Page 184 of Fixation
Hospitals don’t have strict office hours. Not to mention that Anderson is the last person to drop everything and clock out if a patient rolls in.
He’s busy saving lives. I don’t dare text him and complain.
We’ll have plenty of hours to spend together later. I smile at that.
The taxi service the magazine ordered for me arrives while I wait outside the building. I get in, greeting the blond driver with a simple, “Hello.”
I’m too mentally preoccupied to say anything more elaborate. Anderson takes up the entire space in my heart.
The driver looks at me through the rearview mirror. “Harper Arlington?”
“Yes.”
He pauses for a moment, lowering his brow.
Strange. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Though he doesn’t sound remorseful in the slightest, I let it slide.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it. He blends into the traffic. My confusion goes quiet.
He doesn’t go too fast or anything.
That’s a good sign.
The radio plays some old rock songs while I go through my emails.
Despite busying myself with work, a strange feeling creeps up the back of my neck the longer I’m here. A sense of being watched.
Impossible. Anderson hasn’t left the hospital.
Oh, well. I chalk it up to spending too much time under Anderson’s intensity and go back to scrolling.
A few minutes later, a car horn blares. It’s a long, impatient honk that has me snapping my head up.
That’s when I freeze.
Something’s wrong. Very wrong.
The phone buzzing in my hand becomes background noise as I track the route through the windshield. We’re not headed toward my apartment. We’re headed toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
Dread coils tight under my ribs. Each landmark we pass cements the truth. I’m not being taken home.
“Where are we going?” This has to be a mistake. Or some kind of shortcut he’s taking. Except—no. This isn’t a shortcut. He’s not taking me home. “Hello? Sir? You’re going the wrong direction.”
Silence. The driver doesn’t so much as look at me.
My throat locks. My face goes numb, as does my hand. My phone drops into my bag.
“Stop the car,” I half-demand, half-plead with him. “Let me out.”
“Not a chance in hell.” His gray eyes are back on me through the rearview mirror. His laugh is high-pitched. Ugly. “I won the fucking jackpot with you, lady. You’re coming with me.”
My instincts kick hard. I plunge a hand into my bag, hunting for something. A knife, a metal file, anything sharp.
My fingers come up empty.
I grab the door handle. Yank. Locked.
