Page 57 of Bullseye
“Seth has a way of tracking your cell phone. It wasn’t easy—but we did it.”
Shivering, I nod to him, noticing his bare arms. “Your coat. You’re in a T-shirt. Aren’t you freezing?”
“Yes. Come on.” He points behind him. “Get into the truck. I’m going to trailer your bike and fill up the truck.” Tilting his head upward, he looks at the sky and then lowers it, looking at me. “The weather’s getting really bad. Go ahead. Get in and get warm.”
For about a billion reasons, I shouldn’t let this happen. However, as the snow begins to stick, I take it as an omen.
Opening the passenger’s door, I consider hopping into the driver’s seat and taking off, but I would never leave him behind in the snow. Yes, I would do anything I had to, to keep him safe—including “borrowing” his truck—but the snow now poses a more imminent threat than Mikey and Tony.
Climbing up into the cab of the truck, I’m immediately warmed. “Oh, ow.” Pulling off my gloves, I hold my hands out to the heater that’s blasting warm air. “Oh, that feels good.” Rubbing my red hands together, trying to let them defrost, they’re sore from the cold. But that’s not nearly as bad as my damp clothes that now feel heavy and wet.
The driver’s side door opens, and he climbs in and shakes off the snow that’s collected in his hair. Looking at him—his short hair speckled with snow and ice, the slight scruff that’s growing on his chin, the way his T-shirt pulls across his wide shoulders—he looks like he’s posing for a women’s, “Hot Motorcycle Guys” calendar.
“What?” His brow wrinkles.
“Nothing. I was just thinking you look good.”
“You do too.”
Shaking my head, I turn to look out the window. “Nah, but thanks. I’ve been on the bike for days.” Right now, I’m grateful for the short nights I’ve spent in the motels, and the quick showers I’ve taken every morning. I’d hate to be sitting here, stinking up his cab.
The snow comes down faster now.
“It’s really coming down.” Turning back to him, I ask, “Are we safe to drive?”
“Safer than you were on your bike. I have chains on the tires. There’s a motel about forty-five minutes back. We’ll head that way.”
Reaching out, I place my hand on his, stopping him. “I’m not going back.”
“Where are you going?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Is it?” His eyebrows raise, and I see the concern etched on his face. “What were you thinking, Seneca?” Shaking my head, I stare at the rubber mats on the floor. “I mean, you could have been killed out here in this storm. You could have frozen to death or hit a patch of black ice and wiped out. It’s so incredibly dangerous.”
“I know that,” I mumble, still looking at the floor.
“Seneca, why did you run? We were going to work things out, and—” he slams his hand against the steering wheel. “I thought we had something special. A connection. Or was that connection I had with Sloane, not Seneca?”
“What?” Whipping around, I face him. “How did you—”
“I have connections. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because that’s part of my past and this...” Pointing out the windshield, I explain, “Is my future. What does it matter?”
“It matters because I thought you were one person and it turns out, you’re a very different one.”
“No, I’m not. I’m exactly the person you knew in Hoppa.”
“You’re an Ivy League grad.”
“I never said I wasn’t. What? Just because I look a certain way means I couldn’t go to an Ivy League school?”
“That’s not what I mean. You’re also loaded.”
“My parents are. I own my bike and the clothes on my back. That’s it. I left as soon as I graduated high school. I went to Columbia and paid my own way.”
“Still, you have people to support you. I thought you were on your own. You could always run back to Mommy and Daddy if you needed something. I’m sure they’ll throw you the millions you need.”
