Page 6 of Stolen By the Hit Man
In the rearview mirror, the idiot’s silver truck is not far behind me. As I barrel down the highway and crank the wheel to lose him, I’ve never been so sure that I’ve done a more right thing in my life.
Chapter Three
Jasmyn
If I’m going to get kidnapped and murdered, at least there are kittens.
Hopefully.
I walk on eggshells around the unpredictable Braydon. This guy next to me is so confident and calm that my body relaxes into the passenger seat.
It’s not that I’m not going to develop a crush on him or anything. I’m just here to help. Just me, and this big, scruffy dude with the rugby player build. And, maybe, kittens.
The line of quaint storefronts in Darling Creek flies by the passenger window. Perhaps I should tell Joaquin to slow down.
“If we get pulled over, there’s a chance my husband has already put the word out that I’ve run off. It could get ugly. Plenty of cops are friends of his.”
Joaquin doesn’t respond with words, but his shoulders tense and his grip on the wheel tightens.
We drive to the east end of the tiny downtown; the single traffic light is unmistakably bright red. However, the car is speeding up instead of slowing down.
“Um…where are we going?”
“Hold on,” he replies.
“Oh gosh, where…?”
Words fail me as I’m jostled violently.
We are no longer using roads in the strictest sense.
“Don’t worry; I got this.”
The car makes a sharp turn through an empty lot, smashing through brush and bouncing across holes and bounding over piles of dirt. Somewhere along the way, we end up on a trail in the woods. I hold his hand tight while my other hand grips the dashboard.
Eventually, we come out of the trees and end up at the opposite end of Main Street from where we started.
I look in the rearview mirror, and to my great relief, there’s no sign of the silver pickup.
Joaquin cranks the wheel and speeds down an alleyway, coming to a halt at the back of a sketchy-looking building.
“We’re home,” Joaquin says.
I look around skeptically at the state of this rundown building.
I must be an absolute idiot.
The man speaks in a low, calm voice as I crane my neck around, not seeing cats anywhere. “Where are we?”
“It’s a shit hole, but it’s paid for,” he says.
Despite the red flags, I get out of the car and follow him inside.
Looking around at the avocado green kitchen with its ancient gold linoleum, I’d say that “shit hole” sums it up.
He gestures to the rickety kitchen table and indicates that I should sit. I do, and immediately ask about the cat situation.
“Later,” he says. “First, you eat.”
