Page 17 of His Darkest Obsession
The driver shouts at him in that language I can't understand. But I know the meaning even without knowing what he’s actually saying.
Get in the fucking car now!
Anatoly throws himself into the seat.
BAM!
Something hits the window next to my head. I flinch away, staring in horror at the massive white crack spiderwebbing out across the glass that should have been my death.
Bulletproof. I realize.Of course these people have bulletproof glass on their freaking car.
The car weaves through traffic. My body slams from one side to the other as we take turns at speeds that should flip us over. Red lights mean nothing as we blast through intersections, and I'm shocked that there aren't any sirens lighting up behind us.
My stomach lurches as we take a hard right. Then left. Then right again.
I lose track of where we are until I see signs for the Westside Highway going south.
Only then does the tension start bleeding out of my shoulders. Adrenaline ebbs from my veins, and I feel nothing but tiredness taking over me.
That's when I hear it.
Laughter.
Deep, rich laughter coming from both men in the front seat. It starts as chuckles but builds into full-blown hysteria. The driver reaches over, grabs Anatoly's shoulder, and gives him a hard shake while a stream of melodic words come tumbling out before the two of them start laughing again.
They soundhappy.
Like this is the most fun they've had all day.
Like he didn't just leave three dead bodies in his wake.
Like I didn't almost just fucking die.
Like this is all just a game to them.
And maybe it is.
But it's not a game to me.
6
INDIGO
The city blurspast us as we drive east.
What is going to happen to me?
My hands twist in my lap. The leather seat creaks beneath me every time I shift my weight. Thankfully, the laughter from Anatoly and the driver has died down. Now, the only thing filling the silence is the sound of the car engine.
I steal glances at Anatoly's profile, hating myself for each one. His jaw is set, and his eyes are fixed on the road ahead. There's dried blood on his neck from when the razor nicked him yesterday.
Don't look at him. You know better than to look at men like that.
But my traitorous eyes continue to drink in the harsh yet beautiful angles of his face anyway. High cheekbones, straight nose, full lips pressed into a thin line. My stomach twists with a feeling that I haven't felt in two long years.
Stop looking at his mouth.
But I can't help myself. Those same lips had been so close to me. And when he was laughing, the sound was deep and rich, like something that I'm supposed to savor.
