Hunted

Chapter Eight

The movies were right— men were trouble.

Hands shaky with lingering adrenaline, I could still feel my heart beating in my ears, the wild ricochet drowning out the words of the man grabbing my shoulders. In another lifetime, he'd be beautiful. All wild brown eyes and wavey blonde hair coasting his shoulders, but now wasn't the time for waxing poetry about the beauty of strangers.

I felt like I could hurl all over the stranger's black converse. It was a morbid convenience that my stomach had nothing in it to regurgitate. But that didn't stop my chest from heaving as I collapsed against the wrecked aftermath of the car I'd crawled out of. The man was still talking— pink lips over-enunciating every word.

A choked giggle dragged its way out of my chest. My actions hadn't quite caught up with my body and there was a part of my brain still trapped in the SUV, watching the burly man get shot and knowing without a shred of doubt that his death would be my fault. I couldn't have that, couldn't be the cause of more suffering.

So, I improvised.

It was a depressing realization when I finally understood how much improvisation hurt. The outcome was almost worse than anything I'd ever experienced at home. I couldn't put my ankle fully against the ground, a stinging pain halting every attempt so far. There was also a worrying numbness coming from my jaw, unnervingly evident every time I swallowed.

"Ow," I managed when I tried to stand again, pressing my heel against the pavement, "Not good."

That was an inconvenience. I couldn't go anywhere with a broken ankle or a broken car— the men's car might still work, but it was riddled with bullet holes. It might not be as overt as driving the police car, but it was sure to still draw notice. There was another factor of securing their keys. Drawing my stare over the handsome blonde in front of me, I wrinkled my brow in dissatisfaction. It wouldn't be easy, but maybe—

His voice finally turned into something articulate, "Sang, can you hear—" he peered down at his outfit, slapping at his pockets once before questioning, "What are you looking at?"

My eyes fell shut in exhaustion. No, that wouldn't work. He was too nosey.

"Hey, hey, hey! Keep your eyes open for me, cupcake," there was an obnoxious snapping noise in front of my face, the first warning I had before fingers cupped my cheek, "Can you hear me? Gabe, get Doc on the line! She's fading in and out—"

Without my control, my hand came up and pushed the offending appendage away. If I were more coherent and less exhausted, I may have blushed at the proximity, but for now, my only worry lay in the stranger's voice, "Please don't yell. It's rude."

There was an echoing laugh, loud enough to force one of my eyes to pop open. The blonde stranger was still hovering, his arms outstretched as if prepared to catch me before I fell. But the noise came from beyond him, a figure standing a few feet behind his right shoulder. With huge biceps, dark tattoos, and a wicked smirk, he wasn't nearly as pretty as the blonde, but he was still attractive— in that romance novella way Marie used to gush about.

"Okay, well you're coherent," the pretty blonde stranger made an odd noise, something like a choke and a chuckle before calling out again, "Is he picking up?"

The question brought pain bubbling to the surface of my forehead, "Don't call anyone," there were too many variables in play and not enough answers, "I'm fine."

Or I would be once I secured the keys from the stranger. Maybe I could stumble, let him grab my shoulders and twist a hand into his pocket. That was in a movie once and seemed to work well enough then. I probably wasn't fit to drive, but I could lock myself in the massive car and take a well deserved nap.