The truck rolls to a stop and Bronson puts it in park. And here is that awkward moment. We look at each other. He smiles. I bite down on my lip, warring with myself about how I shouldn’t do this with him yet. Then he takes my face in his hands, pulling me to him and slamming his lips over mine. His hands roam over my body. “Fuck,” he says between deep kisses. And this is like a drug. I feel wanted and needed and pretty.
“God, I want to fuck you bad right now.” Bronson grabs my hips and yanks me across the center console and into his lap. The steering wheel hits my back.
“Shit,” I say under my breath when he bites down on my neck. His hands are all over me: pulling my shirt up, unhooking my bra, grabbing between my thighs.
“I’m so fucking hard.”
And the next thing I know, he’s tugging at the flies of both our jeans. The windows of the truck have fogged over, “Little Monster”is playing over the radio, and just when he’s lifted his shirt over his head, I hear glass shatter. Tiny, clear cubes spray all over the cabin of the truck.
“The fuck—”
A gloved hand reaches inside, pulls the lock, and the door swings open. Bronson draws his fist back, but before he can throw a punch, the man outside points a gun at his temple and pulls the trigger.Bam. I scream and attempt to slide off Bronson and into the passenger seat.If I can only get to that door. I can run through the park to the woods and the neighborhood that backs up to it.But before I’ve even moved a muscle, the man’s hand is around my throat, dragging me over Bronson’s limp body and out of the open door. My ass hits the concrete hard, sending a jolt of pain up my spine.
“Let me go.” No sooner have I shouted than his fingers tighten. I feel the bone crunch, my throat threatening to close.
“Shut up and I won’t have to kill you.” His voice is deep and rough with a thick, almost comical country twang. I try to see what he looks like but it’s pitch black. All I can make out is his shadow.
I want to scream again, but I know better. No one is anywhere around us to hear and all it will do is enrage this man even more. Being the daughter of a hitman, my daddy always taught me how to take care of myself, how to fight back. But I’m already in a more than vulnerable position.
He drags me down the street to a run-down truck with its engine still on. And my brain wants to take me back to the day I was seven and almost kidnapped. This time I know my daddy won’t be here to save me. I only have myself.
I take note of the Georgia license plate. The dented right fender. The chipped paint. The passenger side door opens and the interior light flickers on. Another man—a massive man—climbs out and holds the door. I’m thrown in and the beast of a man hops in behind me. I ball my fist and punch him and that makes him laugh. His face is tanned and weathered. Lines run from the corners of his dark eyes, his lips thin and nearly purple. The inside of the truck smells like stale beer and piss. There’s several empty, crushed Miller High Life cans on the floorboard.
“You’re a pretty little thing,” the man says as he grabs both my wrists and pins them behind my back. Within seconds, he’s tied me so tight I can feel the cord already cutting into my skin.
The driver’s door opens and the man who took me—who killed Bronson—slides in behind the steering wheel. I can clearly see him now and he can’t be much older than thirty-five. He’s twiggy. His nose is crooked, most likely from one too many bar fights, but his jaw is defined. The man to my right, he scares me. He’s the kind of man I would cross the street in order to avoid, but this one on my left, he looks harmless in his Pearl Jam T-shirt.
He drags a hand down his face as he stares at me. “Look. This ain’t got much to do with you.” He puts the gear into drive and the engine sputters, almost stalling. “Just don’t make me kill ya, okay?”
I glance down at the front of my gray shirt. It’s covered with Bronson’s blood. I fight the tears. I fight them so fucking hard but after just a few minutes, they spill down my cheeks. A sob works its way up my throat. I try to choke it back down but can’t. It comes out full force which causes the driver to glance over at me. His lips lay flat across his face and he rolls his eyes.
“Aw, now, sweetheart, don’t be cryin’. Shit happens, you know. You’s bound to get caught up in some shit like this sooner or later. At least I’mma nice guy. Real nice. And as long as you behave yourself, do just like I say, you ain’t gonna get hurt much.” He swipes a tear from my cheek and smiles, revealing nicotine-stained, crooked teeth.
I want to tell him not to touch me. I want to shout and scream and tell him I fucking hate him, but I don’t say a word. Sometimes silence is your best defense. And it looks like keeping my mouth shut is my only option right now.
4
Ava
We’ve been drivingfor hours. Three hours to be exact. My senses are on high alert as I have been paying attention to every turn, every twist, every landmark. I’ll need it when I get out. And Iwillget out. We crossed the state line over an hour ago, got off at the Bremen exit, and now we are in the middle of butt-fuck Egypt with nothing around but cotton fields. For the past fifteen minutes all I’ve seen in front of us is the glow of the fluffy, white buds in the headlights. The guy to my left, whose name is Bubba—fitting—nodded off a while ago, after polishing off a six-pack. He smells like beer and sweat. His knuckles are caked with dirt. He’s utterly filthy and his greasy head keeps lulling over to the side and falling onto my shoulder. I nudge him off and sometimes he wakes up, grunting before slamming his forehead against the window and snoring.
The driver—Bubba calls him Easy Earl—he’sonlyon his second six-pack and he’s swerving all over the road. Every once in a while the tire rides over the shoulder. A mile back, he took out a mailbox. You’d think I’d be scared—and fuck, I am—but not of his driving. I keep hoping he’ll pass out at the wheel. I envision this jalopy swerving off into one of those cotton fields, hopefully hitting a ditch and flipping over a few times. I’d climb out of the busted windshield and take off. Their drunk asses would never be able to aim good enough to shoot me, much less run fast enough to catch me. A few times I’ve thought about jerking the wheel, but I don’t want to chance pissing Earl off. Something tells me he’s a violent drunk and I’d catch a backhand to the face. A busted lip.
“Aw, shit!” Earl groans as he slams on the brakes. Dust flies up around the truck as he shoves it into reverse.
“What the hell, Earl?” Bubba snorts and shakes his head.
“Missed the damn turn.”
“Fucking idiot.”
Earl struggles with the steering wheel before finally turning onto a gravel driveway. Pine trees loom over the path. The headlights shine bright, bouncing over the weeds and grass sprouting up between the sparsely scattered rocks crunching beneath the tires. Ahead of us sits an old farmhouse, almost antebellum looking. In its younger years I’m certain it was beautiful, but now the paint on the columns is chipped and weathered. The shutters hang loose, a few missing. There’s a single light shining through a dirt-streaked window onto the porch from the bottom floor. All I can think about is how much this house looks like the one inThe Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
The truck sputters to a stop. Bubba steps out then grabs me by the shoulders, yanking me out. I tumble to the ground, the cold, wet grass soaking through the knees of my jeans. In the distance I can hear crickets and bullfrogs. The sky is clear. I’m terrified, but all I can manage to think is that I’ve never seen so many stars. Funny the things you think about in moments like this.
Earl rounds the front of the truck and grabs my bound wrists, yanking me to my feet. “Now, Ms. Ava, we’s gots some plans for you.” Earl pushes me from behind. Bubba’s still holding onto my shoulders as they walk me toward the front of the run-down house.
Bubba snorts back some snot, clearing his throat with a hacking cough followed by thick sounding spit.
