“Happy ten-minute anniversary,” I hiss, shoving the gun down the front of my pants and lunging for her as covertly as I can. I don’t need the cab driver seeing me attacking this girl and raising the alarm. Scarlett’s body tenses immediately, and her hands fly out, trying to push me away, but I’ve got more upper body weight than she’s got in her entire body. I overpower her easily, using my elbows to pin her arms to her sides, my palms at her neck as I press down on her carotid artery. Her eyes go wide, and she opens her mouth to scream.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” I murmur. “I’ll make you scream if you want, but not right now.” I lean in, covering her mouth with mine, kissing her to drown out the noise of her cry for help. She tastes like I thought she would—coffee and vodka. Irish coffee, isn’t that what they call it? My stomach roils at the Irish part. Fucking Kaitlin. I’m going to find that bitch, even if I have to tie this bitch to a chair and torture the address out of her.
I continue applying pressure to the sweet spot in her neck, cutting off the blood flow from her heart to her brain just for a few seconds. It doesn’t take long before she’s a dead weight in my arms, her eyes lolling back in her head before fluttering shut.
I release her mouth, letting her slide down the back of the seat so she’s lying across it, her thighs slightly parted and her legs off to the side as her feet rest awkwardly on the floor.
“She okay?” the cab driver asks, tapping on the Plexiglas. I hold my hands up in mock surprise. “I don’t know, man. She’s diabetic. I think she’s having a fit or something.”
The cab driver looks vaguely annoyed, but to his credit he unbuckles his belt, steps out of his door and circles around to mine. He opens the door and peers in.
“Need me to call an ambulance?” he asks.
I raise my gun to his forehead. “No, thanks,” I reply, pressing the gun against his head. “Keys, please.”
He points to the ignition. “They’re still in there, asshole.”
I smile broadly as I unfold myself, stepping out of the open door and into the alleyway I’ve directed him down. “Excellent. Open the trunk, please.”
The annoyed look on his face morphs into actual fear. “Hey, man, just take the car, okay? It’s insured. I won’t say nothing to nobody. Hell, I didn’t even see you.”
If only that were the truth. “It’s okay,” I say. “I won’t kill you. But I really need you to open that trunk.”
He looks past me to Scarlett, lying unconscious on the backseat. “You gonna put her in there?” he asks, his tone almost hopeful.
“Sure,” I lie. He looks relieved. I fight the urge to smack him out. I’ll be able to do that in just a moment.
“Hurry,” I urge, shaking the gun at him. With great reluctance, he reaches in through his open driver’s door and presses a button.
“It’s open,” he says, and if Scarlett thought I was sweating, she obviously hasn’t seen the river pouring off this guy’s shiny bald forehead. He’s freaking the fuck out.
“Go round and open it up,” I say, my eyes never leaving his.
“I got heart problems,” he says. “I can’t be in confined spaces!”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Get in,” I demand, pushing him toward the trunk and smacking the back of his head with the side of the Glock. He yelps, covering his head with his hands. “Okay, okay.”
He clambers in awkwardly, until finally he’s on his side in the trunk.
“If you have a heart attack in there, I’ll kill you,” I say, slamming the trunk forcefully.
I make my way to the driver’s door, pausing to shut the door I just used to exit the backseat. Scarlett’s still sleeping like a baby, her chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. I didn’t kill her with my little artery trick. Thank Christ. She’s of no use to me dead.
I get in the driver’s seat and push the chair back, catching a glance of myself in the rearview mirror. I’m still wearing my driver’s cap.
How fitting.
I tip my cap to myself in the mirror, take the emergency brake off, and ease the car back into the busy morning traffic; my soundtrack the oscillating ringtone of my brother’s desperation.
FIVE
SCARLETT
When I come to, my neck feels tender, bruised almost. I look around, wondering where the fuck I’ve ended up today. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve passed out and forgotten where I am.
A steady diet of booze and pills will do that to a person.
I scrub my hand across my face, the gesture meant to make my vision clearer somehow, but it doesn’t work. My eyes feel crusty, my mouth is dry as fuck, and I can hear someone singing along to a song about city boys born and raised in south Detroit.
And then I remember.
I sit bolt upright, taking a huge gasp of air in as I do so. Salvatore is driving, still wearing that ridiculous-looking cap as he sings off-key. I take in the buildings outside as they pass by, quickly recognizing the Meatpacking District. My guess is proven correct when I catch sight of a sign for Bleecker Street. We haven’t gone far, which makes me hopeful that I can still somehow get out of this pinch. But first … Something’s missing. Something isn’t right.