Page 49 of Captive of Outlaws

The thought stops me. It doesn’t feel like home here. Not exactly. But I’m also more at ease than I ever was in John’s house.

No, I tell myself. Don’t think about the future. Just focus on the task at hand. Buying parts, fixing something small—concrete tasks that I can accomplish easily. That mean something.

“Princess.” The voice sets every hair on my forearms on edge. I manage not to jump in surprise and control myself to turn slowly to the garage apartment.

LJ strides out, wearing army fatigue pants and a fitted black T-shirt. His hair is tied in a loose bun at the bottom of his neck, and his gaze is as hard and unyielding as ever. I can’t deny that if I need a bodyguard, this is definitely the most intimidating choice. Even the roughest of rednecks that frequent Jimmy’s place wouldn’t give me trouble if this guy’s at my back.

I hope.

“Good morning to you too,” I say as evenly as I can and nod. “Thank you for agreeing to accompany me.”

LJ says nothing, just nods at the Mustang. “We taking yours?” he asks.

I hold my head high. “If you don’t mind,” I reply, with an emphasis that I hope makes it clear it’s a final decision. Without asking, LJ takes the keys from my hand and strides to the driver’s side.

“Hey!” I cry. “Do you even drive stick?”

LJ scowls. “I got it back here, didn’t I?”

“Answer the question.”

“I drive it enough.”

I purse my lips. “Enoughis not enough,” I say. I respect the transmission on this thing too much to let him grind it to dust. “I’ll drive.”

To my surprise, he doesn’t put up a fight. “As you wish,Princess.” He smacks the keys back in my hand, opens the passenger door, and settles in.

There’s barely enough space for his giant form in there, like an Incredible Hulk action figure crammed into Barbie’s dream-mobile. I resist the urge to giggle, probably out of nerves, and get into the driver’s seat.

As I wrap my fingers around the keys, it occurs to me that there’s one hitch in my plan I’d somehow forgotten about: I still don’t have a license. If we get pulled over, I’m screwed.

But then again, if we get pulled over, I’d be screwed no matter what. So maybe I can just obey all the traffic laws and scoot in and out. It’s not like Jimmy’s is far. I won’t break the speed limit. I’ll signal at all turns.No, I convince myself,this will be fine.

“Are we going somewhere?” LJ says. “Or just revving the engine?”

“Sorry,” I mutter and click my belt into place. “We’re going.” With that, I shift into gear and give it gas.

LJ says nothing as the mansion gates glide open and let us out into the forest. Patches of sunlight flash past over the hood as we drive through the trees, and I let myself pick up just a little speed, shifting into second, figuring that no cops are going to be hiding out here in the thick of the forest. The wind feels good in my hair, teasing a few loose strands from the ponytail, and I take a deep inhale of the spicy smell of the woods, the feeling of freedom at my fingertips when I gently ease the wheel around the curves. “Nice day,” I remark after a silent minute or two of driving. It feels weird not to talk, even if LJ seems perfectly content with stony silence.

“Mm,” he mutters.

So much for that, I guess. Cross the weather off the list ofacceptable small talk conversation topics. Maybe LJ stands forless joking the betteror something.

But thinking that does make me wonder, so I decide to go for broke.

“Hey, what does LJ stand for, anyway?”

He makes a grunting sound, but actually answers. “My name.”

“Well, obviously,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Which is what? It doesn’t just say the letters L and J on your birth certificate, presumably.”

He snorts in a way that I think is a laugh and rests his arm on the side of the car, drumming on the door idly.

“Johan Lepetit.”

I blink. “Come again?”

“That’s my name. Little bit German, little bit Cajun. Flip the initials around”—he puts up two fingers and twists them in the air—“and you’ve got me. LJ.”

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