyes, and the way he tracks Van by watching him in the mirror.
Then silence descends over us. It feels stifling how the lighter mood begins to give way into the darkness that likely surrounds them as much as me. Theirs comes from grief, and mine is from a monster I can’t seem to get away from.
To keep the lighter mood, I share a story I haven’t repeated to anyone before.
“Once, my sister gave me a haircut. I thought she would screw it up and I could get her in trouble, so I agreed to it. But she cut it perfectly. I was so annoyed that I took the scissors and chopped off a huge part of my bangs, and then another random chunk in the back. I looked ridiculous and laughed as my mother told Amanda off. Then I realized I had to live with the haircut. It was too short to make the rest match, so I had to wait until it grew out a little. It took a year before it started to look normal.” I smile, recalling the look of horror on Amanda’s face when she saw what I had done, which then quickly transferred over to my face when I realized what I had to look like.
Van laughs at me, stretching his seatbelt as he leans forward until his head is near ours in the front. “That is hilarious. How old were you?”
“I don’t know.” I think back, surprised that these memories don’t hurt to think about as much as they used to. “Maybe ten or eleven.”
“Was your sister mad at you?”
“No.” I look back and give him a small smile. “I think she caught on quicker than I did that I had just made myself look like an idiot. I sort of dealt myself my own punishment.”
Van laughs again, and I can’t help noticing Zander again tracking Van’s movements, his expression a mix between surprise and maybe a little sad.
“My friend at school stuck gum in his sister’s hair once. They had to cut it out, and he was grounded for a month,” Van informs me.
“Now that is definitely not cool. I hope you’ve never done that.”
“No, no way. Never.” He shakes his head vehemently, which makes me wonder if he’s protesting a little too much. “I thought about it once, but I was too chicken,” he finally admits, his eyes on Zander.
“You thought about it when?” Zander asks.
Van ignores him, stating, “I’m hungry.”
I suppose there is no point in implicating himself in an act he never went through.
“There are leftovers at home.” Zander’s tone is short and final, not that Van heeds it.
“But I want pizza.”
“Too bad.”
Immediately, the mood in the car plunges again.
We drive for a while in silence, and I begin to wonder where exactly he is taking me.
“What are you going to do with me?” My voice shakes as I dare not to hope for too much.
“I haven’t decided yet.” His tone is still harsh from his previous talk with Van. Or maybe he’s just as annoyed with me as he is with Van.
“Where are we going, then?”
“Home.” He doesn’t elaborate, and while it insinuates his own home, I have to wonder why he trusts me in his domain. Is this guy just super stupid or super cocky?
“Oh,” is the only lame response I have.
As if he hears my thoughts, or maybe just my surprise, he explains further, “I need to hear exactly what is going on, and that means everything. You leave something out, I will call the police.”
My eyes widen at that, yet Van appears satisfied with Zander’s words.
“You can have my room. I don’t mind sleeping on the couch,” he excitedly offers.
“That’s sweet, Van, but I won’t need your bed.” Like I could kick a twelve-year-old out of their own bed.
“Are you going to sleep with Zander in his bed?” he asks innocently, or perhaps he is purposely trying to embarrass me.
“No! I’m not sleeping in anyone’s bed,” I rush to declare. That isn’t what this is about, right? Surely Zander isn’t that hard up for sex. He’s far too attractive for that to be an issue, two-second wonder or not.
Yet, it is a good point. While I haven’t seen any reason not to trust Zander, after what I now know, my faith in people is shaken to my core.
Should I blindly trust him? Should I walk into a place I don’t know? With people I don’t know? Ignoring how much of a sweetheart Van is, that is. Shouldn’t this whole experience have taught me to be more cautious and smarter?
But what choice do I have? I have to eventually trust someone, right?
“Where are you sleeping, then?” Van asks.
This is a good question. Assuming Zander is going to want me out of his house as quickly as possible after he hears my awful story, where am I going to go tonight? After two nights out on the streets, am I ready to go through that hell again? Would it be safe to find a women’s shelter? Brian and his friends will have to give up searching for me sometime … right? Even if that will one day be the case, it likely won’t be three nights into his search.
I might be in for many nights on the streets if I can’t get out of Chic
ago. Even then, will there ever be a place safe for me? One that is truly out of Brian’s reach?
“Vaughn, just let it go and sit back.”
Van grumbles under his breath as he does as he’s asked, and then the remainder of the drive is done in complete silence.
We pull into a small apartment block in the West Town district. The area looks modest and secure, yet I know nothing is quite that safe anymore.
After parking the car underground, Zander walks past the elevator and opens the door to the stairs.
I wonder if the elevator is broken before Van confirms that it isn’t.
“Zander thinks using the elevator is a wasted opportunity to get some exercise. We are only allowed to take it if we’re missing a game on the TV, or there is a serious bathroom emergency.”
I look to Zander to see what his reaction is, but he’s already racing up the stairs, so my gaze focuses on his ass and legs as they effortlessly charge up the stairs, leaping several steps at a time.
Wow, this guy is truly fit.
“I would just walk if I were you. We’re on the eighth floor,” Van helpfully suggests.
“Good idea.” Before all this, I never cared for fitness. The only time I ran was when I was late for the bus. Even then, I often just missed it rather than make the effort. My lack of a decent sports bra means my boobs don’t make the best jogging partners.
“I am going to be faster than Zander one day. I’ll beat him up the stairs and slam the door on his face.” Van smiles at just the thought.
“Then you should probably start practicing.” I nudge him, and he nods determinedly at me once before he begins his quick ascent.
Soon, I’m alone with only the echoes of shoes scuffing along the cement floor and the sound of heavy breathing as Van begins to get out of breath.
I stand in the doorway, the door still open, and stare back out at the parking garage and the sliver of the outside world I can see, giving myself a moment to consider making a run for it. I won’t have to answer any awkward questions or get Zander and Van involved in something that is way bigger than they realize. But, what do I do then? I have nowhere to go, and for right now, Brian has no clue where I am. I’m safer inside this building.
Having the door close on me as I turn away and head up the stairs feels momentous. Like this is a decision that will change my life. Maybe that’s a stupid way to feel, but I just know deep down I have made a huge decision that will impact everything.
I just have no idea if it was the right choice or not.
I’m ashamed to say, by the time I reach the fourth floor, I feel a little out of breath, and I’m just walking! I’m only halfway there. This is torture. Who the hell can run this?
I could use my exhaustion and lack of eating lately as an excuse, but I know, even if I was well-rested and fed, I would still be struggling.
Before my life was so recently thrown upside-down, I was stuck in the same routine. Wake up, eat breakfast, rush to work, finish work, come home incredibly excited to take off my bra, and prepare dinner. Then I would watch TV, maybe go online to chatrooms or reply to emails, and sleep. Wake up and repeat. The only times it varied was when I would see Brian. Even then, I would just go to his house between coming home and taking off my bra. He was always happy to stay indoors rather than go out.
My work as a temp receptionist means I am sent all over the city for any amount of time. My longest was a maternity cover, which was eight weeks. Otherwise, I get details the day before for where I need to be the next day. I usually have a consistent four days a week, and since I do temp work, I get paid at a higher rate, which is nice. Then the rest of my time is spent website designing that I do from home.
Brian’s job means he spends many weeks at a time away from home. I understood that and was happy to oblige him wanting to stay in and have quiet nights with me.
Except, now I realize I was completely wrong about him.
It probably says something about me that my entire life is unplanned, yet still locked into a routine. I might not know where I will be working the next day or in a week’s time, but I do know how that will fit into my structured, drama-free life.
By the time I make it to the eighth floor, I am flushed, sweaty, and my legs ache.
Van is sitting on the top step by the doorway, resting his arms on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. His warm smile is so sweet that I almost give him a true smile in return. However, I would need to be able to catch my breath to do that, so I just wince and grab my belly instead.
“You’re even slower than I was when I first tried running!” He sounds amazed.
I grimace further when I realize he thinks I’m in this state because I tried to run up the stairs.
“If I ever come here again,” I say between panting, “there better be a game on we’re missing.”
Van laughs at me before bouncing back to his feet and racing through the stairwell door.
I’m less enthusiastic in my exit from the stairwell, and suddenly extremely self-conscious over my lack of bathing in the past couple days when I walk through the open apartment doorway.
When I hear water running in what I assume is a shower farther into the apartment, I know I would do anything to have a shower myself.
I try to inconspicuously sniff my armpit to see how bad I am, but when Van turns to face me, I barely get the chance to smell a thing before I am straightening up.
“Are you hungry? Last night we ate some disgusting risotto. Nothing ever lasts in this house longer than a meal, but neither of us had seconds. I always have seconds.” He sounds a little dramatic as he says this, but I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad.” Considering I haven’t eaten properly in a few days, I’m sure it will taste amazing.
“It is.” He sounds grave now and is much less enthusiastic as he takes out the bowl and places a large spoonful on a plate, doing this a couple more times until I’m sure he’s put too much on for one person to possibly finish. Even a starving person like me. I suppose he’s hoping I will eat so much there won’t be enough left for him.
He dumps the plate into the microwave then pours me a glass of water without me having to ask.
“You have some nice hosting manners,” I tell him, taking a seat on the stool by the breakfast bar as I inhale the smells wafting around us from the warming food. As it is, I finish the water almost in one gulp, and then Van quickly refills it for me.
I’m tempted to gulp this new glass down, but I don’t want to fill up on water and ruin my dinner. I’m just grateful to be eating and drinking again.
“Mom used to have her friends over all the time. She would always make me serve them. She told me it would instill good manners in me that would one day make me a good husband.” He frowns as he says the obviously repeated words his mom must have said to him many times. “Girls are pretty gross, though. They cry a lot. Why would I want to marry one?” He tells me this in a very matter of fact way.
I nod for lack of any other reply, guessing it’s likely a true statement for someone his age.
With a beep from the microwave, I prepare to consume my first proper meal in three days. One mouthful in, though, and I understand why Van said it was terrible.
What the hell is in this thing? I can maybe taste something like fish, but also something smoky and spicy. And what the hell has the texture of jelly?
My eyes widen as I search for an answer. I can’t possibly swallow it, but it would be rude to spit it back onto my plate. Gross or not, Van and Zander have both helped me.
“Spit it out,” Zander’s voice booms from right next to me, and I almost swallow the food in my surprise.
I glance down at the trash can he is holding up to me, and then glance over at Van, who is laughing hard behind his hand.
“Just do it. I can tell from your face you hate it. No one holds food in their mouth that long, looking panicked, if they like something. Just spit it out.”
/> When he lifts the trash can up higher, I lean over and embarrass myself eternally by discarding the food. Van then hands me some paper towels, and I wipe my mouth profusely before he takes my plate and tips the contents into the trash can.
“I told you it was disgusting! Can we get pizza?” Van quickly whines to Zander.
“No. We eat too much takeout. Go take a shower and get changed for bed. I’ll figure something else out.”
Van grumbles as he stomps his way into what seems like his bedroom before he slams the door shut.
“Sorry about that,” I apologize, staring down at the trash can Zander is still holding.
“I think I should be the one apologizing. I tried something new and think maybe I got the ingredients wrong.”
“I think you might have gotten all the ingredients wrong,” I blurt out.
I shouldn’t be picky—food is a luxury right now—but I’m not sure I’m at the stage where I’m contemplating poisoning myself.
“You might be right about that.” He looks a little sheepish, making me wonder if he’s embarrassed to have made something so awful. “Are you still hungry?” he asks, finally placing the trash can back down in the corner before opening the fridge.
I normally would never still have an appetite after what I just tasted, but again, I’m three days without any proper food. I’m surprised I haven’t had to worry about passing out yet. Although, now that I’m sitting down, my exhaustion is quickly catching up.
“I am,” I answer, just as my stomach grumbles. Teasing it with almost food has apparently upset it.
“I can make a cheese omelet?” he offers.
I take a moment to assess this situation. How did I end up here? How did I find myself in a stranger’s home, being offered omelets? Have I already passed out? Is this some delirious dream? Well, after that risotto, maybe it’s more of a nightmare.
“Ava?” Zander grabs my attention, and I nod, agreeing to omelets that will hopefully be more edible than the risotto.
“Do you want some help?” I finally think to ask, wincing at how delayed my manners are. I have no issues chiding him on how he speaks to his brother or spitting his food into a trash can, yet I can’t think to offer him a hand while he makes me dinner?
I Stole His Car (Love at First Crime Book 1) Page 4