Page 11 of Captive of Outlaws

“Don’t waste your energy,” he says. He straightens back up and motions for me to get out of the car. It’s chilly, even now, in what must be mid-morning, but he’s wearing a close-fitting black tank top.

I shake my head. “No thanks.”

I’ll stay in here and, I don’t know, wait for you to go away. Great plan, Maren.

He folds his arms. “Look, I don’t care where you sleep, but you can’t sleep here.”

“Why not?” I ask defiantly. Maybe I can win him over with charm.

“Well, for one thing, because it looks terribly uncomfortable,” a second voice says from the other side of the car. I whip around to my other window and see...oh God.

“It’s you.” Mr. Yankee. The Porsche driver from yesterday at the garage. I blink, as if I can clear this improbable vision away like a bad dream. “What the fuck?”

Mr. Yankee smiles a mouth full of perfect white teeth. “There’s the spark in that greasemonkey I like to see.” He tips his head to the side. “Come on, get out of there.”

“No!” I say, even more defiance creeping into my voice. The familiar prickle of loathing crawls up the back of my neck, yet for some reason, the fact that it’s this guy, someone I’ve seen before, makes me feel weirdly less worried that I’mabout to be assaulted or killed—or, worst of all, have the Mustang stolen out from under me. “What is with her?” says the massive guy. Mr. Yankee shrugs.

“Got a fighting spirit. I’ll give her that.” He looks down at me. “Look, greasemonkey,” he begins. “If you’ve been out here all night, you probably need a tall drink of water, a bathroom, and”—he wrinkles his nose mildly—“a toothbrush at the very least.”

“Who’s to say I don’t have all of that here?” I say, realizing only once the words leave my mouth how absurd that sounds. The big guy snorts.

“Do you?”

I flush. “No,” I admit, “I didn’t exactly have time to pack. In case you can’t tell, this wasn’t my first choice of overnight accommodations.”

The bigger guy smiles a crooked smile. “Not too bad a set of wheels, though.” He nods over the roof of the car to Mr. Yankee. “Rob would kill for this in his collection.”

Mr. Yankee rolls his eyes. “Don’t remind me. The last thing we need is a body count for a car.” He shifts his hands to his hips. “Greasemonkey—”

“Maren,” I correct him. “My name is Maren. We met yesterday. Can we at least be civil?”

Mr. Yankee sets his jaw. “Fine, Maren,” he says. The sound of my name on his lips is oddly seductive. “You really mean to tell us that you’re perfectly content to stay out here in this car in the middle of the forest? Because I sincerely doubt that you crashed landed here on purpose, let alone brought anything to eat or drink.”

As if on cue, my stomach rumbles. I wonder if they can hear it through the car windows.

“At least get out of the damn car,” the bigger guy says gruffly. “It’s fucking annoying talking to you through a window.”

I huff. But for some reason, I don’t sense any immediate danger. Not like I did with the guys in the garage last night or the car chase with the Range Rover. These two might be irritating, but something—call it women’s intuition, I don’t know—tells me they’re not going to hurt me.

At least not unless I ask them to.

Where the hell did that thought come from? I shake my head, rake my fingers through my hair, and blow out a final breath.

“Okay, one second.” I fumble around for my dumb phone and flip it open—dead, of course. So there goes that. With no way to call for help, I awkwardly make my way out of the car and onto the forest floor. I hug my arms around me and start to glance from one guy to the next.

“Well,” I say. “Am Ibotheringyou by being here? Is there some reason you need me to get out? And who the hell are you anyway?”

The guys exchange a look, and seem to agree on something between the two of them.

“Will,” says Mr. Yankee, and extends a hand for me to shake. “Will Scarlet. Pleased to meet you.”

I don’t take it. Instead, I just fold my arms and stare him down.

“All right. Will.” I nod, and throw a glance at the other guy. “And you are?”

“Call me LJ,” he says. “No need for a handshake. Unlike city boy here.”

I snort a laugh in spite of myself, and hear Mr. Yankee—sorry,Will—make a slight harrumphing noise.

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