JEREMY IS ABOVE me, his face intense, worshipping me with his eyes. I arch my back, offering myself, and he groans, lowering his head. He takes me into his soft mouth. His rough hands caress and squeeze my breasts, pushing them up and into his mouth as he moves from side to side, breast to breast, driving me crazy with his lips and tongue.
I am wet, incredibly ready and wanting, the need throbbing between my legs so strongly—more than I have ever experienced. His touch, masculinity, the breath on my skin—all sensations my body has forgotten, every experience magnified by my time away. I moan, pulling him to me, his hand traveling down. The incredible sound of a zipper reaches my ears.
I wake up, real life bombarding my senses all at once. I gasp, shocked into reality, my subconscious trying to understand the strange setting, sideways, dark truck, a rest stop parking lot.
Asleep. My head nodding, I had fought sleep for over twenty miles, blaring music and rolling down the windows. It hadn’t worked; the truck veered off the highway twice before I pulled into a rest stop and set my phone timer to fifteen minutes, hoping to recharge in that short length of time. Sleep had come instantly, my eyes closing as soon as I had pressed “start” on the timer. And dreamed of Jeremy. It was my first dream in a long time that hadn’t involved mayhem and blood. Dr. Derek will be pleased. I roll my neck and start the truck, watching the dash as it comes to life.
The first thing I notice is that Jeremy’s truck is low on gas: the fuel warning light is illuminated. I glance at the dashboard clock: 11:46 p.m. I have slept for about fifteen minutes. I look at the GPS, doing calculations in my head. Getting back on the road now, I will arrive at about six in the morning. According to all of Mike’s updates, and the limited chatter on the police scanner, Ralph is down for the evening, and they are going to watch him all night. I assume he’ll head for Annie in the morning, if he hasn’t killed her already. If I can get there quickly enough, I can have her out of harm’s way in time. I press on the GPS’s screen, looking for the next exit with a gas station. There is only one option, a gas station seventeen miles away. I cross my fingers and hope that it will still be open.
The station is pathetic and run-down, sitting alone at the exit, the flickering white lights announcing its availability. I pay at the pump, swiping my card and reaching for the handle, suddenly aware of the emptiness surrounding me. I look over my shoulder to find the clerk eyeing me, acne-covered skin surrounding beady eyes and a grinning mouth. Great. I hear the gas topping off and loosen my hold on the pump, watching the number slide past fourteen gallons before the pump clicks in my hand. I squeeze a little more into the tank, hearing the slosh of petroleum topping off, then withdraw the pump. I open the truck and hit the lock button, my eyes on the black bag that contains the gun and my cash. I have a moment of indecision, then shut the door and stride for the convenience store, my eyes conscious of the surrounding emptiness, my good ear tuning to the ominous quiet of the lot. My tennis shoes crunch loudly on rough pavement.
I open the advertisement-riddled door, revealing a small, crowded store, the floors sticky and dark, the air stale. I glance at the fruit basket next to the lotto counter, the bananas browning and oranges hardened. I grab an apple, the skin too soft to be good, and move down the first aisle, snagging some peanuts and bottles of orange and apple juice. I avoid the eyes of the clerk, feeling his presence even in the farthest reaches of the store. I duck into the bathroom after first setting my items on the floor outside; but having found no good place to put the apple, I carry it into the restroom with me and chuck it in the trash. I shut the door and lock it, squatting over the filthy toilet and trying not to pee on too much of the seat. I relax, the pressure on my bladder lessening, the relief wonderful.
My eyes catch movement and focus, watching the handle twitch slightly, just once, and then return to its place. It takes me a moment, my mind slow, incredulous when it finally understands what is occurring. The bastard is trying the door. I rip off a wad of tissue, wipe, and yank my pants up, my mind realizing the next step before my thoughts do. A key. He’d have a—
The door shoves open, and he is there, inside the small enclosure, shutting the door behind him with a metallic click, grinning at me with disturbing confidence. “Well, well. And I was just getting bored with my evening. What’s a tight little thing like you doing out this late?”
I meet his grin, my own stretching easily across my face, my hands sliding into my sweatshirt pockets. I wrap a hand around the handle of the stiletto knife, rubbing its grip, finding and fingering the release. Wait. If only he knew that he is prey and I am the hunter. And he has made it so damn convenient for me. This time, I will succeed. This time I will not falter, will learn from the mistakes with Jeremy. I will not go to the ground, I will kill him on my feet.
My grin confuses him. I see the hesitation, the pause in his movement, and the flicker of uncertainty in his stare.
“Don’t stop,” I say. “Please. Whatever you had in your mind to do, I welcome you to try it.”
He starts forward, then stops. He moves again, then pauses, his hesitation growing at my tone and lack of fear. I laugh, a sound he doesn’t like, and his fists ball while the dark look in his eyes returns. Hunger. Hate.
“Drop your pants,” he rasps, his eyes falling to my waist and the open pants. “I want to see the little snatch I am about to—”
My hands reach out, my forearm against his throat; the speed of the motion catches him off-balance, pushing him back against the closed door. The stiletto is freed, the flash of blade catching his eyes. His body freezes in response. I bring it to his cheek, my eyes on his. I smile wider, cracking my face in two. I try to picture his death, to welcome the gruesome visions that battle constantly for entry into my mind, but can see only her—the tiny blonde, grinning into the camera, white-iced cake before her. Annie. GO.
I battle my inner demon, not wanting to let this moment pass, a victim finally in my grasp, one worthy of killing, my timed attack perfectly executed. But I have to think about her. The reason I left the apartment. To do something right with the twisted cards I have been dealt. A dead body might slow my progress, might get me in a jail cell as opposed to Annie. I grit my teeth, grounding out words as I stare into his eyes. “There’s nothing I’d love more than to carve into that ugly shit that you call a face, and leave you bleeding and helpless on this filthy floor, scrambling to stand, your eyeballs cut out and squishing beneath my feet. But I am fucking late, and I don’t have time for this bullshit right now.” I press the blade into the thin skin under his eyes, feeling the easy slide of it, blood swelling around the tip. His eyes flit from the blade to me in a panicked jerk. My eyes drink in the red liquid, unable to move from the drip, my fingers unresponsive to my desire to stop the pressure and keep the blade from slicing deeper. I yank back, the blade catching a bit on his skin, and his hand jumps up to press against the cut, his face shocked.
Blood. I want it. I need it. My hands shake, barely controlled. “Get the fuck out of my way,” I spit out.
He reaches backward, stumbling till he finds the door handle, his red hands slipping on it, then turns the knob, falling backward into the store, his hand returning to his face. I lean over, take my items, and walk through the store. I hesitate briefly by the register, grab a plastic-wrapped prepaid cell phone, and walk out the door to the parked truck. The words come again, louder. GO. Annie.