Page 8 of Kept

“P-please let me out,” she stutters, locking those piercing eyes on me.

Odd word choice. “Out?”

She nods frantically.

“You want out? Not to be let go?”

“Out. Please let me out. Please.”

“You’re claustrophobic?” I ask.

She nods.

Jesus, it must be bad if she’s more afraid of the trunk than whatever her mind can conjure up for the end of the ride. Though I’m not sure her mind can think that far ahead right now—she’s in a full-blown panic.

I run my hand through my hair and look at her. Her hair is still perfectly in place, but her makeup is a fucking mess, her shoes are broken, and one ankle is bleeding from kicking the taillight until it broke. Her top is torn, and black smudges from the trunk cover her arms.

“Do we have any flex cuffs?” I ask Marco in Italian.

“Yeah.” He grabs a set from the glovebox.

She looks from the cuffs, to me, back to the cuffs, back to me. A fresh wave of tears runs down her face. She holds her arms out in front of her so I can attach the cuffs.

Marco whistles. Still in Italian, he comments, “Fuck, she does not want to be in the trunk.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.” I motion for her to get out. After watching her struggle to do it with her hands cuffed, I just pick her up and set her on her feet.

I switch back to English. “If you run, if you fight, if you even fucking irritate me, you go back in and I’ll leave you until morning. You got that?”

She nods vigorously. “Yes, sir.”

Fuck. My dick heard that loud and goddamned clear.

Marco opens the back door, and I shoo her into it. I reach for her seatbelt, and she jumps.

“Shh.” It clicks into place, and I slip my jacket off, setting it over her lap and covering the cuffs. Her eyes zero in on my gun in the shoulder holster.

“Tell me, kitten. What did you see tonight?”

She answers immediately. “Nothing. I didn’t see anything.”

I sigh. “Okay, I didn’t explain the rules, and that’s my fault. When I ask you questions, I expect the truth.”

She pales and looks down.

Busted.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

She sniffs. “I saw you and him,” she nods her chin towards the front seat, “and another guy. One of you had a gun. I don’t remember who. As soon as I saw, I turned and ran.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Walking to the nightclub in the casino.”

“Why were you walking down the alley?”

Something flickers briefly in her expression, but I don’t know her well enough to place what it is. She raises a foot and shakes her high heel at me. “Shortcut.”

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