by N. S. Moore
We climb, in and it’s your standard-issue program car. Once we’re situated, I look over at Wren, and she seems a little nervous. “You okay?”
“This almost seems too easy. Like…I just can’t believe that we’re gonna drive out of here and go to Laredo and that’s it. It doesn’t seem right.”
“Well, that’s the plan, and I gotta hope that it all goes that way. I don’t plan on looking for fucking trouble.” Although trouble seems to fucking find me easy enough. I don’t share that with her, though.
Instead, I pull out of the parking lot and hit the highway.
Nineteen
Wren
So now I’m sitting in the passenger seat of the car beside the guy who took me hostage, and we’re driving into the night like we’re on some sort of romantic road trip. None of this is how I expected to spend this week.
I should be at home right now, doing homework or watching TV. Someone—maybe Philip—should have asked me out for Friday night, and I should be thinking about what we’ll do, what I’ll wear. Shelley should be sending me obnoxious, catty pictures of her and Greg. My dad should be asking me whether I like the birthday present he bought me.
I never did get it, since the bank hold-up happened before I had my birthday lunch with him.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat, feeling a little sick at the thought of how worried my dad must be. He’s the only one who really cares about me, so he’s the only one I’m really bothered by.
The rest of my life can pretty much go to hell—there was nothing really good about it anyway—but I don’t want my dad to worry.
“You aren’t hatching an escape plan, are you?” Code asks out of the blue.
I glance over, and for some reason the sight of him in the pale light from the dashboard startles me by how attractive he is. I really shouldn’t be so attracted to him. He’s rough and big and pushy and dangerous, but my body clenches briefly at the sight of him, even just sitting behind the wheel of a cheap, ugly car.
“No,” I tell him. “I was just thinking about…” I trail off, since it’s really none of his business what I’m thinking.
“You were thinking about what?”
“About what I’d be doing if you hadn’t grabbed me.”
“What would you be doing?”
“I don’t know. Homework, maybe. I’ve got a research essay due next week in my history class that I might be working on. Or maybe hanging out on Facebook or something.”
There isn’t much traffic, so he doesn’t have to focus on the road very much. His eyes shift back to my face, and then lower to my body. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I start to answer, but then stop myself. He sounds like he’s entitled to an answer, like I have to tell him details of my personal life.
“Tell me,” he says, his voice a little more guttural.
“Why do you care?”
“Because I want to know who else you’re giving your hot little pussy to.”
That pussy—hot or not—clenches hard in excitement at the dirty words. “I didn’t give it to you.”
His brow lowers. “Don’t you dare act like I forced you into anything. You came on to me. You wanted it bad.”
I did want it bad—from him, from Code, from my hostage-taker. What exactly does that say about me? “Well, I never would have fucked you if you hadn’t kidnapped me to begin with. You’re not my type at all.” It’s important to me that he knows this—that he doesn’t think I’m some spineless girl who swoons when he cocks an eyebrow at me.
Although part of me is afraid that might be true.
“That doesn’t fucking surprise me. I know your type.”
“What type of guy do you think I like?”
“You like those rich pretty boys who have to make up for their inadequacies with expensive toys.”
So, yeah, he’s hit on my type pretty damned well. It perfectly describes most of the guys I’ve gone out with in my life. What I say is, “You don’t know me as well as you think.”
“Don’t fool yourself about that, princess. I know you. You have a rich daddy who has given you anything you ever wanted, but nothing has ever satisfied you. You look little and delicate, like you need a man to take care of you, but inside you’re secretly wanting a man to not treat you like your made of glass. You want a man who sees how hot and wild you really are beneath your pretty-princess looks.”
His voice gets thicker as he continues talking, and soon I’m flushing red-hot. Because he’s right about me. I’ve never known it about myself before, but the two days I’ve spent with him have revealed that the person I pretended to be before isn’t really who I am.
I guess I’m not sure who I really am.
“Tell me I’m right,” he demands.
“You’re not right.” I’m saying this purely out of stubbornness. “That’s not me at all.”
“Yes, it is. You’re blushing because you know I’m right. You want a man who won’t be fooled by the way you look. I’ll show you.”
He reaches over with one arm and strokes my cheek. His touch is so gentle and feels so good that I gasp and lean into his hand. Then, while I’m distracted, he lowers his hand so it skims over my breasts, caressing and then tweaking one nipple hard.
I give a little cry of surprise and pleasure at the jolt of sensation. So I’m still distracted when his hand moves further down, pushing up my skirt so he can reach my pussy.
His eyes move from my body to the road and back as he fingers me, discovering that I’m hot and wet, just from him words earlier.
He smiles at me with a primal kind of pleasure. “That’s what I thought.”
“Asshole,” I manage to gasp, since it really doesn’t seem to right to completely give him the upper-hand, even though he’d completely found me out.
“Tell me I’m right,” he demands, teasing my clit with his fingers. His touch isn’t really focused—he has to keep looking back at the road, and he can only use one hand—but it’s enough to sensually torment me.
I arch up and clutch at the armrest. “You’re not right.”
“Yes, I am. If I keep this up, you’ll come for me again right now. That’s how hot and wild you really are. That’s how much you want a man who sees you for who you are.”
My whole body is blazing now, and I’m desperately trying not to ride his hand. I make a little whimpering sound.
“Tell me I’m right.”
“Oh, God!” I pant, giving up and grabbing his hand to hold it where I need it to be. “You’re right. Fuck, you’re so right.”
He chuckles and pulls back his hand, and I practically howl with disappointment because my body is desperate now for an orgasm. “Next time, don’t try to lie to me.”
So now I’m mad as well as aroused, and I shift restlessly on my seat, resisting the urge to get myself off with my own hand. It might be kind of embarrassing with Code sitting in the driver’s seat beside me. I glare at him and say nothing.
He’s been looking at the road, still looking far too pleased with himself, but he cuts his eyes back to my face. “You must have surrounded yourself with losers who’ve been incapable of giving you what you need.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? How many times have you come during sex before me?”
None. The answer was none. “That’s not your business.”
“I think it is. I think everything about you is my business. Tell me. How many times?”
“Not many.” I stare down at my hands on my lap.
“How many?”
“Never.”
“When was the first time you had sex?”
I look away from him suddenly because I don’t want him to see my expression. A familiar sick heaviness fills my gut.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his tone different from before. He must have seen something of how I’m feeling in my body language.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
I can�
�t help but respond to the authority in his tone. Plus, for some ridiculous reason, I want to tell him. “It depends on what you’re counting as sex,” I tell him, still not looking in his direction.
“What the hell does that mean?” He sounds urgent, almost angry now, but I have no idea why.
“You asked about the first time I had sex, and it depends on what you mean by sex.” I swallow hard. “It depends on whether you think my step-father counts.”
He doesn’t respond, so I manage to glance up, and his whole body is so tight it’s almost shaking. I’m not sure exactly how he’s feeling, but there’s a cold tension on his face that terrifies me.
I’m pretty sure it’s not aimed at me, though.
“Anyway,” I say, wanting to move past the awkward moment. I can’t believe I actually admitted such a thing to Code. “Not all the guys I’ve gone out with have been losers. You’re not the only guy who’s managed to turn me on.”
The tension in his face gradually relaxes until he can give me a hot look. “You’re lying to me again. Princess, I can read you like a book.”
Twenty
Code
I can’t even begin to describe the rage that I’m feeling right now. She didn’t come right out and say that her step-father had raped her, but it’s the obvious conclusion. What kind of sick fucking bastard does such a thing?
Hypocrite much?
Yeah. And that fact is just adding to my rage. I may have just teased her about wanting it as much as I did, but that was before. Before I got a fucking glimpse into who the hell she is.
There’s nothing else I can say at the moment and decide to just focus on the damn road. The car is a basic model—no bells and whistles—and it’s a little run-down. I look at the gauges and see that Jamie hadn’t bothered to fill the tank and curse myself for not doing it before we left town.
Not that it’s a bad thing. I’m just happy that we’ve put some distance between us and Deke and the cops and everyone else for the time being. I glance over at Wren. “We gotta stop for gas.”
“Whatever.”
It’s not like I’m expecting a pleasant fucking chit-chat, but the tone of her voice just sounds…defeated. And I did that to her. Fuck.
I see a sign indicating that there are gas stations at the next exit, and I figure we’ll pull off the highway, fill up, and be on our way relatively quick. At the pump, I climb out, and Wren’s looking off in the opposite direction.
“Fine. Don’t fucking talk. See if I care.” I feel a little sulky as I walk inside to pay in cash before I can pump. The attendant looks to be about sixty and is all but asleep behind the counter. “I need twenty on pump fifteen.” The old guy nods and rings me up without even looking at me.
Whatever. Makes no difference to me. As I walk out the door, I see it, and my gut clenches. There on the news stand is a newspaper—with Wren’s face on the front page. “Shit.” I make a quick decision and look over my shoulder and see that the old guy is asleep again so I grab the paper and walk out the door.
I don’t want to say anything to Wren just yet. So I fill the tank like I don’t have a care in the world. Replace the cap and climb back into the car. She still doesn’t turn around to face me.
There’s a Walmart across the street, and I quickly pull out of the gas station lot and make the U-turn to get across to it.
“What are you doing?” she finally asks.
I toss the newspaper in her lap and hear her gasp. “It’s a local paper and might not be an issue just yet, but I think it’s time we did some work to disguise your appearance. It wouldn’t hurt to change mine a little too.”
“Why? Why do I need to hide my appearance? In case you haven’t figured it out, I’d love for someone to recognize me and get me home.”
While I know what she’s saying makes sense, it just pisses me off. “We had a deal, Wren. Laredo. After Laredo you can go wherever the fuck you want but we need to get there first.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Dress like a dude? Cut my hair?”
“Princess, there is no way that anyone would believe that you’re a dude. You’ve got too many curves, and there is no way to hide those tits.”
Her eyes widen at my words, but I can tell that they please her. On instinct, I reach out like I had earlier and grazed my hand down her chest until I found her hardened nipples and played with them a little.
“I don’t want to hide them. If anything, I’d like to see more of them.” I leave it at that as I park the car.
“So then what are we doing?”
“We’re gonna get some hair dye first. And then a couple of changes of clothes. I know this is a little beneath you, but it’s our only option right now, and I’m sure you won’t mind changing out of those clothes after wearing them two days.”
“You have no idea.”
“Good. We need to be fast. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. And you don’t leave my side. Got it?”
“Wouldn’t it be faster if we split up and got what we needed?”
She has balls. I have to give her that. “After you just admitted how you want to get recognized and get away, do you honestly think that I’m fucking letting you out of my sight? Think again.”
“Shit.”
I look over at her and smile. “It’s kind of hot when you don’t talk so prissy.” She blushes slightly and we get out of the car. “Fifteen minutes. In and out. All right?” She nods.
For all of her talk about not giving a shit and wanting to get away, the girl is a fucking pro shopper. In less than ten minutes we each have three changes of clothes—including underwear and shoes—hair color and toiletries. It’s pretty fucking impressive.
“I can’t believe I’m going to have to wear this crap,” she mutters as we walked out of the store.
“What’s the big deal? At least they’re clean.”
“What difference does it make? All of the places that we’ve stopped at aren’t.”
“You are such a fucking snob.” Seriously, I cannot believe that she goes from cooperative and helpful to just plain bitchy in the blink of an eye. “I could’ve fucking tied you up and taped your damn mouth shut and thrown you in the trunk! And you’re gonna bitch because I’m not buying you designer clothes?”
The rest of the walk is completed in silence, and I can tell that she’s pouting. Back in the car, she looks at me. “Now what? We can’t dye our hair while we’re driving, and I figured you’d want to get as much driving done as possible overnight. So are we going to stop at another hotel before dawn?”
I actually haven’t thought that far ahead, but it’s a better plan than staying on the road and risking someone recognizing her. “Yeah. Sure.”
Back on the highway, it’s a long time before either of us spoke.
We’re getting close to Austin, and I’m relieved to see a sign saying that there’s a motel at the next exit. If we keep driving, we can reach Laredo before dawn, but it’s too dangerous to keep going with Wren still recognizable. The cops aren’t stupid. They’ll know I’m might try to get to the border. This interstate is the straight-shot down to Mexico.
What’s another few hours, anyway? Maybe delaying will confuse the cops and throw them off the trail.
When I park in front of the office, I leave her in the car. I think she’s too fucking tired to try and get away. I pay for the room and pull around to the back. Together we bring all of the supplies into the room.
“I know you’re tired but I think that we need to do this hair thing and change clothes, and then we can rest a few hours and start off again. We can still get to Laredo before morning.”
“Whatever,” she says around a loud yawn as she unpacked the hair color. She silently set everything up in the bathroom and motions for me to sit down on the chair she had pulled in. “You ready?”
Not particularly. But if this is what it takes to keep us off the radar for a little bit longer, then it’s what I’ve got to do.
Twenty-One
; Wren
Our disguises aren’t really disguises. We’re just going to change the color of our hair and dress differently. I’m honestly not sure whether it’s going to keep me from being recognized, but Code seems to think it will help.
I’ve decided not to try to argue.
I was starting to feel kind of soft about him earlier, but then he was a jerk again. So I’m going to do what I always do. Say yes. Don’t put up a fight. Do what other people want just to make things go easier on me.
So now I’m standing here over Code, bleaching his dark hair.
It’s a temporary dye—although not as temporary as the stuff I bought for my hair, which just washes out. But his hair is so dark that the stuff is going to have to stay on for a while so it can fully process.
I dampen his hair and then rub the solution into it.
His hair is pretty nice—thick and softer than you would expect—so it’s a shame to mess it up with by bleaching it a fake blonde. But it’s his deal, and I’m not going to argue about it.
I’m not going to argue about anything anymore. I’ve decided.
I get through his hair quickly, and then go to rinse the solution off my hands. “You need to keep it on for a while. Maybe thirty minutes. If you wash it too soon, it won’t work.”
I hand him a towel, which he wraps around his shoulders. He’s making a face, but I don’t know if it’s because the stuff smells bad or because it’s tingling on his scalp or because he’s just generally in a bad mood.
“I need to get my hair wet,” I say, “so I’m going to take a shower, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
So I take a shower and then wrap up in a towel as I spray the dye into my hair.
It’s pink.
It’s actually a very pretty medium pink, but I’m hardly the kind of girl to want her hair to be pink. I’ve used chalks before—just a strand or two of pink or purple—but this is different. This is all of my hair.
My hair has always been one of my best features—long and brown and shiny and straight.
Now it’s going to be pink.