What was that look on her face?
The thought vibrates inside my head. I’ve decided that she thinks I’m an idiot for returning her car to the city. She probably wonders why in the hell I’d do that. Why not just leave it at the cabin, hidden. But she’s the stupid one. She doesn’t know even a part of the truth.
I shake my head and grip the steering wheel even tighter. Rush-hour traffic filters into the city. Every time I have to hit the brake, I feel the skin of my face burning hotter and hotter.
I should have left the car at the cabin. I know that. But that’s not what I’m going to do. As I turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue, inching behind a particularly annoying white pickup, way nicer and newer than mine, I glance over at the gym parking lot. I could turn in and leave it there, too. That would make sense, even to Lauren. But I keep driving, a tight smile pinching the corners of my eyes.
I crawl down Pennsylvania, getting more and more annoyed by the truck in front of me. When I get the chance, I veer into the left lane. Nearly hitting a black BMW, I swerve back after passing the truck. I hit my brakes and watch as he jerks to a stop. I see his arms go up. I see his mouth open comically wide. And I laugh, more to myself than out loud.
She’s gotten under my skin. Without saying a word. I understand this, logically, but I can’t stop it. Instead, I picture her back in the cabin. She must be scared out of her mind. She must be wondering what I’m going to do to her. I can’t imagine what that must be like. Maybe she is scratching and clawing, bending her body, painfully, trying to find a way to escape. That thought sets me even more afire. I lean forward, barely noticing the guy in the truck behind me. Even though he’s about an inch off my bumper.
What if she escapes?
That can’t happen. I taped her perfectly. Just like I researched. She won’t be able to get free. Plus, I secured the padlock. And the windows are boarded. There’s just no way.
But what if?
My head shakes.
Nononono
I don’t have time for this. I don’t have the luxury. I need to stick to the moves I’ve laid out. Thought out. It’s all too dangerous now to get distracted.
Blinking, I look around. I’m about four blocks from where I left my truck. So I slam my foot down on the brake. The car stops. I see the guy’s eyes widen. I hear his brakes locking. His tires squealing, smoking. His bumper hits the Jetta, but not hard.
Leaving the key in the ignition, the engine running, I put the car in park. Then I open the door and step out into the street. Horns blare. More tires skid and cry out. I look back at the line of cars behind me. And I see the guy lurching out of his truck. He is bearded and thick with a cheap white button-down and jeans. Rage burns in his eyes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole!”
He walks quickly toward me. Coming up on me. I just stare at him for a second. His rage is infectious. It triggers my already frayed nerves. Suddenly, like a light blinking out, the plan is gone. All I see is this guy rushing me. All I can think about is what I’m going to do to him.
He doesn’t see it. He keeps coming, thinking that this is going to go his way. For my part, I just stand there, turning my body to the side, just a little bit. Just enough. I know what he’s going to do. He’ll come in hot. Get right in my face. And stop. Right there. If he was calling the shots, he would start off talking all big. Maybe give me a push. Size me up. Possibly make a move if I showed a hint of submission. But he’s not calling the shots. He never was.
When he’s about three steps away, still moving at a pretty good clip, I take a step forward and to the side with my lead foot. At the same time, my right hand shoots out, past his head. I see his eyes widen when he realizes that there will be no strutting. No talking. I haven’t said a word, in fact.
I hook him by the back of the neck and pull him toward me. I turn all the way to my side, pushing him past me, into the corner of the Jetta. He hits it, hard, right above his knee. He folds over the hood awkwardly. I turn, reaching for his head, wanting to slam it into the car, but hit his back instead. He sort of rolls and tries to bounce up. So I grab him by the throat with my left hand. I squeeze and lean down, putting my body right up to his, pinning him down.
He makes a gurgling sound. I imagine it is groveling. Some pitiful attempt to pay the check his misplaced bravado had written a second before. But I don’t want to hear another word. All I want to do is squeeze. To hurt him. To show him who’s stupid.
Stupid.
The voice I hear in my head is not my own. It’s not this bearded asshole’s, though. It’s his. And when I hear it, my muscles freeze. My eyes open all the way. My breathing sets my chest thrusting in and out. I stare at this man, my fingers on his throat. I don’t know him. I never will. And he has nothing to do with any of this.
My grip loosens. I let go of him and straighten. With a quick look around at what I’ve done, I turn and walk away, leaving Lauren Branch’s Jetta parked in the middle of rush-hour traffic.