She wears a silver chain. The charm attached looks like a tiny USB plug. I run my finger over it, pressing it into her chest.
“What’s this?”
“Geek jewelry. I’m really into computers,” she says, her voice surprisingly steady.
She blinks once and the tears finally fall. Her eyes follow the inked images covering my right arm. For a few seconds she looks scared, but it doesn’t last. She wipes her cheek on her shoulder and shrugs at me.
“Don’t you have to read me my rights or something?” Katherine asks.
“I’m not a cop.”
Her eyes snap to mine and she squints as if that helps her think.
“So what are you?”
“A fugitive recovery agent.”
“A bounty hunter,” she says with a sharp breath that resembles a laugh. “Wow. Well, let’s go.”
There’s no fear in her words, only resignation. I escort her back to the car and place her in the backseat, being sure the child locks are on. I slide into the driver’s seat and remove my pistol, laying it on the passenger seat.
“Look here,” I tell her.
With my phone, I take a picture of Katherine and send it, along with a text message, to my employer:
Target acquired.
“We’ll be on the road for a few days. If you try to escape or cause any kind of disturbance in public, I will not hesitate to hand you over to local police, wherever we are. I guarantee that trip back to Texas won’t be so pleasant.”
My threat hits home as her eyes widen and she nods a few times. If only she knew that it is merely a threat. The payoff on this job is too high for me to turn her over and lose out on that.
“Four weeks. Four fucking weeks I’ve been chasing you.” I watch her in the rearview mirror as she stares back. “It’ll be good to get home again, sleep in my own bed, and not have to worry about where your ass is.”
“Yeah, well, now that you’ve got my ass, what are you going to do with it?”
She hits me with a flirtatious smile in the mirror. I know her game.
“Don’t start that. You and I both know how this trip ends, Katherine.”
I watch as she slumps against the seat, letting her head roll back. Her eyes fix on the ceiling. I navigate my way through the city, finally reach the I-5, and head south. San Antonio is about 2,200 miles from here and I’m hoping to make it there in four days. I’ll have to push myself, but the payout will be worth every missed hour of sleep.
My phone vibrates and I check the screen. It’s Natasha again, the dreaded ex. Like I want to deal with that right now. I hit the button to silence the call and throw my phone into the cup holder.
My fingers tap against the steering wheel as I shift in my seat. Rain begins to dot the windshield and the sound creates its own pulse inside the car.
“Kat,” I hear her say after almost thirty minutes of silence.
“What?”
“My name is Kat. Katherine was my grandmother.”
I nod and return my eyes to the road, praying like hell that this drive will be uneventful.
2: her
It’s dark now. This car smells like man and everything that implies. The interior is tan. It reminds me of human skin and makes me nauseated. I scoot forward on the seat trying to give my arms room to stretch, and the metal handcuffs bite at my wrists. My captor stares straight ahead, the red glow of taillights reflected on his face. White dashed lines slide by in a blurred trail of breadcrumbs leading home.
After being on the run for weeks, it’s kind of nice to finally know my destination. I’m so tired of the unknown, the paranoia, the stealing, and the lying to survive. Even though this trip will deliver me to a life in prison—or worse, death row—I welcome it. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
As for this bounty hunter, I’m not sure what to make of him. He’s immune to my weepy-girl crying act, so I’d say he probably tortured small animals as a child. With his stunning good looks, he’s a far cry from Dog, the Bounty Hunter. I’m thankful for that, because who wants to spend days in a car with all that hair and pleather?
His hair is light brown and pushed back, just long enough so that the curled ends gather at the nape of his neck. It’s messy and sexy in an unintentional way. The back of his neck is tan and beautifully contrasts the collar of his white T-shirt. I can see lines of black ink filled in with reds and blues beneath the thin material and I want to see more. I follow the path down his neck and over his wide shoulders. His arms are well-defined muscle, but not excessively so. They are covered in more tattoos. He looks strong, but not beefy. Long fingers drape over the steering wheel in a relaxed grip, a red rose decorates the back of his hand. There’s no wedding band or any indication that one exists.
The stripe of face visible in the rearview mirror is handsome. Blue eyes, that earlier in the day reflected sky, now seem cold and gray in the shadows. He glances in the mirror and catches me staring. Tiny lines appear at the corners of his eyes when he squints. I don’t look away.
“What would it take for you to just drop me off at the Canadian border?”
I keep my voice light and sweet, hoping to persuade him. He shakes his head.
“It would take a lot more than you’ve got,” he says.
“Maybe I’ve got a lot more than you think.” I wink and hope I’m coming off as seductive and not like a crackhead with a tic.
“I doubt that, princess.” He returns his eyes to the road. “Besides, that’s six hours in the opposite direction.”
Deciding he must be unaffected by my powers of seduction, I watch him for a few minutes. His eyes start sliding closed and popping open again. He looks like me during my Information Theory classes. Professor Darcy’s nasally and monotonous voice instantly fills my head. “Kullback-Leibler divergence measures the difference between two distributions. It is sometimes called the relative entropy.” What a bore. I imagine this bounty hunter has sacrificed many nights of sleep to catch up with me. That thought makes me happier than it should. When his chin drops to his chest, I speak up.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t sleep while driving. It can be hazardous to my health.” He shrugs one shoulder and shifts in his seat. “My health is directly related to your paycheck, right? Can’t get paid if I’m lying in pieces on the I-5.”
I silently celebrate as he exits the highway and pulls into a motel. It’s not the Ritz Carlton. Hell, it’s not even the Holiday Inn, but after weeks on the road, it’ll feel like a palace. While I did have the comfort of a bed last night, it wasn’t without a price. The old lady made me scrub her house from top to bottom in exchange for a place to sleep. I was grateful though; it was better than sleeping outside.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Eugene, Oregon, the anarchist capital of the U.S.”
I whip my head toward him, surprised by his random side note. “What? I thought tree huggers were peaceful people.”
He parks the car and turns in his seat. His blue eyes reflect the blinking vacancy sign and even through that, they are fierce.
“I’m going to go in and get a room. Do not fucking move.”
“Not at all?” I ask.
“No.”
“What if something itches? What if I sneeze?”
He doesn’t say a word as he exits the car and sets the alarm.
When he’s inside, I press my shoulders against the seat and lift my butt up. If I can just get my hands in front of my body, I’ll have a better chance of escape. I stretch and tug and squeeze, but I just can’t seem to get the right leverage in this cramped backseat. Now, I’m regretting skipping those yoga classes my mom insisted on gifting me.
I place one foot on the front seat and try to lift again. My foot slides off and gets wedged between the seat and the door. I panic and try pulling it free, but it won’t budge.
Suddenly, the car unlocks and the front door pops open.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I needed to str
etch my leg.”
“Just the one? Move it.”
“I can’t.”
“What?”
“It’s stuck,” I admit.
He grabs my foot with both hands and jerks up. I pull it into the backseat as he sits down and starts the car.
“I guess flexibility is not one of your strong suits?” he asks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
With his stony face, it’s hard to tell if he’s teasing or serious. I would be willing to bet that’s something he’s practiced until it became a natural facade.
Soon we’re driving around to the back of the building. There are more trees and less lights back here, the makings of a horror movie. He leaves me again, uses the keycard to enter the room and props the door open. Meanwhile, I check the nearby shrubs for killers in hockey masks wielding butcher knives. He retrieves a bag from the trunk, drops it inside, then returns for me. I slide over, eager to get out of this car.
He opens the door and bends down so that we’re eye level. I’m caught off guard at how handsome he is up close. Of course, I’ve been staring at the back of his head for a while so anything is an improvement. There’s a small jagged scar on his chin and a graveness to his eyes that hints of danger. His features are sharp and masculine, fixed in a solemn expression.
“Look, we both know it’s useless for you to fight me. I have a gun and will use it if necessary. Are you going to be difficult?”
“Do I have a choice?” I ask with a bit of attitude. I hate being treated like a child and I know, from the tone of his voice, that’s how he sees me.
“You always have a choice,” he says.
“I won’t be a problem.”
His large hand wraps around my arm as he pulls me from the backseat and guides me into the room. When he sits me on the edge of the bed I stare into the large mirror there. My hair is even more of a mess now and there are dark circles under my eyes, the result of more than a few nights without sleep.
The walls are off-white with dollar-store art hung strategically over each piece of furniture. The toilet and shower are separate from the sink and mirror, reflecting mediocrity back at us. The carpet is dull, the pattern faded near the door and around the bed. An old television, sold before I was born, sits on a dresser. It reminds me of the TV my dad and I watched movies on in his office when my mom was busy catching up on her soaps. It was a big chunky thing with a VCR attached and a remote with only four buttons—a far cry from the sixty-inch flat screen I left behind, a Smart Television with Wi-Fi capabilities, HDMI connections, and a 450-hour DVR to record every episode of Project Runway, Doctor Who, and The Golden Girls.
The bedding in this place is a whole different story. It’s soft and looks brand new. I secretly hope that it’s new out of a desire to make patrons happy and not a necessity since the last guests were murdered in their sleep. It’s a light green color with a swirling white pattern. There are four pillows stacked on the bed and I’m happy to see them. I miss pillows.
“There’s only one bed,” I point out.
“Nothing gets past you.”
As much as I want to toy with him, my bladder has other ideas. “I need to pee,” I announce.
He walks over and pulls the handcuff key from his pocket. He flips it over in his hand a few times before looking down at me.
“I’m going to take the cuffs off. Don’t do anything stupid and they can stay off.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
When I’m free, I stand and shake my wrists out and roll my shoulders, all while glaring at my apathetic captor. I enter the bathroom and close the door behind me. The light is blinding and is amplified by the brilliant white surface of the tile, tub, and toilet. It feels sterile and cold, but at least it looks clean. I lean against the door and try to work out a plan, but I’ve got nothing. It’s like being in his presence sucks all the smart from my brain. I pee and exit the room.
What I find makes me freeze. My feet are rooted to the sad carpet and my breath is stolen by the sight. He’s in the middle of changing clothes, shirtless and standing in one leg of his jeans like some hot, decorated, muscled flamingo. His black boxer briefs act as a censor box blurring out the good bits. He’s giving me lady wood.
“You’re staring,” he says.
I spin toward the sink to hide my face only to realize we can still see each other in the mirror. Like I said, all the smart is gone.
Removing my hoodie, I wash my face and pat it dry with a towel. I hide myself in the soft cotton cloth and inhale the fresh scent. It reminds me of laundry days with Mom—sitting on the washer and singing until the spin cycle hit, then racing around the Laundromat in rolling carts and switching people’s clothes into different dryers. All of that was before Dennis came along, before his money and his rage destroyed what we had …
“Let me put the quarters in!” I shouted from across the room.
My mom nodded and motioned me over. I darted between the rows of machines and grabbed the bottle of liquid soap as I approached.
“I’ve already put the soap in, Katherine.”
I didn’t hide my disappointment as I slammed the lid closed and hopped up on top of it. My mom dropped the four quarters into my hand and moved to the next machine to start another load. Sliding each coin into a slot, I named them as I went.
“Jon. Richie. David. Tico.”
I pushed the tray in and heard the machine come to life beneath me. My mom hit me with an annoyed look and poured soap into the next washer.
“Is your father letting you listen to Bon Jovi again? I told him you should make your own decisions about what kind of music you like.”
“Mom, Bon Jovi was the voice of a generation, making music that moved people. ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ is like a motivational speech and ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ is the quintessential ex-bashing. Great lyrics over catchy melodies and guitar riffs, all while sporting enormous hair. Not everyone could pull that off.”
“Katherine, really. I’ve heard that same speech from your father for years. And every other band in the eighties had great lyrics, guitar riffs, and enormous hair. Don’t you want to listen to Backstreet Boys or something current?”
“‘On a steel horse I ride,’” I sang.
I sometimes thought she resented that I was so much like my dad. Once her machine had started, she took a seat on the lid next to me.
“When are we getting a new washer?” I asked.
Mom sighed and stared across the aisle to the dryers spinning clothes around and around. It was a load of bright colors swirling and falling together.
“Soon. Your father is working overtime for another week and then we should have enough.”
“I’ll miss this place,” I said. She looked at me like I’d grown a third eye. “What? It smells like soap and sunshine. I like it. Remember when we made an obstacle course around the machines and raced to the front door?”
“I remember you cheating,” she teased.
“I did not! I’m short. It was easier for me to go under that counter than over it!”
She frowned at me and we were silent. The swishing of the machines beneath our butts and the clank of loose change in one of the dryers was the only sound.
“Katherine Marie Percle, I challenge you to a rematch!”
By the time I lower the towel, he’s dressed in cotton lounge pants. Still no shirt. I feign coolness, despite the spike in my pulse, and throw myself down on the bed. I stretch my arms over my head, arch my back, and then fold myself in half. My body is sore and aching everywhere. He walks to the door and slides all three locks closed. I roll my eyes and turn on the TV.
He takes a piss with the door open, while I flip through the channels until I find reruns of The Cosby Show. I grin and settle down into the pillows.
“Sweet. This is one of my favorite episodes. Theo wants an expensive shirt, but Denise says she can make him one that looks just like it.”
“Sounds thrilling,” he says as he smacks a
button on the front and turns the television off.
I glare at him, flip the set back on, and watch as he leans into the mirror. He inspects himself and I wonder what he sees there. I get a better look at all his colorful tattoos and admire the way the images curve around the muscles of his chest and arms. The word UNFORGIVEN arcs across his chest in beautiful swirling script.
I see blue eyes like mine and eyelashes that would make drag queens weep. His jaw is covered in scruff and it makes him appear rugged and a bit dirty. He looks sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, and sex-starved. He’s the perfect combination of sexy and scary. Unfortunately, the fact that he’s holding me hostage is a total boner killer.
He catches me watching in the mirror. Unapologetically, my eyes travel down his chest and abs, settling on a tattoo right above his hip. It’s a black-and-gray piece that disappears beneath his pants in the most tempting way.
“You sure are hot for an asshole,” I say.
He smirks and begins brushing his teeth. My eyes never leave him as he spits into the sink and rinses out his mouth. “Why am I an asshole?” he asks.
“Seriously? You handcuffed me for hours probably causing irreversible nerve damage to my delicate wrists. Plus, you carry a gun.”
“And that makes me an asshole?”
“Yep.”
“But, a hot one?” he asks, raising an arrogant eyebrow.
“Whatever,” I say, stunned by my sudden lack of verbal sparring skills.
He places his things back into his bag and I can’t help but stare longingly.
“Do you have another one of those?”
“Another what?” he asks.
“Toothbrush. I’d kill for a toothbrush.”
He shakes his head. I know I’m a little overdramatic about oral hygiene, but it’s one of those things people take for granted, like valet parking and Prada boots.
“No, but if you behave I’ll get you one in the morning.”
“If I behave? I’m not a child,” I insist, sitting up in bed.
He ignores me and sits on the opposite side of the mattress. He pulls the pack of cigarettes from his discarded shirt pocket and holds them out to me.
Held Against You Page 2
