Page 25 of Captive of Outlaws

“Now I messed up your shirt, too.” I try to make it a joke. But Tuck only half-laughs.

“This old thing? Don’t worry about it,” he says gently. “Or the room. It’s yours now. Mess it up all you want.” He cracks a grin, and I find myself reciprocating.

Still, I make a show of rolling my eyes—proof that I’m not a pushover. “Fine.” I step over the threshold with exaggerated daintiness. “Ta-da.” I throw him a glance. “How do I look?”

Tuck’s warm eyes smolder as he sizes me up. “Right at home.”

Chapter Eight

AFTER WHAT WAS THEmost luxurious shower of my life, full of honeysuckle-scented products and long enough that I’m sure I tested the capacity of even this place’s hot water heater, I locked the bedroom door—with a chair under the knob for good measure—and passed the fuck out on that giant bed.

I hadn’t meant to. I was going to stay awake as long as I could, be vigilant. But it was like my body didn’t realize how exhausted it was until it was clean and warm and reclining in those thick, poufy blankets, and the next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes to a cool, quiet bedroom lit by just the faintest pink light.

It takes me a minute to realize where I am—to not panic. This isn’t the grimy twin bed and scratchy blanket I had at John’s place. Not the buzzing fluorescent lights I’m used to waking me up.

This is...

The past few hours come flooding back. The Mustang in the woods, Will and LJ finding me, the drive to this...thisplace, thefood, the meeting with Rob, the tour from Tuck, the...everything of it all.

What the fuck was I thinking?

I’m shacked up at some place that’s clearly the result of some kind of criminal activity, with a bunch of strange men I have never seen before in my life, at least one of whom’s an ex-con and knows his way around a crossbow while another is built like a cage fighter and seems to hate my guts.

I shake my head. I can’t stay here. My hair is a mess, having dried in a tangle under my head, and I’m wearing a set of sweats—men’s—that I vaguely recall finding in a linen closet beside my ensuite bathroom—theensuite bathroom, I correct myself.

Because I can’t stay here. Obviously.

Is it evening or morning? I wonder, gracelessly pushing myself up to sit and scrubbing at my eyes. I fumble around on the bedside table for my dumb phone to check the time, but it’s still dead—of course—just barely flashing the “plug in charger” symbol.

“Goddammit,” I mutter. Well, at least I have a first order of business now: finding a place to charge my phone. Once that’s taken care of, I can just...find a way to get some fuel in the car—assuming they brought the Mustang back around here somewhere—and then...

Then hit the road, I guess.

The prospect feels distinctly sad, like I’m giving up on a big gift. Because, well...in another life, under other circumstances, I don’t think I’d refuse the chance to live somewhere for free, work on some absolutely iconic cars, and have my roommates be...easy on the eyes, let’s say. You could certainly do worse than these four.

I think back to that lingering hug with Tuck and shiver a little in my bed.

Jesus. I’m obviously not thinking clearly. I need to get moving.

A digital clock on the desk near the reading nook says 5:04, with a dot next to the A.M.

Okay, so I really did sleep all day and then some. Well, good to be rested, I guess.

I grab my boots from where I’d left them outside the bathroom and pull them on, but hesitate at the pile of yesterday’s clothes.

I feel bad stealing these sweats, but my flannel and jeans are disgusting. And it’s not like these guys couldn’t afford to replace them, if they even notice they’re gone.

I pitch my old clothes into the bathroom trash, grab my dumb phone, and slip out the bedroom door.

The house is almost eerily quiet as I pad carefully down the massive second-floor hallway. The carpet’s thick enough to muffle my steps—it could probably muffle a bowling ball if I dropped one—but I still basically tiptoe my way out. There’s one heart-stopping floorboard squeak at the top of the stairs, but after I freeze, and no one comes, I breathe out and continue my way outside.

It’s a beautiful early Virginia morning—cool and blue and misty with just the hint of the day’s eventual heat playing in the breeze. The air smells like earth and pine sap and smoke as I creep out to investigate the driveway—and sure enough, the Mustang is sitting right at the edge of the curve.

Perfect,I think.Well, almost.It still needs gas. And I don’t quite know how to getoutof these massive gates...but maybe they’re just motion activated from this side, I reason. It’s notlike they need to lock peoplein.

Not until today, anyway.

I swallow my worries and just pray that I can drive off once the tank has a little fuel in it. So that’s goal number two: find gas. Battery for the phone, and gas for the car.

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