Yet, it’s been half an hour, and he’s strumming the wheel, screaming along to whatever plays on the radio as if there wasn’t a threat to our lives an hour ago.
Would I stay with Mickey if I constantly had to look over my shoulder to check if a gun is pointed at me? I mean, it’s only been this one time; he’s never placed me in danger like that before. He even left me for years so I wouldn’t have to deal with the police. He’s been a pretty big advocate of protecting me from danger.
Plus, I heard the conversation Mickey had with that man, and I believe Roman when he said he didn’t know who the man was. Which begs the question, how did they find us to begin with?
I’ve seen Mickey on the phone several times since those guys turned up. Could whoever he’s texting have something to do with it? Wait, who is he even texting? Prison buddies?
Turning down the stereo’s volume, I yell, “Where are we going?”
He drops his hand to my thigh and squeezes. “To get some extra cash.”
I throw my hands up. “That raises more questions while simultaneously leaving my first question unanswered.”
He grins at me. “You turn me on when you use big words.”
“Everything turns you on.”
“Only when it comes to you.” He winks.
“Back to my question. Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
I roll my eyes. “The last time you surprised me, you committed double homicide.”
“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll outdo myself this time. Make it triple.” He taps my thigh. “Actually, that’s standard. Make it quadruple, and then we’re talking.”
“What do you mean, standard? Have you committed triple homicide?”
He just grins. Grins. He’s meant to be reassuring me. None of his answers calm me in the slightest. How many people has he killed? Do I even want to know the answer to that?
“Mickey,” I say cautiously. “What do you mean by standard?”
He turns to me and blows me a kiss like we’re love-drunk teenagers, then goes back to belting it out to the music, leaving me stewing. I promised myself I would start asking questions, but maybe I’ll leave that to rest. Plausible deniability is in my best interest this time.
An hour later, the sign for Chicago illuminates under the headlights as we turn onto a main highway. “Seriously, where are we going?”
“Just trust me, Princess. Would I let anything bad happen to you?”
I stare at his profile. “Do I need to remind you what happened two hours ago?” And just because I’m in a mood, I add, “I trust you so much, I haven’t jumped out of the car yet.”
His face hardens. “It won’t happen again. And you aren’t fucking going anywhere.”
“How can you be sure about that?” He was so certain that we could stay at the Horror House, but obviously, that’s not the case.
“Because after this, I’m done.”
“What do you mean?” My heart picks up its pace. After what? Done with what? Does he mean done with me? Is he going to leave me again like he—
No. I’m not entertaining those kinds of thoughts. If I can accept that I’m enough for me, then so can he. And if he leaves after getting my name tattooed, then good riddance.
My insecurities got the better of me last time, and I won’t let that happen again. The past three years have taught me if there’s anything that would separate us, it would either be someone else’s doing or if I manage to run fast enough. The former seems more likely than the latter.
“You’ll see.” He grabs my hand and kisses it. “I promise you, just a couple more days, and I’ll go straight.”
I let the silence hang in the air, with the occasional “mmhmm” I send his way when he starts back up with his chatter. I can tell he’s uncomfortable because his rambling doesn’t make any sense, along with his use of movie quotes in his conversation with himself.
I want to fix all this, but I don’t know how to. I want to know the next steps, but I don’t want to make the decisions. Maybe it’s because I’m scared, or maybe I’m just hoping something will land in my lap and the rest of my days will be all happy-go-lucky.
A few hours later, he’s stiff and silent, and I’m sick of sitting in a car. It’s pitch-black outside, and I’m seriously ready to find a bed to crash out on for the next two days.
Mickey pulls us into a rest stop and cuts the engine.
“Why are we stopping?” I’m basically speaking in questions tonight. But it must be asked when a glance around tells me that the only building around us is the dodgy-looking bathroom. Other than that, it’s nothing but woods for miles.
I wanted a bed, not Horror House 2.0 minus the house.
“We’ll rest here for the night. We’re still too close to the house to get a hotel.”
I groan internally and get out of the car without responding. He follows me to the bathroom, standing guard wordlessly. It’s not until we get back inside the tin can that I use my inhaler, then recline my seat to lie down with my back to him.
“No, that’s not happening,” he says the second I shut my eyes.
There’s a violent edge to his voice that I promptly ignore by grabbing a blanket from the back seat. What’s the worst that will happen? He’ll kill me? Tie me up again? I don’t think so.
“Either look at me, or we’re sharing a seat. And I don’t give a shit how uncomfortable that is.”
Actually, I stand corrected; that can go on the list of bad things that could happen. The issue now is whether I play the stubborn card or give in to his demands like the old Isabella. I’m about to choose the former when my nether regions remind me just how sore I am and how much worse this whole lap-sitting thing will be.
“Too late.” Mickey hauls me over before I get the chance to utter another word.
“No, no, no, stop,” I plead, hitting his arms as he arranges my body on top of his, careful not to hit the steering wheel. “You’re hurting me.”
He freezes. “Where?” His gaze is filled with concern and his voice is laced with panic. It makes me feel unnecessarily warm inside.
Damn him.
“Umm.” I’m not about to tell him where. My heating cheeks should be answer enough.
“Where, Bella?” he warns.
When he shifts his leg, I yelp and nearly leap off him from the sudden ache the contact causes.
“Bella,” he muses, walking his fingers across my thigh until he dips between my thighs, where I squirm strategically so my core doesn’t rub against anything. “Is my baby girl sore?” He makes a pleased sound in his chest, skimming his fingers over the part of me I’ve been trying to keep away from him.
“Mickey, I’m serious. It hurts.”
“Fine.” His chuckle brings me anything but relief. “On one condition.”
“There shouldn’t be any conditions to this. I don’t think I’ll survive another round.” My voice rises an octave or two.
“What’s that saying? You break it, you buy it,” he teases. “Well, that only works if I don’t already own it.”
“You do not own it or me, Ro—Mickey Riviera.” I bite the inside of my cheek for the near slip-up. I could say it, and he’d stop with his advances. But what else will stop?