I can't believe I could be so fucking stupid. Why did I go back? Why didn't I just leave it as it was?
As I steer with my knee, I wrap a dirty T-shirt from the backseat around my bleeding hand. That piece of shit dog bit me. My blood at the scene, my own fucking DNA, has the downfall of my entire career playing out in my head. If a trooper happens to be driving by, as unlikely as it is, and sees a truck abandoned on the side of the road, he's likely to check it out. When he discovers a mutilated body on the other side of the truck window, I imagine it's only a matter of time before they link it to me. My whole life spent as careful as can be, yet I wind up fucking myself in the end.
Walmart is only moments away though, and I pray they have what I need. Whom I pray to, I'm not quite sure, but somebody better fucking listen.
As if a punchline to a fucking joke, a car jerks out from the side of an overpass onto the road behind me, and blue and red lights pierce my back window in flashes.
I toss the bloody T-shirt to the floor and kick it beneath my seat, digging the revolver from my pocket. I imagine killing the officer as he approaches then speeding back home. I'll take my briefcase with all the necessary escape material—fake passport, driver's license, cash, and disguises—and Miranda to the Asheville airport where my private plane sits waiting, ready to take me to South America forever.
Miranda and I will begin anew, killing and writing under a new name. My career—our career—will be reborn. She'll have to learn Spanish of course, but I can help her with that.
Instead, I slip the revolver into the middle console and slide my bleeding hand beneath my leg, readying my driver's license, insurance, and registration with the other.
A portly officer approaches, a flashlight shining into my open window. "Good evening. Any reason you're going so fast this evening?"
I hand over the documents and he takes them, analyzing each. I force a smile. "Just got caught up in a night drive, officer. I'm an author, and when I get writer's block, sometimes I just gotta get out and drive. Lose myself to the music, you know." I laugh as I scrutinize the officer.
His focus is still directed toward my driver's license. He finally looks at me with an eyebrow raised, a slow smile creeping over his lips.
“Lucky for you,” he winks and disgust ripples throughout my body, “I’ve met my quota of tickets for the month.” He hands me back my documents before rapping two knuckles against the car door. “You have a good night and slow down, alright?”
“Sure thing, officer.”
Then he turns on his heel and heads back to the cruiser with a dance in his step. A wide smile takes up my face as I pull the Range Rover back onto the road, shaking my head at my own damn luck.
“Take Her From You”—DEV
I watch a flock of geese fly over the top of the pine trees, losing myself for a moment. I glance back at the screen, my eyes drifting to the word count that's barely budged over the past day. Yesterday, Edwin refused to write and locked himself in his bedroom.
This morning, he sat down, wrote a disjointed paragraph, started swearing at the computer, chucked the keyboard across the room, then hopped up and went out to the shed. All morning he's been going back and forth from the cabin to the shed.
And now, he’s just pacing, his cheeks red. Finally, he plops down on the sofa, turning the TV on, and flips channels. Stopping on the news, he groans and leans over his knees, dragging his bandaged hand through his messy hair. I glance at the time on the computer screen and breathe a sigh of relief. Janine should be here any minute, and she can't get here fast enough.
I pull up my email, reading over Jax’s messages for the tenth time today:
I bet that pretty little voice of yours sounds even better when you beg.
I don't beg, was my reply.
You say that now, but wait until I get you all alone and naked, teasing you with my mouth. I will have you begging me to be inside you.
And I find myself smiling like an idiot. These emails started off innocently enough, but over the course of a few days, they’ve turned into foreplay. Message after message. Each one more descriptive and vulgar than the last. I skim over more of his promises—threats—and exhale.
I'll ruin you…
I'll let you.
I like it rough.
I like to be choked.