“Burner phone in my bag,” I admit. “The phone’s off for now, just in case. But I’ll check in, and we’ll see what he’s hearing back home.”
She looks at me with calculating eyes, and I’m reminded once again just how smart she is and how careful I need to be with her. “So, on a moment’s notice, you snatched me up, switched vehicles to a nondescript sedan that you knew would be waiting in that lot, have a duffle bag packed with at least one day’s worth of clothes, cash, and a burner phone, took us to a no-tell motel, and now we’re headed to another safe location, and you ‘have a guy’? That about sum it up?”
Fuck. She’s putting a bunch of shit together pretty damn fast, and it does sound like a fucking action movie script. Scrambling, I try to stay calm and put her on the defensive, a tactic that usually works on most folks. I laugh heartily, not taking my eyes off the road as if I’m not concerned. “Well, when you put it all together like that . . . you’re welcome, Angel. You planning to say thank you on your knees too? Because that was a damn fine apology this morning.”
She doesn’t take the bait, sidestepping the crude, and honestly rude, comment. “Who are you, Shane? You said you’re not one of Dominick’s guys, not in the mob. But it sounds like . . . are you tied up in all of this?”
I grit my teeth, growling as I clench the steering wheel a little tighter and hoping it’ll scare her into backing the fuck off. “All you need to know is that you’re safe.”
As we’ve talked, her curled knees had fallen loosely to her left, toward me, but at my harsh words, she pulls away. Her knees are once again clenched tight to her chest in a protective posture. She half turns away, her back mostly to me as she faces the window, her eyes unfocused as the scenery flies by.
It hurts, honestly. I was enjoying talking to her, but I need to keep her from probing in areas that she shouldn’t. I realize I likely hurt her feelings, and that despite her brains and sass, she’s got a vulnerable side too. Unable to reach her thigh, I rest my hand on the back of her neck, squeezing lightly, comforting and not threatening, I hope. “Maggie, you’re safe, and I promise to keep you that way. That’s all you need to know right now.”
She doesn’t answer, doesn’t even acknowledge that I’ve spoken. I turn my attention back to the road, knowing I should give her space. Hell, I should give myself some space to figure out how to handle this, handle her. Fuck, that doesn’t even sound right. Maggie’s a grown ass woman with her own mind. She shouldn’t be ‘handled’. She should be respected, but the situation makes my caveman instincts come out and all I want to do is protect her.
As my thoughts swirl, I leave my hand where it is, drawing small lines up and down her neck with my thumb, soothing her anger, her fear, even if some of it is my fault.
If I’m honest with myself, having her satin skin under my palm calms me too, and that’s a fucking problem.
Chapter 15
Maggie
We drive for hours, only stopping for a bathroom break at a truck stop with a burger joint attached to it. We take the burgers and fries to go, along with some snacks and an odd assortment of cheap undies, a pack of socks, and some souvenir T-shirts so that I can have clothes, and keep driving. It’s quiet for a long time, neither of us willing to give in to the stalemate.
He hurt me, and he knows it. I can feel his remorse, but I’m not ready to forgive and he hasn’t apologized. Eventually, Shane turns on the radio and music fills the car. It’s nothing much, just the regular late-night stuff you get on Top 40 stations, some slow songs mixed in with oldies and a few tunes for the young lovers who might want some mood music. After a bit, I hear him humming along with an old Green Day song, even singing softly under his breath. It’s nice. I can tell he has a good voice, deep and mellow with a raw emotion to it that tells me he actually knows this song.
As the chorus begins, he gets louder, and I look over at him, enjoying the mindless way he’s getting into it. It feels like a peek into the real him somehow. Without saying anything, I join in, singing along with the radio and Shane, a trio of voices filling the car.
“I’ve never heard anyone out-sing the original,” I say as the guitar music fades and I wonder if September ever really is going to end for us. “You’re pretty good.” It’s an olive branch, making the first move to break the silence between us and I’m curious if he’ll take it or shut me out again.”
Shane looks over at me, a small smile tilting the corners of his lips. “Dad loved this song. He always thought that even though it wasn’t written about the 9/11 bombings or the Iraq war, that it spoke to him. He never was into what we did there.”
“But he was a cop.”
Shane nods, shrugging. “Dad was more Andy Griffith than Criminal Minds. He was the cop people came to for advice, the cop who’d walk into a domestic disturbance without his gun and get everyone calmed down. He always told me that he saw too much of the evil men could do to each other in Vietnam and he didn’t want to add to it. So the first time he heard that song, it stuck with him.”
It’s not a truce. There are too many questions unanswered for that. But it’s a pause on the inquisition, a recognition that whatever is going on and whoever he is, we can sing along as we run. And that there’s something between us, something building. It doesn’t have to be adversarial. Goodness knows, we’ve all got secrets, and maybe I shouldn’t judge him too harshly considering the one I’m still holding close to my heart.
By dawn, we pull over to check into another sketchy motel. Shane apologizes for the seedy accommodations as we pull in, explaining why. “Folks around here aren’t as likely to remember us and definitely aren’t as likely to talk. They don’t want anyone or anything putting attention on their own lives.”
“Whatever. I just need a clean bed, not a five-star fancy place,” I reply, trying to put a positive spin on things. “So, I guess no free continental breakfast?”
Shane laughs. “We’ll be in bed during breakfast hours anyway.”
My thoughts flash back to this morning in bed and how Shane and I had sex . . . kind of. Wow, was that just this morning? It seems so long ago, time both speeding by like a rocket and dragging like my ass after an all-nighter.
Once we’re in the room, Shane pulls the curtains closed and then plops on the bed, lying back and closing his eyes as he stretches out. “You can take a shower first. I gotta work this tightness out of my back before I do anything.”
He looks yummy as a bowl of peanut butter fudge, and I long to lick the sliver of his abdomen that shows where his shirt rides up. But I haven’t forgotten his earlier words, even if we have ridden in relative civility for the last few hours. “Call your guy.”
He opens one eye, giving me a semi-amused, semi-angry look. “No.”
I cross my arms over my chest, giving him all the glare that I can muster. Which, considering the difference in our sizes, probably isn’t much, but by gosh, I’m gonna try. “Call. Your. Guy. Find out what’s happening back home.”
I can see that he’s trying to think of an argument to get out of this, some way to reason with me, but he settles on being an ass.
“No. Take a shower. I’ll call, and we’ll see what he says.”
Knowing that sometimes, retreat is the finest form of strategy, I acquiesce. “Fine.”
Grabbing the micro-sliver of cheap soap off the vanity and missing even the luxury of tiny bottles of cheap shampoo and conditioner, I stomp into the bathroom, closing and locking the door before turning on the water. Instead of stripping off my clothes, though, I put my skills and my strategy to use, listening intently at the door.