by Joan Swan
Alyssa wanted the blood to show. She wanted her bruises and burns exposed. They were bound to garner attention. She didn’t have to fake the exhaustion slumping her against the seat. It was bone-deep real. “I can’t change clothes. I hurt too much.”
Creek thought a second, then brought both hands to the collar of her tank. “I’m going to tear it. Don’t scream.”
Before Alyssa had time to process the information, he yanked. She tensed, anticipating a rip of pain in her side, but amazingly, her body hardly moved. The tank however, halved like tissue paper, exposing her chest to hips. The cold air hit her skin and made her shiver.
Creek inspected the gash in her side. “The bleeding’s stopped.”
She knew that. Knew that whatever he’d done with his hand behind that Dumpster had clotted the main flow of blood. Something beyond counterpressure. She let herself acknowledge that much, but her mind continued to search for another possible, if not logical, explanation.
She’d come up with cauterization. The heat he seemed to harbor in his body must have performed some type of cauterization of the bleeding tissues. While that eased her mind, it didn’t alleviate the fatigue from the blood she’d already lost. Or the radiating pain in her torso. Or the knowledge she’d have an ugly, welted scar that would need plastic surgery if she ever planned on wearing a bikini again.
“You know I need a hospital,” she said.
Creek ignored her. He drew the soggy fabric off her body and eased her into a white, collared T-shirt with a colorful NASCAR logo across the chest. He slid her left arm in first, then stretched the fabric and eased her right arm in.
He was amazingly deft and gentle, yet efficient. He was also all business, without any hint of interest in her body, which irritated her, considering how she seemed to react to his every touch.
He reached across the seat, and with one tug, covered the swastika on his fuzzy head with the baseball cap. Then, to her surprise, he unlocked the remaining cuff and pulled the metal off her wrist.
A giddy wave rolled through her stomach. Her first step toward freedom. But, now what? She scanned the parking lot, searching for ... something. But only found a smattering of cars dotting the darkened asphalt.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“About nine last time I looked.” He adjusted the collar of her shirt up around her neck and over the injuries. “Why?”
“Just wondering.” Wondering where everyone was. Wondering if this sparse crowd would be any help to her at all. Wondering if this night would ever end.
“Remember.” Creek lifted the bottom of his tee to reveal the handle of the gun. “I still have this.”
Alyssa’s eyes skipped past the weapon to the delineated abdominal muscles beneath. This guy had blown right by a six-pack. He had an eight-pack going, and then some.
“You’re going to be a good girl,” he said. “Right?” Alyssa’s mind took a wrong turn somewhere. It veered from the clean city streets and headed straight to a seedy alley, picking up a dozen different innuendos on the trip.
Looks mean nothing. He is a criminal. A lifer.
Those facts gave her mind the kick it needed to get back on track. “Don’t talk to me like I’m five years old.”
Creek slung one strong arm around her shoulders and walked her toward the store. Alyssa searched the area for a police car or security vehicle. None. She studied the patrons traversing the parking lot for someone formidable enough to take Creek on. No one.
He accepted the grocery cart offered by a smiling, elderly woman at the door and placed Alyssa’s hands on the cart’s handle, then covered one of hers with his own. His palm was warm, his fingers strong. He came in close behind her, one arm securing her at the waist, making her feel protected and imprisoned at the same time.
He headed from one department to the next with focus and purpose, dropping selected items in the cart and moving on. But the objects he chose seemed haphazard, almost like he was on a scavenger hunt. Disposable cell phones from electronics, fishing line from outdoors, Gatorade from beverages, bandages from pharmaceuticals, power bars from grocery, upholstery needles from crafts, a blanket from housewares.
Creek zigzagged his way around the store so that every aisle he chose was empty, which wasn’t hard to do because the store was quiet. Way too quiet for Alyssa’s preference.
The cart filled with merchandise, signaling her dwindling opportunity for escape. Jittery panic grew in the pit of Alyssa’s stomach. “I should go to the bathroom while we’re here,” she said, her mind clawing for options. “I need some water, too.”
“You can wait.”
“I’ve been waiting for hours.” She made a concerted effort to raise her voice, yet the massive store swallowed her words. “I’ve lost a lot of blood. I’m dehydrated.”
“Keep it down,” he growled in her ear and steered them toward women’s clothing, where the store opened, and she could see beyond one aisle at a time. “And pick some clothes for yourself.”
Her eyes skimmed over round racks and past shelves. A middle-aged couple browsed belts and socks across the aisle in the men’s department. She watched them, willing them to look up, hoping they could read the panicked message she prayed her eyes conveyed. But they wandered to the baseball hats and drifted around a corner, out of sight.
A young boy scampered down the center aisle and grabbed his mother’s hand as she looked at sleepwear, then tugged her toward the toy section.
“Never mind.” Creek huffed in apparent exasperation at her lack of interest in the clothes and walked toward the men’s section, where he eyed a shelving unit of sweatpants. “What size are you?”
“I have no idea. I don’t shop for men’s clothes.”
He pulled a pair of small size sweatpants and a sweat jacket off the shelf. Turned and plucked a small T-shirt from a round rack.
“Are you going to make me wear men’s underwear, too?” She couldn’t hold back the smart remark, nor did she want to. This situation became more absurd by the moment.
A woman wandered into the area and stopped at the same rack of T-shirts. Alyssa’s stomach inflated like a bubble and floated toward her throat. With Creek positioned behind her, she reached for a hanger and pretended to look through the shirts, her head turned so her bruised cheek was angled toward the woman.
In her mid-sixties, with short, straight, gray-brown hair and dark brown eyes, the other woman flicked a quick smile of acknowledgment toward Alyssa, then did a double take. When her eyes scrutinized Alyssa’s face, Alyssa lifted her hand to scratch her ear, but let her fingers drop to the neckline of her shirt instead and dragged the collar down.
The woman’s eyes fastened on Alyssa’s neck, and her expression shifted from uncertainty to pained concern. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stare. Looks like you’re a little banged up.”
Alyssa felt Creek stiffen behind her. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she could swear the air temperature rose. Her skin grew damp. Her heart picked up speed.
She hadn’t expected the woman to say anything so direct. And not in front of Creek. Which was stupid. How was anyone else supposed to know this was all a big secret?
“Are you all right?” the woman asked, her eyes flitting toward Creek, then back.
She opened her mouth to respond, but found herself at a loss. “Um, I um ...” I ... um ... should have thought this through better.
“We were in a car accident earlier tonight,” Creek said from behind her, his voice smooth and congenial. “The doctor said she didn’t break anything, but she’ll be sore for a few weeks.”
Damn. Alyssa’s bubble of hope deflated. He was so much better at this game.
The woman’s dark eyes lifted to Creek again. This time, she studied him. Assessed. Then she took Alyssa’s hand in a compassionate gesture and pressed something into her palm—a business card she guessed from the size and shape. “That’s good news. Get some rest, sweetheart.”
Alyssa watched her lifeline wa
lk away, her throat swelling with the need to call out to her. Creek’s hand covered Alyssa’s. She startled and tried to evade his grasp, but he was faster and stronger and hotter. His fingers burned hers as he pried her hand open and pulled the card out.
“ ‘Geraldine Hummel, L.M.F.T.,’ ” Teague read. “ ‘Director of Therapy House, a safe haven for the ...’ ” His face twisted into a sour expression. “ ‘Domestically abused.’ ”
He fisted the card and dropped his hand to his side. The faint scent of smoke met her nose a second before a miniature plume drifted toward the ceiling. She looked down just as he opened his fingers. Ashes fluttered from his palm. She stared at them, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.
“How ... ?” Her thoughts wouldn’t solidify. She grabbed his hand and turned it over. No burns on his skin. No soot on his fingers. She looked down at the ashes on the linoleum.
As if those gray flakes kicked her mind into gear, Alyssa dropped Creek’s hand and stepped back. “How can you do that?”
Something glinted in his eyes—a mixture of anger and hurt—before the blue irises turned slate gray. He closed his hands around hers on the handle of the cart until her fingers were mashed painfully against the metal bar, and headed back toward the center of the store and all those lonely, deserted aisles.
“I’m starting to think you’re a fucking nutcase,” he said. “Which would explain your involvement with Luke.”
“Nutcase?” Fear ignited her anger and, in turn, her mouth. “You think I’m a nutcase when your body temp is twice the normal person’s and paper burns in your hand? If anyone in this situation is screwed up, it’s you. You’re the one who dragged me into this. The only thing I hate more than the victim mentality is being a victim myself. You’ve cut my professional throat, exposed me to life-threatening situations—”
“Shit happens.” His voice was dangerously low and flat. He passed by two rows with people browsing in them and turned down an aisle of office supplies void of customers. “You can’t always control what life throws at you. Sometimes you just have to make the best of it. And right now, the best thing to do is get the hell out of here.”
“This isn’t a ‘shit happens’ situation.” Alyssa continued to fume as they headed toward the front of the store, mostly to keep herself from freaking out over the fact that this man had just burned paper with nothing but his bare hand. “ ‘Shit happens’ is a flat tire on the freeway in the middle of the night or someone stealing your wallet. Comparing this to ‘shit happens’ is like comparing a traffic ticket to first-degree murder.”
He stopped abruptly in the middle of an aisle and twisted toward her. “Lower your voice,” he ground out, his own voice strained. “In fact, just shut the hell up, Hannah. You’re like a goddamned two-year-old who doesn’t know when to stop.”
He started forward again with a jerk of the cart. The sudden tug sent a stab of pain through her stomach, a harsh reminder of her weakness and his strength.
“This ... this ... this is ...” Her mind couldn’t grasp the enormity of the situation, of the aftermath this would leave on her career, on her reputation, on everything she’d struggled so long and hard to build. “This is unbeliev—”
Creek came to a hard stop at the end of the aisle. As he did, the handle of the cart knocked Alyssa’s wound. Pain burst in her torso. She doubled over and cried out, but the air stuck in her lungs. Creek released the basket and turned into her, yanking her against him. With a hand behind her head, he gripped her hair and smashed her face to his chest, where the pained moans that eventually leaked out were absorbed by his bulk.
She breathed through the torture and tried to push away, but he had her trapped in those big arms that felt like crushing steel.
“What did you say to that woman?” It was an accusation, not a question.
“You were right there, moron.” Her words came out muffled against his chest. “You know I didn’t say a darn word to her. Let me go. I can’t breathe.”
“There are all kinds of ways to say something without words.” He unwrapped her, but closed his long fingers around her wrist and edged toward the end of the aisle to peer around the corner toward the far bank of registers.
Alyssa tried to twist out of his grip, his fingers like hot rings on her skin. “You’re burning me again.”
He ignored her, his attention riveted to the front. Alyssa craned her neck to see what he was looking at. The woman who’d approached her minutes ago stood at the customer service desk talking to two men in uniform. A surge of hope made Alyssa gasp.
Then she looked closer, scanning the men for weapons. None. They weren’t real cops. They were unarmed security guards. And, unbeknownst to them, they faced a desperate escaped convict with a gun and a hostage in a store still occupied with at least a few customers. They didn’t know it yet, but they were way out of their league. As was Alyssa.
Her mind fast-forwarded through her options, then over the repercussions of each. Nothing panned out favorably.
If he didn’t have that damned gun ...
The gun. Her gaze dropped to his waist, to the outline of the weapon beneath his tee. Just the thought of taking that risk pushed her heart into her throat. But if she could get it, if she had control over the gun, all her options turned a hundred and eighty degrees.
Her gaze skipped to his face. His attention was still focused on the front.
She had to do it. It was the only answer.
Adrenaline rushed up her chest.
Alyssa sucked in a breath. Held it. And made the grab.
SIX
Alyssa didn’t remember the second between reaching for the weapon and finding it in her hand. She put as much distance between herself and Creek as his grasp on her opposite wrist allowed and pointed the gun at his chest.
“What the fuck?” Creek turned on her with shock and anger darkening his eyes to navy. “Give it back, Hannah.”
A sickening combination of terror and hope rolled beneath her breastbone. “Now who sounds like a two-year-old?”
“This isn’t funny,” he rasped in a furious undertone. “Give me the gun before someone sees it.”
“Let me g-go.” The pathetic stutter would have embarrassed her if simply holding the gun didn’t scare her enough to pee on herself. The thing was so heavy, so awkward. She didn’t know the first thing about how to hold it or fire it. “That’s all I want. Let go of my hand, turn around and walk away. I won’t stop you. Just let me g-go.”
“Or what?” His gaze dropped to the gun, then lifted to her face again with something new floating there, something sly. “You’ll shoot me?”
No. “Y-yes.”
“Honey, you can’t shoot me with the safety on.”
Sa fety ... ? Her gaze dropped to the gun. But by the time her eyes landed, it was gone. Whipped out of her hand by Creek.
He slid the gun into the opposite side of his waistband, out of her reach. A fresh anger floated in his eyes, one that sent a chill over the back of Alyssa’s neck, despite the heat still searing her wrist.
“Try to remember this for next time,” he scraped out from between clenched teeth. “Glocks don’t have safeties.”
He took hold of both her hands in a hard, hot grip and lowered his face to within an inch of hers. His eyes were so clear, so crystal blue. So cold. “We’re going to check out. Don’t make a fucking sound, Hannah. Don’t try another goddamned thing. A man can only hold his patience for so long and you’ve been testing mine from the moment I set eyes on you.”
He reached around the back of her head, his fingers digging into the knot she’d secured in her hair.
“Ow!” The binding gave and her hair fell everywhere.
“No more showing off your bruises. Got it?” He grabbed one arm, yanked her forward and pushed the cart up to the closest unoccupied cashier.
Alyssa checked the length of the store from beneath her downcast lashes. There was no sign of the woman or the security guards. “The bathroom’s right there—�
�
“No,” he whispered in her ear. “And unless you want a set of knuckles in your side, stop bringing it up.”
With one arm around her waist, Creek used the other to unload the cart. His body heat continued to simmer, as if in silent warning. Alyssa kept her gaze on the tired, middle-aged woman at the checkout, but she never even looked up. They could have been aliens and the cashier wouldn’t have known the difference.
“Ma’am,” Alyssa said, “is there a water fountain—?”
Creek settled his hand on her side, just below her cut, enough of a warning to stop Alyssa in mid sentence.
“Right over there, by the bathrooms.” The woman never made eye contact.
Creek kept darting looks toward the aisles, but ultimately managed to pay and exit before the Good Samaritan and security guards returned. He continued to watch the parking lot like a skittish fox.
At the truck, he lifted the rear door. “Get in.”
“I’m not riding back there,” she said. “I don’t care how mad you are, I’m not—”
One shove was all it took to tip her into the cargo space. She stumbled, but managed to stay on her feet. He tossed in the bags alongside her, then climbed in as well, closing the roll-up door halfway.
She eased to the farthest wall of the enclosure as Creek rummaged through the bags with jerky, angry movements, muttering to himself. He pulled out a small lantern and a strip of batteries, plunked the light on the floor, and with a hard, quick push to his feet, swung around and kicked the side of the truck. The bang exploded in the small space, echoing off the metal walls.
Alyssa started and squeezed into the corner.
“Stupid,” he muttered, then kicked the wall again. “Stupid.” And again. “Stupid.”
Alyssa jerked with every bang. Her shoulders crawled up around her ears. Now she was captive in the back of a truck with an armed escaped convict who had cuffed her, burned her and jerked her around for the last few hours. On top of that, he was royally pissed off.