Them (her Book 3)

by Portia Moore

  By the time I’m on the interstate, I’m going well over a hundred. The car is smooth as silk, the buttery leather of the seats warm against my back, and I pull my long dark hair loose from the ponytail I’d tossed it up into. I feel sultry and deadly, and completely free.

  It won’t last forever, but while it does it’s a hell of a feeling.

  And then I see it. A huge truck up ahead of me, swerving a little in the road. It’s going slower than I am, and I slam on the brakes, downshifting as the engine growls like an angry wildcat. I think to swerve onto the side of the road, but there’s a drop and I might flip the car. The truck can take the impact—I just hope the Porsche can, because we’re going to collide. I can’t escape it.

  The impact jolts through me like an electric shock, piercing my bones and rattling my teeth. Thank God I put my seatbelt on, I think as I slump forward over the steering wheel, adrenaline making me feel dizzy, as if I might faint. I glance up, briefly, to try and see who might be getting out of the truck, but I can’t keep my head up. The world swims around me, and I feel nauseous.

  “Fuuuck!” I hear someone shout. A man’s voice. Better than a woman. A man I can manipulate. A man I can handle. No matter how angry he is.

  “Wait, she’s moving!” I hear him yell. “Call the ambulance, dude!”

  The door opens, and I feel the chill of the air—or maybe I’m just in shock. “Are you okay?” the deep voice asks, and then I hear the screech of tires, and the feeling of something heavy shifting away from the front of the car. Whoever the driver was, that asshole is leaving us here.

  Fuck. Now I’m going to have to deal with a guy who’s stranded.

  I start to stumble out of the car, and I see him running in the direction of the disappearing truck. From the back, I can see that he’s tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in jeans and a fitted t-shirt. He throws up his hands, clearly furious, and then turns, heading back in my direction.

  I’ve got to get my shit together. I’m disoriented and dizzy from the wreck, but I have to handle this. I can’t let this guy think he has the upper hand.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, my friend took off,” the man says, panting slightly. He looks at me and I get a glimpse of piercing eyes, blond hair, and a sharp jaw with a hint of stubble. He’s like a doppelganger of that biker on Sons of Anarchy, the blond with the attitude. I always did think he was hot. I’m not going to let this guy know that, though.

  He’s staring at me now with a look I know, and it incenses me. He’s checking me out like I’m a fucking carcass in a butcher’s window. “What the hell?” I shout angrily. “You short-stopped and made me slam into you!” I stalk towards him and stare, hoping to intimidate him. I’m not entirely sure that’s what happened, but it sounds good, and I’m sure as hell not taking the blame for this.

  To my astonishment, he laughs.

  “Is this funny to you?” I snap. “It won’t be as funny when I call the cops.” I turn to go back towards the car. I’m not actually going to call them—the Porsche is technically stolen, but it might get him off my ass and if the car will drive, give me a chance to bail.

  “Wait!” I hear footsteps, and then the guy is in front of me, sliding in front of my door and holding up his hands. “Just hear me out,” he says pleadingly. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who pleads for anything, so it’s a little intriguing, at least. But as I lock eyes with him, I see the hint of a smirk—he think he’s got me. He’s just like Jadon and every other hot fucking guy I’ve ever met—used to girls fawning over them, giving them anything they want just for a shred of attention. I’m so over men like this. I see him taking in my dark eyeliner, my breasts pushed up in the cropped halter top, feel his indrawn breath as I lean nearer, smelling my candy-scented perfume. I can practically hear his heart rate speeding up. He thinks he has me, the arrogant bastard.

  I lean so close that my lips are almost brushing his ear. This is the oldest trick in the book—just close enough so that he can feel the warmth of my breath, smell my perfume, think about how it will feel when my lips shift a little to the right and land on his. And how it’ll feel when he convinces me to make them go lower…he’s hard right now, I know it. Men always are by this point. And that’s when they stop thinking.

  “I bet you’re used to girls doing anything you want them to,” I purr in his ear, arching my back slightly. I see him smile.

  “I’m just asking for a favor,” he whispers. He thinks I’m going to kiss him. He thinks he can command me just by being near me, that I’m going to be begging for his dick any second now.

  Jesus Christ, men are fucking stupid.

  One well-aimed kick and my heel connects directly with his boner and his nuts. I can see the pain radiating over his face, and it’s distinctly satisfying. Maybe more satisfying than stealing the car. “You need to learn about boundaries,” I say, deadpan, as he bends over and grabs his crotch. I draw an invisible line between us with my finger. “This is my space,” I say, pointing to my side of it. “And this is your space.” I point to his. “So please don’t cross it unless invited. The more important question is, who’s going to pay for the damage?”

  “You’re psycho!” he screeches at me, as if I haven’t even spoken. He’s still holding his balls.

  I grin at him. “I’ve been called much worse,” I assure him. “Just give me whatever cash you have on you.” He’s staring at me with equal parts violence and lust in his eyes. It’s a look I’m familiar with. “You know what?” I smile broadly at him. “It doesn’t even matter. I have somewhere to be, and this isn’t even my car.” Why am I even bothering? Some more cash would be nice, but I want to finish this conversation. I’ll leave him here. He doesn’t know my name or my information so he won’t be a problem. I open the door and slide inside, hoping the car will still drive.

  “Wait!” His voice has that pleading tone again. I glance over at him, unbothered by any of it. “You can’t just leave me here!”

  I laugh. “Why not? Your friend did.” The way I see it, I’m under no obligation to be a better person, if his friend couldn’t even stick around.

  “I don’t have my phone. I left it in the car. I got out to make sure you were alive, don’t I get any points for that?” He’s practically begging now, and that has some appeal. I narrow my eyes, considering it. He does have a point—he did get out to check on me. His friend didn’t give a shit. I suppose it’s worth something, as long as he doesn’t make my life any harder.

  “If you try anything funny, I’ll run us both off of the road,” I tell him sternly, grinning. I put just the right amount of ferocity into the grin, so he knows I’m not kidding. I don’t care if he thinks I’m crazy. We’re both better off if he does, honestly. “Get in if you’re coming!” I’m out of patience. He can come along or not, but I’m getting out of here.

  He gets in and slams the door, and I waste no time. I start the engine—thank God it starts—turn up the music, and zoom back out onto the interstate. For a car that looks like it’s had a sledgehammer taken to it, it’s running surprisingly well.

  I can feel him staring at me as I drive, as if he’s sizing me up, trying to read me. Good luck, buddy, I want to tell him, but I don’t say a word.

  “Are you headed to the city?” he asks finally.

  “Which one?” I don’t even look at him.

  “Chicago,” he says, in a tone that implies I’m a little slow. I don’t appreciate it.

  “Maybe,” I reply shortly. I’m not getting into a conversation with him. I’m not here for small talk.

  “Do you normally crash people’s cars and knee guys in the balls?” There’s a teasing note to his voice, and it does nothing to improve my mood.

  “Do you normally get ditched in the middle of nowhere and practically try to kiss strangers on the side of the road?” I retort.

  “I did not try to kiss you.” He sounds defensive now. Just how I want him.

  “Good, because that would have been a pretty pathetic att
empt.” I’m not giving him an inch.

  “It’s one thing to kick a guy in the balls, now you’re just stomping on them.”

  Okay, that was a decent comeback. I can’t stop the half smile that forms on my lips, as much as I want to. I don’t want to like this guy. I won’t.

  “So this is your boyfriend’s car?” I hear the curiosity in his voice. Here we go, I think. Now the questions about the boyfriend, trying to figure out if I’m single, if he’s got a shot. What he doesn’t realize is that boyfriend or not, he never had one. And I’m going to shut this down now.

  “Sugar daddies,” I say without missing a beat. I see his deflated expression out of the corner of my eye, and stifle a laugh. Of course he was hoping I’d just say no. That I’m some rich girl he could take advantage of.

  “I’m kidding,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Having some wrinkly guy on top of me that smells like Bengay would make me puke.” Of course, that pretty much sums up my evening earlier, although I was on top of him. And I did want to puke.

  “Stripper?” There’s a mixture of intrigue and disappointment in his voice—the classic “that’s hot but I could never date one” routine. I’m so over predictability in men.

  “Thief, actually,” I say, and now I want to shock him. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to steal from men when they’re thinking about screwing you.” There we go. I wait for the disgust, the recoil. The indignation on behalf of his fellow man. But when he replies, he just sounds amused. And that catches me off guard.

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack,” I assure him. I see him shove a hand into each of his pockets, checking for his wallet, and that makes me giggle. He’s so nervous.

  That’s only confirmed when I see him look at the speedometer and cringe, reaching for his seatbelt. I’m going over ninety now. “Uh, maybe you should slow down,” he says, and I snort, putting my foot down harder on the gas.

  “Don’t be a pussy. I’m running late.”

  “Pussy? Sweetheart, you have no idea how wrong you are,” he retorts, chuckling.

  And then, hardly five seconds after he says that, I see flashing lights in the rearview mirror. Fuck, I think. I can’t pull over—Jadon might have reported it stolen. And it’s Jadon—it could be stolen.. There’s too many ways it could go wrong.

  “Aren’t you going to pull over?” he exclaims, looking at me in horror.

  “The thing is…I didn’t exactly tell him I was going to be using this.” I turn the radio down, glancing in my rearview.

  “You’re shitting me!” He spits it out, his voice going up.

  “I told you I’m a thief.” I roll my eyes and press my foot down on the gas. “I can outrun him,” I say confidently, as he bursts into laughter. Well, that’s better than shouting, anyway.

  “He’s going to call for backup!” Ah, there’s the shouting.

  “I’ve done this before, it’s fine,” I assure him, and I see him put his head between his legs like he’s going to throw up. What a pussy.

  With some speed and some good maneuvering, I manage to escape the cop. His car is an old model and doesn’t have a chance of outrunning the Porsche. In less than five minutes I’ve lost him. When I’m able to pay attention to the man in my passenger seat again, I realize he’s passed the fuck out.

  I touch the back of his neck gently, not wanting to scare him. I’m not really sure why I’m being gentle with him, but I feel his whole body tense under my fingertips, and he looks up. He sits up quickly, looks behind us, and then stares at me with an expression of pure amazement.

  “How did you do that?”

  “I have a lot of experience running,” I tell him flatly.

  “How far are we from Chicago?” The relief is evident in his voice, and I almost tell him to check and see if he pissed himself, but I decide not to antagonize him. I’m more than a little tired, and I just want to get to a shower and a bed.

  “My GPS says two hours.”

  “Good.” He sags back into his seat, and I can see that his hands are shaking a little.

  “You didn’t shit yourself did you?” I couldn’t resist. He’s just so easy to wind up.

  “I came pretty fucking close.” I hear a thread of anger in his voice, and there’s something else under it. It almost sounds like lust—like he’s turned on by my outrunning the cops. A guy who thinks he wants a bad bitch—nothing new about that. I’ll be impressed when I can find one who knows how to actually handle one.

  “If they’d caught me I would have told them you had nothing to do with it.” To my surprise, I realize that I actually mean it. “And if it helps,” I add, “the guy I stole this from is a complete prick and won’t even realize it’s gone until sometime next week. Some people have way more than they should.” Except the last sentence, that’s totally not true. But I suddenly want to reassure this guy, and I don’t really understand the urge. I’m too tired to try to examine it, though.

  My phone rings and I quickly silence it. It’s Jadon, and there’s no way I’m answering that.

  “Boyfriend?” he asks, and I suppress another eye roll.

  “I’m a lesbian,” I tell him, entirely straight faced. And then, as I see the smile on his face: “but only because I fuck myself.”

  God, he’s fun to toy with. I can practically hear his arousal.

  “What’s your name?” he asks quickly, probably to distract himself.

  “Jennifer,” I say, lying smoothly. No way I’m telling him my real name.

  And then he rolls down the window, letting a blast of warm air into the car.

  “The air is on,” I say, annoyed. “Why are you putting the window down?”

  “Oh, the car is starting to smell like it’s full of shit.”

  I laugh, spontaneously. I can’t remember the last time that happened, and it softens me towards him, as much as I don’t want that. Before I can think about it, my actual name spills from my lips. “It’s Alana.”

  “Alana…I like that name. I’m Ian.” He gives me a flirtatious smile, but I can see the frustration at the edges of it.

  “You’re cute,” I tell him. “I admit that. But I’m not your type.”

  “Who said I was flirting with you?” he retorts back. I glance quickly at him, my eyes narrowing. He’s starting to give it back as good as I can deliver it, and I like that. I’m enjoying it in spite of myself.

  “You’re not flirting with me?” I soften my voice, giving it that seductive edge that works so well on men.

  “I’d have to be an idiot to flirt with a girl who kicked me in the nuts and is driving a stolen car.”

  I bite the edge of my lip. Well, he’s not wrong there. “You’d be insane, too,” I tell him.

  He points to a sign for a rest stop. “Can we stop there? I’m starving.”

  I grin in spite of myself, glancing at him. “You have your wallet?” I have plenty of cash on me, but that doesn’t mean I want to buy this guy dinner.

  “Come on, I know you can spare five bucks to buy a guy—who you just kicked in the nuts—a sandwich.”

  He is the master of the guilt trip, I’ll give him that. “Okay, but you’re ordering off of the value menu,” I tell him firmly. I see him glance at the sign for Red Lobster.

  “I could really go for some of their fried shrimp right now.” He sees my glare and holds up his hands. “Or a burger and fries sound good!”

  We go through the drive-through and I hand the cashier a hundred dollar bill. He stares at it for a second as if he’s never seen one before, and then back at me. “Hold on,” he says, looking at the bill dubiously as if he’s not sure that it’s real. “I don’t think we have this much to give back change.”

  I see the man next to me raise an eyebrow, and he digs in his pocket, handing me a twenty. I give it to the cashier, reclaiming my hundred dollar bill, and stuff the change in my pocket too before handing him the bag of food.

  “I thought I’d have change,” he says grumpily, and I gr
in at him.

  “I thought you didn’t have any money.”

  “Now I don’t know if you’re a stripper or a miser.” He’s already digging into the food, and I raise an eyebrow.

  “Miser? What are you, an old English professor?” I hit the gas, tearing back out to the interstate as he chews happily next to me. I snatch up a fry and stuff it into my own mouth. “I’m running so behind. Where do you need to be dropped off? Actually, just put it in my GPS.” I hand him my phone, snagging another fry and keeping an eye on the road. All I need is another accident.

  “I thought you might just drop me off on a random corner of the city.”

  “That does sound like a much better idea, but you might cry or something.”

  To my surprise, he doesn’t have a comeback. He just puts the address in, and eats quietly. Silence follows us both finishing our food, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s just two people sharing a space, and I find myself actually relaxing in his company. Whatever ice was between us has been broken, but I don’t want to let myself get too comfortable. I’m going to drop him off, and then I’ll never see him again. This will just be a crazy memory, another one for the books.

  I pull up in front of the three-apartment building and put the car into park. “This looks like your stop.” I glance around the neighborhood, keeping an eye out for anyone who looks sketchy. You don’t just park a Porsche anywhere in Chicago even if it’s banged up like it is.

  “You don’t plan on coming back and robbing anyone?” He’s joking, but this interaction is at an end. I give him a quick, dismissive grin, encouraging him to get out of the car. We’re done here. It was fun, but I have things to do.

  “Do you live here? In Chicago, I mean?” Jesus, he really is stalling.

  “Not really.” I glance down at my nails, refusing to look at him.

  “Thanks for the ride,” he says, the car door opening, and I feel relief that he’s not going to push it further. But he doesn’t budge, and I already know what he’s going to say next—or some variation of it.

  “Go out with me.”