Why is he whistling?
He’s acting like setting fire to two mutilated bodies is an everyday chore for him. It must be because he didn’t hesitate when he took a photo of their IDs, stole their cash and a couple of coupon cards, and then doused gasoline on it along with the rest of them. All while whistling.
I can still feel the cold barrel pressed against my temple and how the man’s hand felt wrapped around my neck. The safety went off a second before the other man went down. Click. The sound plays on repeat.
When Mickey pulled the trigger, I thought I was done for. I was certain the man would call an eye for an eye and take my life.
I guess I should count myself lucky that the person who found me in the bathroom had some qualms about hitting women because he was gentle until he threw me aside.
Less aggressive than I’m used to is more accurate.
The moment he stepped into the bathroom, I froze. My drive to fight disappeared, and the only thing I did was whimper when he pointed the gun at me. I thought I was better than that. Stronger.
It’s mortifying, and both settling and unsettling that Roman can be so calm while committing several felonies after almost dying. It almost makes me feel like I’m the crazy one for being upset by all the gore I’ve witnessed in the past seventy-two hours.
Oh, lord. Has it only been three days?
I should be more upset by the fact I’m becoming the old me who followed him along and jumped when he said jump. But at least I’m sort of fighting him at every turn, and that must count for something.
I hope.
Even though I’m amped up, I bite back a wince with every step I take around the house. I’m now intimately aware of what everyone meant about not being able to walk after. It feels like my insides have been rearranged, and my poor lady parts are throbbing in a good and awful way. I both never want it to happen again, and simultaneously want it to happen on a daily basis.
The whistling stops, replaced by humming. Dear Lord, now he’s singing “Another One Bites the Dust” while washing up in the bathroom. How is he not more stressed about the situation? More freakishly intimidating men might come. Who knows, maybe next time we won’t be so lucky.
I’m moving faster than I have in my life, packing the essential clothing into bags, food, blankets, towels, basic utensils—Christ, what else would we need when we’re running from outlaws and the law?
Running back inside after stuffing more things into the trunk, I find a freshly washed Roman pulling a t-shirt over his head.
Momentarily off balance by the sliver of abs, my eyes focus on the splash of red on his arm, spanning a centimeter. “You’re bleeding,” I gasp. “He cut you? Let me check.”
He wipes it away with his thumb like it’s nothing. “That’s why you shouldn’t roll around on the ground. You get splinters.” He grins.
I narrow my eyes at him, then glance out the front door and to the car. “I’ve packed.”
He looks at me, sticks his head into the room, and says, “Not well enough.”
First whistling, now he’s smirking? Is this what a sociopath does?
“What do you mean?” Following him into the room, I start prattling, “I’ve got food, water, some clothes—’
“You forgot Mr. Mickey Mouse.” He holds up the doll my mother gave me and sticks his bottom lip out in a pout. “I can’t believe you were going to forget about me, Isabella,” he mimics Mickey Mouse.
I snatch Mr. Mouse from Roman and hug the toy to my chest. “Well, I didn’t say I was ready to go.”
Roman hums in disbelief, grabs a duffle bag from the closet, and starts dropping all the hair accessories he bought inside.
“Those aren’t essentials.”
Without looking at me, he says, “You’ve had your turn packing. Now it’s my turn, and you didn’t have me breathing down your neck while you did it.”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation after I almost died.
I huff like a petulant child and storm back into the living room, doing a once-over of everything we could possibly need.
Oh wait, I forgot the first-aid kit and toiletries.
Five minutes later, I’m stepping into the car while Roman slaps the roof, hooting, “Road trip, baby.”
I’m not sure whether I should be upset or happy about leaving the horror house. I guess I’m pleased that I’m no longer at risk of needing to cultivate my own food, but I don’t like that I’m only leaving out of fear of being murdered—a worse fate than dying from starvation.
Roman’s expert fingers massage my neck while he drives, and his calm—not calm, normal—exterior is the whole reason I’m not hugging my knees, repeating the moment in my head, over and over. The click of the safety, the bang of the trigger, the terror in Mickey’s eyes, because he thought it too.
He thought I was going to die.
Yet, it’s been half an hour, and he’s strumming the wheel, screaming along to whatever plays on the radio as if there wasn’t a threat to our lives an hour ago.
Would I stay with Mickey if I constantly had to look over my shoulder to check if a gun is pointed at me? I mean, it’s only been this one time; he’s never placed me in danger like that before. He even left me for years so I wouldn’t have to deal with the police. He’s been a pretty big advocate of protecting me from danger.
Plus, I heard the conversation Mickey had with that man, and I believe Roman when he said he didn’t know who the man was. Which begs the question, how did they find us to begin with?
I’ve seen Mickey on the phone several times since those guys turned up. Could whoever he’s texting have something to do with it? Wait, who is he even texting? Prison buddies?
Turning down the stereo’s volume, I yell, “Where are we going?”
He drops his hand to my thigh and squeezes. “To get some extra cash.”
I throw my hands up. “That raises more questions while simultaneously leaving my first question unanswered.”
He grins at me. “You turn me on when you use big words.”
“Everything turns you on.”
“Only when it comes to you.” He winks.
“Back to my question. Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
I roll my eyes. “The last time you surprised me, you committed double homicide.”
“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll outdo myself this time. Make it triple.” He taps my thigh. “Actually, that’s standard. Make it quadruple, and then we’re talking.”
“What do you mean, standard? Have you committed triple homicide?”
He just grins. Grins. He’s meant to be reassuring me. None of his answers calm me in the slightest. How many people has he killed? Do I even want to know the answer to that?
“Mickey,” I say cautiously. “What do you mean by standard?”
He turns to me and blows me a kiss like we’re love-drunk teenagers, then goes back to belting it out to the music, leaving me stewing. I promised myself I would start asking questions, but maybe I’ll leave that to rest. Plausible deniability is in my best interest this time.
An hour later, the sign for Chicago illuminates under the headlights as we turn onto a main highway. “Seriously, where are we going?”
“Just trust me, Princess. Would I let anything bad happen to you?”
I stare at his profile. “Do I need to remind you what happened two hours ago?” And just because I’m in a mood, I add, “I trust you so much, I haven’t jumped out of the car yet.”
His face hardens. “It won’t happen again. And you aren’t fucking going anywhere.”
“How can you be sure about that?” He was so certain that we could stay at the Horror House, but obviously, that’s not the case.
“Because after this, I’m done.”
“What do you mean?” My heart picks up its pace. After what? Done with what? Does he mean done with me? Is he going to leave me again like he—
No. I’m not entertaining those kinds of thoughts. If I can accept that I’m enough for me, then so can he. And if he leaves after getting my name tattooed, then good riddance.
My insecurities got the better of me last time, and I won’t let that happen again. The past three years have taught me if there’s anything that would separate us, it would either be someone else’s doing or if I manage to run fast enough. The former seems more likely than the latter.
“You’ll see.” He grabs my hand and kisses it. “I promise you, just a couple more days, and I’ll go straight.”
I let the silence hang in the air, with the occasional “mmhmm” I send his way when he starts back up with his chatter. I can tell he’s uncomfortable because his rambling doesn’t make any sense, along with his use of movie quotes in his conversation with himself.
I want to fix all this, but I don’t know how to. I want to know the next steps, but I don’t want to make the decisions. Maybe it’s because I’m scared, or maybe I’m just hoping something will land in my lap and the rest of my days will be all happy-go-lucky.
A few hours later, he’s stiff and silent, and I’m sick of sitting in a car. It’s pitch-black outside, and I’m seriously ready to find a bed to crash out on for the next two days.
Mickey pulls us into a rest stop and cuts the engine.
“Why are we stopping?” I’m basically speaking in questions tonight. But it must be asked when a glance around tells me that the only building around us is the dodgy-looking bathroom. Other than that, it’s nothing but woods for miles.
I wanted a bed, not Horror House 2.0 minus the house.
“We’ll rest here for the night. We’re still too close to the house to get a hotel.”
I groan internally and get out of the car without responding. He follows me to the bathroom, standing guard wordlessly. It’s not until we get back inside the tin can that I use my inhaler, then recline my seat to lie down with my back to him.
“No, that’s not happening,” he says the second I shut my eyes.
There’s a violent edge to his voice that I promptly ignore by grabbing a blanket from the back seat. What’s the worst that will happen? He’ll kill me? Tie me up again? I don’t think so.
“Either look at me, or we’re sharing a seat. And I don’t give a shit how uncomfortable that is.”
Actually, I stand corrected; that can go on the list of bad things that could happen. The issue now is whether I play the stubborn card or give in to his demands like the old Isabella. I’m about to choose the former when my nether regions remind me just how sore I am and how much worse this whole lap-sitting thing will be.
“Too late.” Mickey hauls me over before I get the chance to utter another word.
“No, no, no, stop,” I plead, hitting his arms as he arranges my body on top of his, careful not to hit the steering wheel. “You’re hurting me.”
He freezes. “Where?” His gaze is filled with concern and his voice is laced with panic. It makes me feel unnecessarily warm inside.
Damn him.
“Umm.” I’m not about to tell him where. My heating cheeks should be answer enough.
“Where, Bella?” he warns.
When he shifts his leg, I yelp and nearly leap off him from the sudden ache the contact causes.
“Bella,” he muses, walking his fingers across my thigh until he dips between my thighs, where I squirm strategically so my core doesn’t rub against anything. “Is my baby girl sore?” He makes a pleased sound in his chest, skimming his fingers over the part of me I’ve been trying to keep away from him.
“Mickey, I’m serious. It hurts.”
“Fine.” His chuckle brings me anything but relief. “On one condition.”
“There shouldn’t be any conditions to this. I don’t think I’ll survive another round.” My voice rises an octave or two.
“What’s that saying? You break it, you buy it,” he teases. “Well, that only works if I don’t already own it.”
“You do not own it or me, Ro—Mickey Riviera.” I bite the inside of my cheek for the near slip-up. I could say it, and he’d stop with his advances. But what else will stop?
“I disagree.” He places the tiniest bit of pressure on my center, and I push back against his chest to escape his touch. “Do you want to know what my conditions are?”
I burn holes into him with my glare. “What?”
“Kiss me.”
I narrow my eyes. Mickey is never that simple. “What are the caveats?”
“There are none. Kiss me, and I’ll let you go back to your seat.” He’s smirking, and I don’t know if it’s a mischievous smirk or a cocky one.
“Okay.” I quickly peck him on the cheek and scramble to get away, but his vice-like grip around my waist becomes steel.
He presses his lips to my ear and lightly circles my sensitive nub through my tights. The friction is enough that I can feel the heat of his fingers through the thin material. “It was very generous of me to give you such an easy offer. So I will say it one last time, and you’ll give me a kiss like the good little girl you are. Or else I might decide that your pretty lips would be put to better use…elsewhere.”
His threat vibrates through my body. Somehow, someway, despite how beat up my nether regions are, Mickey manages to make me throb with pleasure.
“Okay,” I whisper, a tremble in my voice.
“Okay, what? You want me to come in your mouth, baby girl? Fuck, I can just imagine what those eyes of yours will look like when you gag. I bet you’re wet—’
“I’ll kiss you,” I blurt out to cut him off.
I don’t need him to know that he is one hundred percent correct about what’s happening downstairs. His praise only adds to my downfall. And waterfall. What would he feel like in my mouth? I never got a chance to feel him, but he looked like he would be silky to the touch. How would—
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Kiss Mickey, that’s all I need to think about right now. Nothing else. No distractions. Just… Just focus on those very kissable lips and keep our hips a healthy distance away from each other.
He raises his brow, eyes alight with amusement. “I’m waiting.”
Here goes nothing.
I lower my lips to his. At first, he doesn’t kiss me back. Then, my breathing stutters to a stop with the force of his kiss. It’s as brutal as the way he fucks. His hands move to thread in my hair, holding me hostage as his tongue dominates my mouth.
Kissing him here feels more intimate than what went down in the woods and the bath—intimacy without the sex. I want this, right? I want Mickey, just under different circumstances and at the right time? I… I don’t know why I’m feeling this way. I haven’t had time to sit in my corner of the world and sort through my thoughts and feelings. But I have to focus on the now.
“This is more than a kiss,” I try to say through his refusal to break it.
“Shut up, Bella.” His gravelly tone curls down my spine.
He bites my lip and angles my body to deepen the kiss, but it hurts. Not my lips, but my goddamn abused bits, rubbing up against the harsh material of his jeans and solid muscles, making me want to scream.
I tense with a pained whimper, and he stills.
“Did I hurt you?”
That’s a loaded question. “Yes. I kissed you, like we agreed. Now, can I please lie on my side so I can attempt to make a full recovery.”
Mischief gleams in his eyes. “On two conditions—Three.”
If looks could kill, the one I’m giving him would be considered second degree homicide. “I swear to God, Mickey—’
“Keep your claws to yourself until you hear what I have to say.”
Sighing, I cross my arms and lean away from him. “What?”
“You can stay on your side of the car if you face me while you sleep and hold my hand.” Mickey says it with his deep voice and that unhinged sparkle in his eye, but all I can think about is how I used to make the same request to my mother. “Do we have a deal?”
I nod hesitantly.
“Shake on it.” Mickey holds his hand out.
Narrowing my eyes, I take his hand before he can pull it away and turn this into a germaphobe’s nightmare. I still have trust issues after he quickly spit on it and slapped our hands together when I was twelve. It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever felt.
“Good.” He releases me, motioning to my seat as if I’ve been dismissed. Such a little shit.
The journey back to my side of the car is less than graceful. A whole bunch of awkward positioning of limbs and less than ceremonious grunts. Oh, and a brutal slap to my ass.
Once there’s no pressure on my backside, and I’m protected by the blanket’s warmth once again, I try to pay attention to something other than Mickey. But there’s nothing else to look at but him because condensation coats the windows, so there’s no way to know if anyone is standing outside.
There isn’t a doubt in my mind that if anything were to happen, Mickey would risk his life to save me. That kind of knowledge makes falling asleep easier, but the longing in his stare chases the prospect of rest away.
“Hand, Bella,” he scolds.
“But it’s cold.”
I shook on it, and it’s a cardinal sin to break what has been shaken on.
He mutters something under his breath and drags another blanket to the front seat so it covers both of us. Without waiting for me to give him my hand, he shoves his arm beneath my blanket and fumbles around until our fingers are intertwined, and then he grunts his approval.
We’ve been through Hell together, and like he promised, he came back for me. I’m giving him a hard time, but I still want to be wherever he is. As I stare at his profile and let the sound of breathing calm my racing nerves, I realize something; he feels like cocoa in the winter and the first sign of color in the fall. And when I’m around him, I feel like sangria in the summer and daffodils in the spring.
We’re polar opposites, but work so perfectly together.
Or maybe so tragically.
“Goodnight, Princess.”
“Goodnight, Mickey.”
