He rounded the front of the Expedition and bent to pick up the now shredded orange jacket.
Good.
I’m glad it was dead.
It was fucking hideous.
He sighed before wordlessly crossing the street and disappearing inside the shop. I was still deciding what to do and where to go when he emerged less than a minute later without the coat and then locked up the shop.
My heart skipped a beat when he hopped into his car without a “See you later” or “Sayonara.” I knew it was going to hurt to watch him drive away, but I had no idea why. The car started with a roar as fierce as its owner, but instead of driving off down the street, he pulled up next to me. I didn’t move an inch as he leaned over and rolled down the window.
“Let’s go,” he ordered.
“What?” Surely, he didn’t think I was going anywhere with him? I was almost killed because I got too close, not to mention I’d only just met him, and he was clearly into some deep shit.
“Lets. Fucking. Go.”
“No way.”
“Did you hear me asking?”
I shivered, and it had nothing to do with the snow now falling steadily. “I’d rather die,” I said with a snarl. “Wait, it seems I almost did!”
Before he could respond, the wind carried the sound of sirens closer. Shit. I quickly reached for the door handle, but he slammed his hand down on the lock just as I tugged on the door. Sure enough, it was locked.
“What are you doing?”
“Say please.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? Unlock the door!” I tugged on the handle, willing to tear it off if I had to—although that would get me nowhere.
“Say ‘Please, Wren. Rescue me, Wren. I need you, Wren.’”
So that was his name. Wren…
Silently, I tested his name with a wistful sigh. Aloud, I growled it. “Wren.”
“Almost. I didn’t hear please.”
“Fuck you.”
“Not what I’m offering,” he casually retorted. His arrogance only infuriated me more.
“Fine.” I let go of the handle and tapped my lip with my finger. “I wonder what I’ll tell the cops when they get here. After all, I did witness everything.”
His only response was to sit up straight, allowing me to see the gun that magically appeared in his lap. The warning was clear, and even though a chill worked its way down my spine, I somehow knew he’d never use it. At least, not on me.
“Please, Wren,” I begged halfheartedly. He smiled when I punctuated my plea with an eye roll.
And just as the first patrol car turned onto the street a couple of blocks away, he popped the lock. I wasted no time diving inside. I barely got the door closed when the car shot forward, and we got out of dodge.
I nervously watched out the back window as two patrol cars parked next to the totaled Expedition, and four officers emerged with guns drawn. Only when we rounded the corner did I relax and sink into the leather bucket seats. I couldn’t help admiring the interior. He’d kept everything classic and vintage and looking like he had just driven it off the lot days ago.
“What year is this car?”
“’66.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Why?” he sneered. “You thinking about getting one? Maybe turning it into a summer home?”
“Maybe I am,” I snapped back. Wren snorted, which was clearly another dig at my homelessness. “Asshole,” I hissed. He pretended not to hear. “Where are we going?”
Silence.
“Wren?”
He signaled before cruising down another street. I eyed the door handle and considered hopping out. As if reading my thoughts, he sped up.
I whipped my head around and glared until the seeping hole in his jacket caught my attention. “You’re hit.” Panic spread through my chest.
“Trust me, I’m aware.”
I reached out a trembling hand before thinking better of it and letting it fall into my lap. “Shouldn’t we go to the hospital?”
“I’ll handle it,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Better than an actual doctor?”
Once again, he didn’t respond, and I was getting sick of it. “Fine,” I said as my arms crossed, and I pouted. “Bleed out. Die. I don’t care.”
A crooked smile graced his lips. “It seems like you do.”
I shrugged and crossed my arms. “You’re my ride.”
His deep-throated laugh sent the butterflies in my stomach scattering—fucking hormones. I never hated being fifteen more than I did right now. Not even when I realized I had no say in my own life for the next three years.
I whirled on him. “How old are you?”
Wren hesitated before mumbling, “Seventeen.”
So I’d been right. He was young although I’d pegged him for at least twenty-one. He looked the part of seventeen, but I didn’t need his story to know he’d grown up fast. Judging by the gun still in his lap and the near assassination, I’d say too fast.
“Which school do you go to?”
“Not in school.”
I frowned. “Graduated?”
“Dropped out.”
“Me too.” I sighed. “Currently.” Every time I was dragged to yet another foster home after days, sometimes weeks, on the streets, I was thrown back into whatever public hole would accept me.
“Why?” He voiced it in a way that instantly put me on the defensive.
“Why did you?”
Rather than answer, he shook his head as if disappointed.
I felt my teeth grind. How dare he judge me when he was no better?
I couldn’t stand the silence, so I reached for the radio to play whatever cassette he might have, but his hand shot out and gripped mine before I could. It was like a thunderbolt had struck us both. The hairs on my skin rose as my body temperature skyrocketed, and my next breath stalled. I knew he felt it too even though he recovered much quicker than I did and refocused on the road.
“Don’t,” he said, and it was almost a plea.
“Why not?”
“I like the silence.”
“Yeah, well…I’ve had enough to last a lifetime.” He didn’t ask, and I didn’t elaborate. Those days before my parents took off had been harrowing but mostly…confusing. The only clue among all the silence had been their nervous energy. “So is that why you bought the oldest car you could find? Because it has no radio?”
“It was a gift.”
“From who?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. He didn’t seem like the type to allow someone close. With one glance, I knew he was a lone wolf—like me.
“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “He’s dead.”
“That’s pretty morbid.” He tried to shrug but grimaced, clearly forgetting his wounded shoulder. “How are you not in pain right now?”
“You’re distracting me,” he said, almost like an accusation.
“I’m sorry. Should I let you concentrate?”
His lips twitched before he muttered, “Smartass.” His tone was amused, almost whimsical—as if he were already used to me. The snow started falling harder, so he pushed the lever that controlled the windshield wiper and tried to hide his wince from using his injured shoulder.