Kidnapped

Chapter Seven - Close Call.

Laughter. Muffled, but unmistakably close. I freeze, my breath caught in my chest, every muscle tense. There's the sound of a truck door opening, followed by an engine rumbling to life. Slowly, I let my breath slip out, relief washing over me as I hear the vehicle drive off, leaving a tense silence in its wake.

For a minute, maybe more, everything is still. Then, suddenly, the trunk pops open, and I'm hit by a flood of sunlight. I squint, lifting one hand to shield my eyes, while my other hand clutches the gun tight against my chest.

I blink a few times, adjusting to the brightness, and finally sit up. He's there, leaning over the edge of the trunk with that casual, effortless grin. Both hands rest on the lip of the trunk, and he cocks an eyebrow, his expression cool and annoyingly amused.

"Well then," he says, his voice edged with curiosity. "What was that?"

The question hangs in the air, and I feel my cheeks heat up. He's waiting for an answer-waiting for me to explain why I hid, why I helped him instead of calling for rescue. I laugh, awkward and a little embarrassed, shrugging my shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine," I say, managing a sheepish smile.

He clicks his jaw, a subtle little motion that reminds me of those movie scenes where the hot guy does it to look effortlessly cool. My heart skips, a faint, traitorous thrill running through me as I quickly adjust my dress and place the gun gently in my lap, pressing my legs together under his gaze.

"Okayyyy?" I drag out the word playfully. "So? What happened?" I ask.

He scratches the back of his neck and glances behind him, making sure the truck is long gone.

"Said he was just checking to make sure everything was okay," he says, tone as nonchalant as ever. "I told him I just needed to take a break from driving. Road trip and all that."

I lean my head forward, giving him a little shake as if I'm waiting for him to thank me for my quick thinking.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, rolling his eyes. "Much appreciated."

I smile, clearly proud of myself.

My gaze drifts to the gun in my lap. With a steady hand, I spin it smoothly until I'm holding it by the grip, my finger well away from the trigger. I extend it toward him, handle-first.

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to the gun and then back to my face, a hint of surprise mixing with something I can't quite read. I catch a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smirk that fades as quickly as it appeared, but it's enough to make my heart kick up just a little.

"Well, look at you, Miss Thing," he murmurs, his voice laced with faint approval as he takes the gun from me. I smile sweetly, but inside, I'm absolutely dying at the hint of praise.

Truth is, I only know how to handle a gun because I found Frank's pistol once when I was younger, and he got drunk and taught me to shoot cans in our backyard. My mom was not thrilled.

He pulls a single bullet from his pocket-the one he cleared from the chamber earlier-and slips it back in, snapping the magazine back into place after a quick check.

"Just need the one bullet, huh?" I say, attempting a casual tone.

He tilts his head but doesn't indulge me. "Well, I did have two," he says flatly.

My heart sinks, and my throat tightens, but something about his tone tells me not to ask. Not now, anyway.

He tucks the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, then holds out his hand. I take it, his grip warm and strong as he helps me out of the trunk.