Shit.
This house is in some remote location, and the chances of running outside and finding someone to help me are probably slim to none. My stomach sinks when I realize there’s no chance that my Bronco is nearby either.
Fuck.
What the hell do you do when you’re trapped in the middle of nowhere with two insane but very friendly and obliging men? This resembles the start of a Lifetime movie a little too much for my liking.
My chest tightens and I have to remind myself that I’ve lived through things I never thought I could before. Mom’s death, dozens of foster homes, shit jobs, and a creeper landlord… I can do this. I take a deep breath and try to mentally find some grit before sneaking down the rest of the stairs.
Perth’s and Ruger’s voices drift out from the kitchen. Their conversation is muffled but it sounds a little heated. I reach the ground floor without them noticing and stare in awe for a moment before I get my shit together and focus.
Damn. Freakish cult members are clearly well paid.
I try to look beyond the two-story river stone fireplace, the wall of sliders that lead to a forest out back, and the lush but masculine furnishings. This place looks like it’s ready to be photographed for some editorial about rich bachelors with exquisite taste.
The kitchen where Ruger and Perth said they’d be waiting for me is around a corner off to my left. But to my right, I notice a tidy little mudroom with a door that I hope leads to a garage. Next to that door—jackpot!—is a metal strip studded with a row of hooks. Keys and fobs dangle from them.
Fuck yes.
Silently, with terrified excitement crackling in my belly, I beeline for the mud room. I scoop them all up as quietly as I can, using my shirt as a basket to hold them and muffle their jangling. I cringe and peek over my shoulder as I carefully open the door next to me. I’m terrified that a squeaky hinge or alarm is going to give me away, but the door swings smoothly and soundlessly when I open and close it.
Turning, I release a deep breath when I spot several cars in a row. Their garage is bigger than my last three apartments combined. There have to be at least a dozen bays filled with sports cars, SUVs, motorcycles, a few trucks, and a handful of other toys like ATVs, snowmobiles, and some jet skis. I would be impressed if I wasn’t so eager to get as far away from this place as possible with the hope that I never set eyes on it again.
I look down at the keys and fobs cradled in my shirt and try to spot a name or symbol on any of them that looks familiar. The name Jeep jumps out at me like a beacon, and I press the unlock button. A flash of lights summons me closer, and I pause as I round a massive truck and take in my escape vehicle. It doesn’t look like any Jeep I’ve ever seen. I swear it looks like a big scary Transformer that might come to life at any moment and fight several of the other vehicles in this garage.
Not wanting to waste any more time trying to pick a more practical alternative, I swallow down my trepidation and climb into the tall SUV. I dump all the fobs and keys I stole in the passenger seat and look up just in time to see the door from the house to the garage swing open to reveal an angry-looking Perth.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demands, and my heart feels like it’s about to stampede right out of my chest.
Fuck.
The Jeep roars to life at the push of a button, and—pulse blaring like a radio in my ears—I start jamming other buttons on the visor above me until one of them opens the bay door behind me.
“Come on. Come on!” I shout at the slowly rising door as Perth darts toward me, and Ruger’s massive frame fills up the doorway behind him.
Oh god.
What’s worse than two hot crazy guys? Two pissed hot crazy guys.
Tires squeal as I put the Transformer into gear and slam my sock-clad foot onto the gas pedal. The Jeep peels out of the garage, leaving behind the thick stench of burnt rubber. Gravel kicks up around the tires as I dart backwards out of the bay onto the driveway. When I have enough room, I swing the Jeep around, shift into drive, and swerve forward.
If this situation weren’t so fucking dire, it might be fun.
Ruger and Perth chase after me as I speed down a long driveway. My chest jumps each time I check my rearview mirror, but after a handful of terrifying minutes, their determined faces and alarmingly fast strides disappear in my dust.
I can’t seem to stop looking for them though. For some irrational reason, I fully expect them to come tearing up behind me in something even more intimidating than this monster I’m driving. My imagination goes wild, and I suck in a breath as I picture a massive tank-of-a-truck overtaking me, riding my bumper, and then smashing me into a nearby tree.
Adrenaline has me leaning forward on the edge of my seat, leg muscles clenched all the way from thigh to toe. I forgot my seat belt and there’s no time now, since the road curves precariously down the mountain, with turns so tight I can feel the Jeep leaning from side to side.
Fuck, I’m going to puke.
I glance back in the rearview mirror one last time.
Where the hell are they?
My eyes dart over to the passenger seat, and I realize that I’m an idiot. I swiped all their keys.
A relieved sigh sneaks out, turning into a chuckle at my own expense. I loosen my panicked hold on the steering wheel.
I can’t believe that worked—that I actually got away.
I start to laugh harder, not missing the ring of hysteria in it.
Maybe I’m actually going to make it out of the worst night of my life.
I’m pretty sure I’ll be in therapy forever, working through all the trauma from this, but who isn’t a little fucked-up these days? Okay, maybe I’m a lot fucked-up now, but a win is a win.
And I’ll take it.
5
NOAH
Fuck literal and metaphorical forks in the road—they can burn in hell—because I’m facing both of them right now.
“Dammit!” I growl as I slap the steering wheel in frustration and scan the Y shape in the road for the third time. Trees line either side of my two options, and today, I don’t appreciate the colorful foliage. Today, those leaves are an obstacle that prevents me from seeing what’s down either path. I don’t know if I should go left or right, and I’m wasting precious seconds sitting at this stop sign, trying to figure out what to do.
Go to town and report shit or take this car and drive as far as I can get? The problem is, I don’t know if I can find the right road to skip town. And I don’t know that I really want to risk getting arrested for grand theft auto.
Ugh. How is a felony my best option?
Think, Noah, think.
I’m lost on the run, and I don’t want to get more lost, or worse—caught—simply because I’m freaking out and not taking the time to consider things.
Fuck it. I have to make some kind of choice.
“Left,” I announce to no one as I turn the steering wheel and press on the gas.
A right turn is what brought me to this crazy-ass town so maybe left will get me back to my car. That is if my car is still there. Panic weighs down my chest as I try to think of the odds that my Bronco is waiting for me in the parking spot where I left it.
“Keys,” I groan with anguished realization. I have a fuck ton of them sitting in the passenger seat, but none of them are mine.
I also don’t have my bag, my wallet, or my phone. Fuck, they might as well have lopped off one of my hands. How am I going to manage?