I followed on autopilot, mind reeling, acutely aware of my near-nakedness in the cool morning air. We emerged onto a side street where a nondescript black car waited. Julian pulled keys from his pocket.
"Get in," he ordered, opening the passenger door.
Reality crashed back. I stepped backward, shaking my head. "No. No way. I need answers first. And clothes would be nice!"
Every psychology textbook warned against getting into cars with volatile patients. But those textbooks never covered what to do when men with silenced weapons were shooting at you.
Or what to do when that same volatile patient made your pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the darkest corners of your sexuality.
"Julian,” I said shakily, “if you’d just tell me—”
"For CHRIST'S sake! We don't have time for this!"
A shout from above. Someone had spotted us from the fire escape.
"FUCK!" Julian forced me into the passenger seat, my bare back slapping against cold leather, skin sticking to the surface. In seconds, he was behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life under his violent commands.
I caught one last glimpse of my apartment building as we peeled away, taking in the shattered window, a shadow passing behind the curtains. My life receded in the rearview mirror.
As I struggled to regain my bearings, heart hammering against my ribs, one terrifying thought crystallized into ice-cold certainty: the carefully constructed illusion I called my life had just shattered completely. The respected therapist with the gentle demeanor was now fleeing barefoot and half-naked with a dangerous man who handled me exactly how I'd always secretly wanted to be handled.
And despite the terror, despite the blood and violence, a small, twisted part of me wondered if this might finally be the chance to discover who I really was beneath all my careful pretenses. That part whispered an even more disturbing truth: I wasn't just afraid of Julian. I was afraid of how much I wanted him to break down all my barriers the way he'd broken down my door.
Trauma, in my professionalopinion, was best processed while speeding through city streets with windows down and Lady Gaga blasting at volumes that could wake the dead. At least that's what I told myself as I watched Vince clutch the door handle with white knuckles every time I took a corner.
"Could you possibly drive like a normal person?" he shouted over "Bloody Mary," which I'd cranked specifically to drown out thoughts about murdering my former mentor and effectively signing my own death warrant. "You're going to get us killed before the assassins even have a chance!"
I flashed him my most reassuring smile, which, based on his expression, wasn't reassuring at all. "Relax, doc. I've been professionally trained in tactical driving."
"By whom? The Grand Theft Auto school of transportation?"
"Actually, it was an ex-Mossad specialist in Greece," I said, cutting across three lanes to make an exit, "but your guess was pretty close."
His knuckles went whiter, if possible. "Where are we going? And can I please get some clothes?"
I hit the clutch and shifted into a higher gear. The car leapt forward, speeding well over the limit. I noted an SUV followed us across the highway. A sharp crack tore through the air, and my back window exploded, glass pelting our necks and shoulders like razor-sharp hail. Vincent's shocked gasp pierced through the music.
"Shit!" I snarled, yanking the wheel hard right. "Keep your head down!"
Vincent ducked, covering his head as two more shots rang out. One pinged off the trunk, the other going wide. I had to give the shooter credit for accuracy while firing at a moving target, but thankfully, not good enough.
I blew through a yellow light turning red, cutting off a delivery truck that honked angrily. Watery morning sunlight slanted through buildings, catching on windshields and puddles from last night's rain. The smell of Hector's blood lingered in my nostrils, stuck to my skin, a constant reminder of what I'd done. What I'd become. A traitor, a dead man walking.
"Hold on," I warned, spotting a black Audi pulling into traffic behind us, moving with too much purpose to be coincidence. "We've got company."
The Audi followed, bullying through the intersection. Not amateurs. Heat from the engine became noticeable as I pushed harder, tachometer climbing toward red before I shifted up.
Just as we hit a straightaway, the song faded, replaced by one of Lo's K-pop numbers.
"What the fuck?" I snarled, momentarily distracted. "How did that get in there?"
Vincent clutched the door handle, knuckles white, eyes wide with panic as he kept glancing back at the gaining Audi.
"They're getting closer!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Oh my god, we're going to die!"
"I’ll be damned if I die to K-pop. Hit next on the playlist!"
Vincent stared. "There are people SHOOTING at us!"
