Page 6 of The Hitch
"That wasn't a request. Pull the fuck over; I'm driving. You're gonna get us killed." I put a little force into my voice, the same tone I use when an underling tries to second-guess me. It usually scares them shitless, but her? She smirks and lets out a tiny giggle.
"Whatever you say, Mister Dickhead," she replies in a singsong voice. I watch her reach down to the gear shifter in my peripheral vision… but this is an automatic.
"Oh, fuck!" I yell as she slashes out towards me with a knife—where thefuckwas she keeping that?—and dodge out of the way just in time. She's cackling and yanking on the knife fully embedded into the headrest of my seat.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! She's swerving all over the road, and I lurch to grab the steering wheel, wrestling with her for control of this goddamn car. We're going to crash into a tree or another car, and this isnothow The Dantalion goes down. I hear fabric ripping as she yanks the knife back out and aims it at me again, but I'm faster. I snatch her wrist in one hand and the wheel in the other.
"What thefuckis wrong with you?" I shout in her face, but she'sgone. Her eyes roll back in her head, and she slumps over the wheel. I toss the knife into the cluttered backseat and grab the wheel with both hands, steering us to the shoulder. At some point, her foot must have slipped off the gas pedal, because the car slows to a jerky stop on the rough grass.
"Fuck," I pant out, my heart pounding in my chest, and mash the speed-dial for Roman again.
"Sir?"
"Change of plans. I'll explain when I get there. Have a medical team at the ready, and uh…." I push my sweaty hair out of my eyes and sigh. "Prepare a sedative."
"Of course, sir. May I ask—are you safe?"
I assess the catatonic woman in the driver's seat, watching her fluttering pulse and shallow breaths. "I am now."
Roman's eyes nearly pop out of his head as he sees me approaching in this dingy little car, but he quickly collects himself. The woman—I had to heft her from the driver's side to the passenger's side—slumps unconscious onto the dashboard.
In a flurry of professionalism, the medical team assesses her vitals and clears her. She seems to just be in a very, very deep sleep. Even her heart rate has returned to normal. I watch as Roman expertly slides an IV into her hand and administers a sedative through the cannula.
"What's next, sir?" Roman looks up at me as he caps the syringe. I hold up the wallet that I found in her purse while the med team was working.
"Interesting stuff in here, Ro. It seems that Miss Gutierrez lives in the very building I intend to purchase. Would you be so kind as to bring around the Range Rover? We'll need to drop her off at home, of course." I smile darkly. He nods and scurries off to the parking garage a block away.
I turn to the unconscious woman. "Nice to meet you, Melody."
She'sperfect.
Melody
My head ispounding. I don't even remember getting home last night. The last thing I remember was that gas station attendant I probably traumatized in New Jersey… and now, I'm here. In my crappy apartment. All snuggled up in my bed, sunlight streaming in cheerily and shining directly in my face.
I slap my hands over my eyes to block it out but wince and groan as my head pounds harder. This is worse than any hangover, like, ever. And right on cue, my phone's alarm rings: the jarring horns of "Conquest" by The White Stripes. It reliablywakes me up on time butfuck. Not today. Slapping the phone until it stops, I roll back over and stare up at the ceiling. Yellowed drop tiles and wispy cobwebs stare back at me. The previous tenant must have been a smoker.
Ah, well, beggars can't be choosers. The leasing office let me move in without a background check, and they accept cash for rent. It's not like this city will be my forever home. Just somewhere I can disappear for a while—and maybe save up enough money to get out of the country. I've heard Tulum in Mexico is gorgeous.
At that thought, I roll myself out of bed and stumble over to my pile of clean(ish) laundry. Grabbing the nearest work shirt and pants, I yawn my way to the bathroom, which is full of thedirtylaundry pile. I haven't had a chance to pick up a dresser, and this place doesn't even have a closet, so my clothes pile up wherever there's space—and I don't have much of that, really. I managed to snag a queen-sized mattress off the internet and a tiny bedside table a few weeks after I moved in. After a quick trip to the local superstore and a five-finger discount later, I became the proud owner of garish crimson sheets.
Not that I have to worry about keeping to a particular aesthetic or anything. The linoleum tile of the apartment has a distinctly institutional feel to it, and a persistent stickiness that I can't quite get rid of. The electrical outlets and fixtures have decades of thick, white paint layered over them. Even the windows are sealed shut with that same paint.
Home sweet home.
Showering is always tricky business. The hot water runs out faster than I'd like, and I have to cram myself into the stall. These little stand-up showers were not made with someone of my size in mind. My elbows jab into the cracked tile and cloudy glass. I've tried to scrub it clean, like everything else in this one-bedroom hellhole, but I can't undo decades of neglect.
The hot water rains down on me, washing away any thoughts of yesterday or missing time. I'm sure I turned right back around, came home, and passed out on some melatonin. I coped theshitout of my urges, thank you very much. And I even wrote myself a little note on the shower door, how nice of past-me.
I freeze. That's not my handwriting. But as the glass fogs up from the shower, letters appear:HI MELODY,with a smiley face. What the fuck.
"What the fuck?" I whisper to myself and trace the words. It's definitely not my handwriting. Unless it is when I'm zonked on sleep medication? But I've never done this before.
Then again, I've never lost time before. Shivering, I swipe away the words and put them out of my mind. I finish up my shower and step out, quickly rubbing down my limbs with my ratty towel. I don't have much time before work, and I can't waste it thinking about a note I definitely wrote for myself.
My phone dings in the bedroom—it's time to go. Dressing as fast as I can, I snatch up my phone and purse and head towards the kitchen. Shit, I haven't grocery shopped in a while, but I might have an energy bar in the cabinets. As I make my way down the short hall, I notice something on the countertop, next to the sink.
A rose. A deep red—almost black, really—rose lies there with a purple ribbon around its thorny stem. IknowI didn't get myself that. "What the fuck?"
