The whistling stops, replaced by humming. Dear Lord, now he’s singing “Another One Bites the Dust” while washing up in the bathroom. How is he not more stressed about the situation? More freakishly intimidating men might come. Who knows, maybe next time we won’t be so lucky.
I’m moving faster than I have in my life, packing the essential clothing into bags, food, blankets, towels, basic utensils—Christ, what else would we need when we’re running from outlaws and the law?
Running back inside after stuffing more things into the trunk, I find a freshly washed Roman pulling a t-shirt over his head.
Momentarily off balance by the sliver of abs, my eyes focus on the splash of red on his arm, spanning a centimeter. “You’re bleeding,” I gasp. “He cut you? Let me check.”
He wipes it away with his thumb like it’s nothing. “That’s why you shouldn’t roll around on the ground. You get splinters.” He grins.
I narrow my eyes at him, then glance out the front door and to the car. “I’ve packed.”
He looks at me, sticks his head into the room, and says, “Not well enough.”
First whistling, now he’s smirking? Is this what a sociopath does?
“What do you mean?” Following him into the room, I start prattling, “I’ve got food, water, some clothes—"
“You forgot Mr. Mickey Mouse.” He holds up the doll my mother gave me and sticks his bottom lip out in a pout. “I can’t believe you were going to forget about me, Isabella,” he mimics Mickey Mouse.
I snatch Mr. Mouse from Roman and hug the toy to my chest. “Well, I didn’t say I was ready to go.”
Roman hums in disbelief, grabs a duffle bag from the closet, and starts dropping all the hair accessories he bought inside.
“Those aren’t essentials.”
Without looking at me, he says, “You’ve had your turn packing. Now it’s my turn, and you didn’t have me breathing down your neck while you did it.”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation after I almost died.
I huff like a petulant child and storm back into the living room, doing a once-over of everything we could possibly need.
Oh wait, I forgot the first-aid kit and toiletries.
Five minutes later, I’m stepping into the car while Roman slaps the roof, hooting, “Road trip, baby.”
I’m not sure whether I should be upset or happy about leaving the horror house. I guess I’m pleased that I’m no longer at risk of needing to cultivate my own food, but I don’t like that I’m only leaving out of fear of being murdered—a worse fate than dying from starvation.
Roman’s expert fingers massage my neck while he drives, and his calm—not calm, normal—exterior is the whole reason I’m not hugging my knees, repeating the moment in my head, over and over. The click of the safety, the bang of the trigger, the terror in Mickey’s eyes, because he thought it too.
He thought I was going to die.
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.”