“Floor the gas pedal and stay in the middle lane.”
“I’ve already tried that.”
“Now.”
I slam my foot against the gas and pull forward, catching the trucks off guard.
They speed toward me on both sides, nearly catching up.
“Move into the right lane,” Ryder commands, and I oblige.
The trucks adjust their strategy, taking the lanes at the middle and the left.
“Stay at eighty miles an hour until I tell you to do otherwise,” Ryder says.
I nod as if he can see me, noticing that the road ahead is all clear.
“Now, tell me your favorite color.”
“What?” I shake my head. “Why?”
“Because I’m trying to help you relax.” He pauses. “I’m also curious.”
“It’s red.”
“Favorite movie?”
“Casablanca.”
“A movie you’d actually expect someone to watch.”
“Gone Girl.” I can feel the Toyota’s grill touching my bumper from behind. “I just hated the ending.”
“Not tragic enough?”
“Not romantic enough,” I admit. “They should’ve ended up in love with other people.”
“It wasn’t a romance.” There’s a smile in his voice but it quickly fades. “Get off on the next exit and make a quick left.”
I follow his directions, still driving far above the speed limit, past a group of police cars.
To my surprise, they don’t bother coming after me.
Their sirens never sound.
What the…
Bright yellow signs for the airport wave ahead, with warnings of speed bumps and digital speed trackers.
“Slow down to fifteen miles an hour,” Ryder says, “then pull into the parking garage.”
“I’ll be trapped.”
“I’m not repeating myself.”
I don’t bother questioning him.
I glance in the rearview mirror as the trucks form a single line behind the Toyota.
Pulling into the garage with my heart racing a mile a minute, I pause at the ticket machine.
“Don’t roll your window down,” Ryder says. “Just wait for the arm to go up.”
Within seconds, the red and white arm flies upward, signaling for me to come through.
“Drive up to level five as fast as you can and get out by the elevator.”
Without a word, I speed past a group of teenagers, nearly tagging a woman who dropped her carry-on. Then I stop in front of a set of sea-blue doors.
“Take the emergency stairwell on your left,” Ryder says as the Toyota pulls onto the same level.
Flinging my door open, I step out and run like hell.
“Your other left, Autumn,” he says.
I keep running. Is he here?
“Autumn, your other left. Now.”
I turn around and push my way past the emergency door.
“There aren’t any proper steps,” he says. “Just keep running down the ramp.”
I’m too out of breath to respond, and heavy footsteps are echoing through the hallway from behind.
Running faster than I ever have in my life, I’m nearing two doors—a red and a yellow one—and before I can ask Ryder which one I’m supposed to open, a set of hands grabs me by the waist and pulls me back.
“Nooooo, stop!” I scream as loud as I can. “Stop!’
My back hits the cement wall and I slowly realize that those hands belong to Ryder. He’s staring at me, looking genuinely concerned.
“I wonder if you’ll ever get that loud for me when we’re alone.” A slow smile spreads across his face, but I’m too on edge to return one right now.
The heavy footsteps suddenly come to a complete stop, and then a pained cry cuts through the air.
Several others follow, and then I hear shattering glass and something heavy falling onto the concrete.
I turn my head to look but Ryder places his hand under my chin, keeping my gaze on him.
“You don’t need to see any of that,” he says. “It’s not worthy of a watch.”
I suck in a breath as screams of “Please man, don’t!” and “Fuck, nooooo!” echo through the stairwell.
Ryder’s face remains stoic as he stares into my eyes.
“What else do you like?” he asks, attempting to distract me again.
“Being able to drive without being followed.”
“That won’t be a problem anymore,” he says. “What else?”
“I…” I shake my head, struggling to block out the painful sounds of men begging for the beatings to stop.
“Autumn?” Ryder’s thumb caresses my cheek, making me focus on him. “What else do you like?”
“Dates,” I say.
“Like dinner and a movie?”
“No. The dates that take actual effort to plan, and the kind that come with red roses.” I pause. “The type of roses you can only buy in a nursery where they make you pick the bouquets bloom by bloom.”
“Duly noted.” He cups my face in his hands. “You shouldn’t be trembling like this.”
“Are they enemies of yours?”
“They’re just overzealous journalists who found my flight log. They were probably desperate to figure out who you were and if they could get you to talk.”
“You’re not going to kill them, are you?”
“Please stop listening to that goddamn podcast.” His lips curve into a smile. “And no, Autumn. I’m not going to kill them.”
“Just hurt them?”
“Severely.”
The unmistakable sound of a trunk slamming shut sends my mind racing.