Stolen Lust

by Charmaine Pauls

  “Yours too,” he says.

  I take my phone from my bag and give that to him too.

  “Walk,” the man says, jabbing Mint in the ribs.

  Mint squints into the distance. “What?”

  “You have two choices. Either you stick around and stay with your girlfriend or you walk. I won’t give you another chance.”

  Mint doesn’t walk. He runs. He runs like a maniac, looking over his shoulder as if he expects our hijacker to shoot him in the back. To be honest, so do I, but eventually, the darkness swallows Mint and no shot rings out. His footsteps no longer echo on the tarmac. He’s gone off the road, over the fence, and into the bushes.

  It’s quiet suddenly. Even the crickets and frogs don’t make a sound.

  Paralyzed with fear, I swallow.

  “Hey,” the man says softly from the driver’s side, waiting until I face him through the open window. “Can you drive?”

  I nod.

  “You comfortable driving this car?” he asks.

  I nod again.

  “You’re going to be fine.” His voice is calm, reassuring. “I’m not going to hurt you, baby doll. Come on,” he coaxes. “Get out.”

  My hands shake and my legs wobble as I comply. He’s at my door when I straighten, steadying me with a hand on my elbow. I’m too terrified to pull away. I don’t want to anger him. Despite my bravery of earlier, I don’t want to die. I don’t really want to take a bullet in the back or in any other part of my body. Shit, I don’t want to die here or somewhere in the bushes.

  “Hey,” he says, wiping a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re okay. Everything is going to be fine. Understand?”

  I bob my head up and down even as I don’t believe him.

  He lifts my bag that’s slung diagonally across my chest over my head and grabs it in his big hand. Gripping my bicep, he steers me around the car and opens the door on the driver’s side. As he leans inside, he scrunches up his face. He looks around, grabs Mint’s denim jacket from the back, and wipes the seat dry of Mint’s urine before pushing me inside. He’s careful, making sure I don’t bump my head or my knees. He adjusts the seat before pulling the safety belt over my chest and securing it.

  “Grab the wheel,” he says.

  My knuckles turn white as I obey. He fishes something from his back pocket. When he produces a pair of handcuffs, my heart threatens to stop.

  “Please,” I say, tears springing to my eyes.

  “Shh.” He strokes a palm over my hair but doesn’t heed my plea. Instead, he makes quick work of handcuffing my hands to the wheel. “Wait here,” he says, closing the door.

  It’s not like I have a choice. I drag the stink of urine with a breath of air into my lungs and watch with a sob catching in my throat as he goes back to the truck, gets in, and drives away.

  What the…? I jerk my head to both sides and stretch my neck as far back as I can. Why is he leaving me here? Is he with a gang? Is he leaving me for someone else to finish off?

  A loud crash makes me jump. Metal rattles. It sounds like the fence. I prick up my ears when the noise fades out. A door slams. Silence.

  Whoosh.

  An explosion rocks the night. A distance away on the right-hand side of the road, flames leap into the darkness. In the orange glow of the burning truck, the silhouette of the man is visible as he walks back toward me. His strides are powerful, but, like earlier, he seems in no particular hurry.

  Me, I’m ducking down as far as the handcuffs allow, until I can barely see over the dashboard. I don’t dare to take my gaze off his tall and broad form. I don’t dare look away from the danger heading toward me.

  Holding my gaze through the windscreen, he comes around to the passenger side, opens the door, and kneels on the tarmac. He leaves the gun next to him on the ground. My breaths come faster when he takes a flip knife from his back pocket and grips it between his teeth.

  “What are you doing?” I ask in a cracked voice.

  “Immobilizer,” he mumbles around the knife.

  Obviously, he knows where to look. This isn’t his first car theft.

  He tears the carpet off the floorboard and feels under the seat. Ripping out a handful of wires, he uses the knife to cut one of them.

  “You’ve got the key,” I say, my nerves raging out of control at the sight of that knife in his large hand. A bullet kills quickly, but a knife can torture for hours.

  He lifts his gaze briefly to mine. “They can track the car via the chip.”

  They meaning the police. There’s a chip in the key that corresponds to the one in the car. Just as my hope climbs, he opens the plastic lid on the battery part of the key and removes a small metal disk with the tip of the knife. It falls with a soft clink on the road.

  Not done yet, he unscrews the floorboard and flips it over. A small black box with a flashing red dot is screwed underneath. He unscrews that and crashes the box under the heel of his boot until the red light goes out.

  “Tracker,” he says, catching my gaze on him.

  He puts back the floorboard and chucks the carpet in the back. After pocketing the knife, he takes the gun and the broken tracker, gets in, and closes the door.

  I watch him as he uncuffs me, battling to get my mind around what’s happening. He blew up his truck.

  When my hands are free, he inserts the key in the ignition and says, “Drive.”

  I swallow away the dryness in my throat. “Why did you do that?”

  “The tracker? Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Your truck. Why did you set it on fire?”

  His smile is patient. “Evidence.”

  Right. DNA and all that shit.

  When I don’t react, he says, “The truck was running low on petrol.”

  That’s why he needs Mint’s car. What has he done? What crime has he committed? This isn’t a hijacking. This is his getaway car, and I’m going to drive it.

  Gripping my shoulder, he gives an encouraging squeeze, but my stomach drops as he points the gun at me. “Drive, baby doll.”

  My brain shuts down. It’s the only way to cope. I act on autopilot, stepping on the clutch and turning the key. The engine roars to life.

  “Gently,” he says when I push down too hard on the gas and the car shoots forward.

  I’m acutely aware of the weapon he aims just under my breast at my ribs. At the second try, I get it right. The car rolls forward. I slip smoothly into the left-hand lane and manage to keep the car steady.

  “Slow down,” he says when we reach an intersection. “Make a u-turn.”

  “What?” I steal a glance at him. He’s watching me with a smile, his gaze so intent in the light of the dashboard display I quickly look back at the road.

  “Turn around,” he says. “We’re heading north.”

  It’s not difficult to drive the car. I love fast cars, and my dad taught me how to drive when I was only twelve, but I’m nervous, and when I change gears, it’s jerky.

  “You’re doing good,” he says. “Keep within the speed limit.”

  I clutch the wheel and blink several times to get rid of the tears blurring my vision.

  “Boyfriend?” he asks.

  “W-what?”

  “The guy whose car this is, is he your boyfriend?”

  I shake my head and say in a croaky voice, “First date.”

  He chuckles.

  “What?” I ask as anger catches up with me from nowhere, maybe a delayed shock reaction.

  “What are you doing with an asshole like him?”

  The words slip out before I can bite my tongue. “As opposed to an asshole like you?”

  “If you were mine, I’d never have left you.”

  “He didn’t have a choice.” I cut my gaze to the weapon in his grasp. “You have a gun.”

  He lowers the gun. Letting it rest on his thigh pointing away from me, he drags his index finger over the barrel in an oddly intimate way, making it seem like a caress. “Maybe so. Still wouldn’t have left yo
u.”

  “What would you have done if you were in Mint’s shoes?” I scoff. “Fight?”

  “For you?” His teeth flash in the bluish light. “Tooth and nail. I’d kill with my bare hands to protect what’s mine.”

  I shut my mouth at that. My verbal ammunition runs dry, preventing me from formulating a comeback. Yeah, Mint ran, leaving me to this man’s mercy. I won’t lie and say I’m not a little pissed off at how easily he abandoned me, seeing that he’s been telling me for over a year I’m his fated soulmate, but it’s not like we’re together. Can I blame him for saving his own backside?

  “Don’t justify his behavior in that pretty little head of yours,” he says. “Only a coward would run and leave his date to fend for herself.”

  The fact that he knows what I’m thinking jars me. I lash out, for a moment forgetting to be afraid. “Don’t you dare judge him for your crime.” My stomach tightens with a knot of anxiety. Accusation is thick in my voice. “It’s dangerous out on that road. What if Mint doesn’t make it home, huh? Have you thought about that? What if he’s killed or run over?”

  “Are you seriously concerned about that dork?”

  I glare at him. “Are you for real?”

  “Eyes on the road.”

  The soft way in which he speaks only makes me angrier and more frightened. My dad used to be so gentle with the cows when he loaded them onto the truck for the abattoir.

  More tears roll over my cheeks. I swipe at them with the back of my hand, angry with myself for showing this weakness.

  He brushes away the wetness on my cheek with a thumb. “He’s not worth your tears.”

  Slapping his hand away, I say through clenched teeth, “Don’t touch me.”

  It’s an idle request and a useless threat. He can touch me all he likes. I wouldn’t be able to fight him off. Yet to my surprise, he drops his hand.

  “He’ll catch a lift with someone.” His tone is dry. “Let’s hope he flags down a car. He seems pathetic enough not to manage on his own.”

  “He’ll go to the police.”

  “Probably.” He doesn’t seem fazed about that. “I assume he’d want his car back.”

  My voice falters. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “No,” he says. “Don’t worry. By morning, you’ll be on your way.”

  I clench my fingers around the wheel. “How can I believe you?”

  “You have my word. I never go back on it.”

  I don’t believe him. I try to come up with a plan of escape, like crashing us into a tree, but I don’t have the courage. Not after my parents.

  Before we reach the casino, we turn left and follow a dirt track that runs through the open fields. He gives me cryptic directions, all the while watching me with that unsettling stare.

  After driving for forty-five minutes, he tells me to take a smaller road that passes a cracked concrete dam with a crooked windpump. The wheel is missing a few blades. We follow the track to a cluster of trees. The moon is almost full, illuminating the flat, deserted field surrounding us.

  “Park here,” he says. “Behind the trees.”

  The headlights shine on a house. It’s square with a flat roof. Judging by the peeling paint and broken windows boarded up from the inside, it’s abandoned.

  Oh, God.

  I start trembling when he gets out, comes around, and opens my door. He takes the key out of the ignition, pockets it, and offers me a hand. For a few heavy heartbeats, I only stare at the broad palm and long, slender fingers. His grip is strong but gentle when he finally grows tired of waiting and grabs my bicep to drag me out of the car.

  It’s past three in the morning, and the temperature has dropped more. It’s fresh, but my shivers have nothing to do with the cool air that smells of the dust the car has kicked up. At least it doesn’t stink of urine. I drag in a few breaths, trying to steady the erratic beating of my heart.

  Please, don’t fail me now.

  Already, the rhythm is uneven and a dull ache spreads between my ribs with every beat. I’ll have to take my pills soon.

  Flexing his fingers around my arm, he pushes me ahead of him to the door. He has my bag under his arm and the gun in his hand. He has to let go of me to fish a key from his pocket. I consider running. I don’t want to die, but that bullet in my back may be a better fate than the one awaiting me inside.

  “You’re safe with me,” he says, reading my thoughts again. He hands me the key. “Open the door.”

  The promise is spoken kindly, and I long to believe it. I long to trust the soothing assurance even as my logical mind says criminals can’t be trusted.

  “Go on, baby doll.” His lips stretch into a sensual curve. He’s patient now, letting me take my time. “I won’t bite.”

  I’m feeling weaker by the minute. If I don’t sit, I’m going to collapse in an embarrassing heap at his feet.

  Swallowing, I take the key like it’s dipped in acid that will peel my skin off my fingers. I look back at his handsome face, searching his expression, but there’s no malice or lust, only more patience. My dad was patient with me. He’d explain algebra to me for hours without getting frustrated. This man wears the same expression, like he has all night.

  My legs make the decision for me. Before they fold, I insert the key into the lock and turn it. The key turns without effort. The lock looks new. It must’ve been fitted to the old door recently.

  He reaches around me to push the door open. Another whiff of leather and tobacco steals over my senses. He steers me inside with a hand on my lower back, lights a paraffin lamp, and locks the door before pocketing the key.

  I blink and look around. The floors are raw concrete, and the flaking plaster of the walls reveals the bricks behind. Graffiti speaks of other invaders who’ve been here. A ratty sofa covered with a throw and a couple of empty beer bottles on a coffee table are the only signs of life.

  He ushers me through the lounge to a door on the left that leads to a kitchen and lights another lamp. A wooden table and two chairs stand in the center of the floor. Battered cupboards line the walls. Some of the doors hang on one hinge. The linoleum is an ugly green color. It curls in the corners like paper, exposing the splintering pressed wood underneath. It smells of a wood fire inside. A small heap of burnt-out ashes and charcoaled logs in the corner explains the smell.

  The man stops at the table and releases my arm. I back up to the sink, as far away from him as possible. Pressing my backside against the steel of the sink, I watch him. I wait for the lie, for the moment he’s going to pounce, but he leaves the gun on the table and zips open my bag to take out my wallet.

  He goes through the contents meticulously, checking the empty compartment where I normally keep bills, the few business cards I store in the second compartment, and my loyalty cards in the card slots. He studies each one and lastly pulls out my driver’s license. His gaze flickers to mine after reading it. Then he pushes it back into the slot and returns the wallet to my bag.

  “What do your friends call you, Cassandra Joubert?” he asks in his deep, low voice.

  “Cas,” I say, licking my dry lips.

  He hangs my bag over a chairback. He unzips his jacket and pulls it off, wincing as he does so. A black T-shirt stretches over his chest. The dark fabric molds to his broad shoulders and flat stomach.

  “Can I call you Cas?” he asks as he picks up the gun.

  As long as he’s got the gun, he’s going to call me whatever he likes.

  He advances on me. “I’m Ian.”

  “I didn’t want to know that,” I whisper, terrified.

  “Doesn’t matter that you know.” He brushes my hair from my face. “You’re not going to tell.”

  I stare up at him in petrified shock. In the yellow light of the lamp, his face is more formidable. He’s ruggedly handsome. His eyes are striking—a rich, dark brown like fertile soil mixed with the amber of a warm sun. Standing so close, I register his height and strength. He’s packed with muscles, lean and i
n shape. I bet he can really kill with his bare hands.

  I lean back when he reaches out again, escaping with just a brush of his fingertips over my cheek. “What do you want from me? You’ve got the car. Let me go.”

  “In the middle of the night and in the middle of nowhere?” He raises a brow. “You wouldn’t know in which direction to run.”

  Actually I do know. I grew up on a farm in the area. We’re in Botswana, about half an hour’s drive from the South African border. I recognized the dam and the windpump. We used to drive past here to buy kudus and springbok for the farm from the Pilansberg Reserve when they had an overpopulation of antelope.

  “I’ll take my chances,” I say, holding his piercing gaze.

  His hair drops over his forehead as he stares down at me. “Too dangerous. I’ll never risk you like that.”

  The statement surprises me. My lips part. I try to think, but it’s getting harder when I feel this weak. I sag against the counter, leaning my palms on the sink. He could’ve just driven here himself. I try to be firm, but the exhaustion sounds in my voice. “Why am I here?”

  “I need your help.”

  “My help?”

  Not letting go of the gun, he reaches for the hem of his T-shirt. When he lifts it over his head, exposing hard abs and impressive pecs, my mouth goes drier with fear.

  He’s inked. Phrases are tattooed under his breast, on his chest, and on the curve between his neck and shoulder. The head of a dragon peeks from under his waistband, blowing flames over his hip.

  Keeping his strong arms tangled in the sleeves, he turns around. A gasp escapes my throat. There’s a hole in his shoulder, and from it oozes a steady trickle of blood.

  Chapter 3

  Cas

  This man, Ian, who stole Mint’s car, was shot. I know a gunshot wound when I see one.

  My throat constricts. It’s not because of the blood. I’m not the queasy type. If anything, I’m fascinated by the internal mechanics of the human body. It’s the reason he got shot that twists my stomach.

  I lick my lips again, wishing I’d put on balm and not the twenty-four-hour lipstick that dries out my skin. “Have you killed someone?”