Runaway Hearts: Seduced by Danger

3. Pitstop Pain

Chapter 3

Pitstop Pain

A fter three hours on the road, we finally made a pit stop in an old gas station.

“At last!” he blurts, getting out of the car.

Then, I noticed something I shouldn’t have. My hitchhiker stands with a slight groan, hand pressed against his right side. I get a fast glimpse at a red spot on his T-shirt, and as he stands, he reveals the inside of his jacket. There it is—a shiny gun sitting in his pocket. My paranoid thoughts aren’t so paranoid after all.

It’s not rocket science to figure out where this equation leads. Nobody carries that kind of gun or walks around bruised and bloody unless they’re a criminal.

I’m going to die, sliced up by a crazy hitchhiker.

My mouth dries, and a restlessness pricks at my legs.

But then again, he’s hurt. Maybe he’s losing blood; maybe his life is in danger.

And mine?

I get out of my car. The wind picks up as I open my gas tank, and the air carries the potent smell of gasoline, mingling with the scent of impending rain. The gas station, a relic of the last century, stands alone on the cloudy road.

The man enters the convenience store. It’s almost comical how he walks like he’s invincible. Professional gangster, tough as nails. And here I am, professionally screwed.

I imagine what they’ll say on the six o’clock news: “A young woman was found sliced up so her killer could make a house of cards out of the pieces…”

My right hand reaches up to my left arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze as the summer humidity sticks my pink blouse to my skin.

The man looks arrogant, but his eyes narrow at each step. He’s a human being. A wounded human being, and I’m a nurse.

I fill up the car while chewing on my bottom lip. My heart is pounding, unsure of what might happen next. The options before me are unappealing—leave him there, join him, or wait for him to return and pretend nothing’s wrong.

How wrong is this, anyway?

I finish filling the gas tank and go inside to pay. The dimly lit store seems to hold its breath like it’s afraid to disturb the spooky stillness that hangs in the air. A knot forms in my stomach as I scan the aisles, my heart trying to spread my ribs apart. I grab snacks and drinks.

Sharing the road with a wounded criminal sounds ominous, but I like it.

But when I come to the exit, my phone’s ringtone blares. I don’t recognize the number.

Did Eric change his phone number?

My breath catches in my throat, and my irregular heartbeat drums in my ears.

Shit.

Time slows as my legs weaken, and unwanted sweat rolls down my neck. My sweaty palms land on the door, and I step forward, but the ground drops from under me. My vision blurs, and my breaths turn shallow. My body is on the brink of collapse.

Come on, Marianne. It’s just a phone call.

“Yes,” I answer, my vitals coming to normal.

An old voice comes through the line. I don’t recognize that, either, but it’s not my ex. “If you value your life, you’ll leave him,” the voice growls.

I glare at my phone. “Wrong number, dude. Get lost.”

I don’t even know if my life has any value at all.

“You have a few seconds to leave, miss.”

This must be a prank. As the call ends, my phone chimes with a shared file. I ignore the incoming text message and focus on the task ahead.

As soon as I decide I want to help the wounded stranger, even if he’s in deep shit, my spine straightens while my muscles tighten, and my mind becomes as clear as a diamond under a spotlight. I grab my first-aid box in the glove compartment, put it in my beach bag, and a bolt of electric thrills strikes me.

I’ll tend to his wound myself.

Once I get the kit, I stroll to the back of the convenience store. I cast a glance both ways, making sure the coast is clear. Whistling the “Mission Impossible” soundtrack, my footsteps echo on the empty gas station pavement like an adventure anthem.

The unexpected is here, and I’m eager to see how far I can take it.

I’ll ask questions later.

In the back of the building, Stranger Danger hands me the keys to the dingy restroom. “Here you go.”

That voice calms my hasty pulse. I take the keys from his rough, calloused hands. They’re like sandpaper against my palm. He has a couple of inches on me, his lean frame casting a shadow on the dusty ground.

“Hum...” I scan his abdomen, searching for the blood trace I saw earlier.

He squints. “Something wrong?”

With a push, I guide him inside the restroom, giving him what I want to be a stern glare. He stumbles backward, falling onto the dirty toilet seat with a thud.

When I slam the door shut, his expression is a mosaic of confusion, bewilderment, and disbelief. “What are you doing?”

My eyes meet his in a fiery gaze. “Take off your T-shirt,” I whisper.

The scent of concentrated urine stings my eyes. The dirty floors are sticky underfoot, and the flickering fluorescent lights overhead give the narrow room a frightening glow. I take in the peeling paint and mold growing on the ceiling before returning to Stranger Danger’s face.

He responds with a cocky grin, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead. “Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be?”

“Get rid of that T-shirt, first.”

His eyes rake up and down my frame, and the mysterious glint in his eyes increases to give way to the delirious killer locked inside him. I’ve awakened a bloodthirsty, sexy beast.

Save yourself! Or not.

He shrugs off his jacket. My eyes are glued to how his muscles flex under his tanned skin as he moves. He gets up so slowly that the smooth motion hastens my pulse in a primal way. Each movement is fluid and powerful.

I’m going to run out of air if I keep breathing this fast. Stranger Danger smirks at me, and I want to fuse with the wall. My need to help might lead to something I can’t survive.

I’m drawn to the thrill of danger that radiates from him as he approaches me with a predatory poise. With a single finger, he caresses my cheek and sweeps a dark brown lock away from my face with a surprisingly tender touch.

That’s when I had the brilliant idea of taking the box out of my beach bag. I wave it in front of his nose, and he stills. A derisive snort escapes his nose as he takes three steps back, and his fingers curl on his T-shirt’s hem.

His expression changes to resignation.

I should’ve shown him the first-aid kit before.

Had I intentionally toyed with fire? As if I want this intensity, his intensity.

That was hot!

He removes his stained T-shirt, revealing a hairless, muscular chest that makes my mouth water. Black strands of hair fall in front of his face, giving him an air of naughty, naughty boy. My jaw laxes in awe as my eyes wander and heat invades my abdomen.

Yum. With a side of fries.

The artificial lighting throws a dramatic shadow over every sharp line of his chiseled contours, unveiling a silky skin despite some scars and a rowdy whisper of hair trailing from his navel to his jeans’ edge. But beneath the seductive fa?ade lies a wound, at least five centimeters wide on his toned right side.

Steamy vacation mode off, nurse mode activated!

I gasp. “How did you get that?”

“I’ll have to kill you if I tell you.” His gruff voice sinks into my soul and resonates far beyond reason to a space below my stomach. I don’t insist. It might have something to do with the gun in his coat or how he says “kill” with such intensity, like a forbidden promise.

Kill me, Stranger Danger.

“Tell me which instrument gave you that cut.”

The glint in his eye softens, his lips pressed to stay silent as if he had intended to scare me but found the minute too amusing to keep up the facade.

“A knife, a metal piece, a laser beam gun, a demonic salamander claw, the Kraken?”

Holy shit, I’m going to die because of my big mouth.

A part of me finds it extremely entertaining, and another part wants to blend into the floor tiles. He pauses and looks at me. Then, a smile forms on his full, rosy, and oh-so-tempting mouth.

“Broken glass.”

“Okay,” I respond with a steady voice.

“The less you know…” He trails off, his tense muscles shouting the seriousness of the situation.

I nod. “The better.” I recognize this tune. True crime podcasts at their best.

A laugh rumbles deep in the hitchhiker’s chest, and he shakes his head. He returns to the seat, raising his right arm to expose his ribs to me. Muscles roll smoothly beneath his skin, and my knees flinch. That man is an anatomical bombshell. He has a huge phoenix tattoo on his left shoulder blade, a blend of precise lines and blurred splashes in hot colors.

Good god, that’s sexy.

It’s sweltering in the room. Sweat is beading on my forehead. Why isn’t the air conditioning working?

I need to focus on the wound, but all I can think about is how close he is. He needs a shower, but a faint smell reminding me of forest fire lingers.

I grab bandages, gauze, and adhesive tape from my kit, ready to play nurse. “Look away,” I instruct him while I put on gloves.

“I’m looking at you .“

I giggle. With a sharp tug, I pull the tape stitches from his wound, barely masking my sadistic enjoyment at his pained grunts. “This is going to hurt.”

“What are you talking ab—Ah!” he exclaims as I clean his wound.

The sight of the clean-cut flesh is lovely. It holds a strange, twisted beauty that captures my attention and makes me smile.

“You think it’s funny, huh?” he asks.

I can’t help but enjoy this a bit too much. He looks so tough, yet he flinches just like everyone else. All rosy flesh inside.

“Shame on you, laughing at a wounded man,” he scolds.

“You don’t look defenseless to me,” I whisper, holding his gaze.

I have no idea what he’s thinking. He keeps gaping at me, and his breath grazes my face. But the thick cloak hiding his true feelings is well in place.

I clean the cut, enjoying the way he grits his teeth. He groans, but I can tell he finds a strange pleasure in it because the veil in his eyes fades a bit.

Weirdo . I love it.

As I examine the wound further, my fingers brush against something sharp and unfamiliar. “You have a piece of glass in you. I’ll remove it.”

His eyes expand as my thumb circles the area, searching for the small offending shard. I take the tweezers from my kit and push them into the opening.

His breath hisses through his clenched teeth. “Stop! Stop, dammit!”

I step back as he tries to regain his normal composure, muttering incomprehensible swear words.

“I need to remove the piece. You don’t—”

“All right!” he yells, running a shaky hand through his hair. He inhales. “Okay. Go ahead.”

The cramped space of the public restroom makes me do something perilous. I sit on his right thigh. My chest blocks his view of the wound, and I now have a perfect angle to get things done.

My face heats up while I search his eyes for a glimmer of disapproval, but there’s only slight desperation as he bites down on his lower lip. An involuntary dampness pools between my legs at the hard ridges of his thigh underneath my ass.

But I’m surely not his type. Just a five-foot-six brunette with some extra pounds. I’m average at best. Hot criminal guys prefer hot, thin chicks, not ordinary girls.

Grinding on him would only be teasing me.

Come on, Marianne, get it together.

My fingers glide toward the shard I had felt earlier. The man grips my free arm and squeezes it tight as I remove the intruder with the tweezers. His head rests on my shoulder, his labored breathing against my collarbone. It must be painful.

Good for you, sexy criminal!

“Did it come out?”

“Yes,” I reply, offering the offending glass, now bloody, in my palm.

“Damn… I didn’t know I could live with that inside of me,” he says, taking it between his fingers.

“This has the power to kill you in a few days. If the cut doesn’t, an infection might. The glass may have damaged your abdomen by piercing the side tissue—”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“The piece of glass made several small cuts inside of you. You need stitches and antibiotics.”

“But you don’t have any in your magic box.”

My voice fills with worry as I rummage through my first aid kit. “No. I only have sticky stitches.”

He has an enigmatic air, serious as the Pope. This conversation is the weirdest I’ve ever had. Still, I’m comfortable. I put sticky stitches on his wound, applied a nice dry bandage, and held everything together with my special adhesive tape.

He shifts in his seat, and I squirm off before he pushes me. When he gets up from his improvised bench, he drags his T-shirt back on, stretching the muscles of his midriff. My eyes slide over his idyllic morphology, and I breathe faster.

I’m on a stress roller coaster. But I give him my biggest innocent smile. A corner of his lip curves up, and he steps closer until we’re only inches apart. I want to step back but find myself pinned against the wall.

Strangely, I don’t lose it.

Our noses are so close we’re inhaling the same air, and I lock my gaze on his. He’s handsome, with a chiseled jawline hidden under a five o’clock shadow and a straight nose with a slight bump in the middle, likely from a fight. Up close, he’s even more incredibly handsome. My heart bolts as the man takes another step forward.

The one step my senses needed to overload. My breathing quickens, and he grins.

A familiar tingling in my ankles alerts me I will melt if he keeps staring at me this way. I imagine myself becoming a puddle of goo on the ground with a sign nearby requesting a mop in the restroom. Stranger Danger frames me with his arms, leaning on the wall.

Shit, he’s going to kiss me! Backup plan, fast! Find something, anything!

“This will stay between us, won’t it?” he murmurs against the shell of my ear.

“Sure…” I try to appear as na?ve as I can.

He blinks and moves away. He doesn’t want to kiss me; he’s bullying me, which is very appropriate under the circumstances.

I’m not his type.

As we walk back to my car, the thought of him not coming with me makes my heart ache.

But the dangerousness that oozed from his pores minutes ago is a gazillion light years away from Eric’s wholesome and friendly vibe when I first met him. And I catch myself in a strange, calm state I have never experienced.

He reminds me of Seito.

He’s a magnetic force, drawing me closer and closer to him despite all the warning signs. In my head, I hear Nina’s voice shouting, “Red flags!”

My gut is roiled by a dangerous appetite for making choices, good or bad. I need to take control of my life and make my own choices.

I should probably dump him, but I don’t want to.

Stranger Danger will stay with me.

I sit in the driver’s seat and steer us onto the road. The weather is clearing. I hand him the bag containing the snacks I bought at the convenience store a few minutes earlier. He wipes out the sandwich in two bites. I wonder how long he has gone without eating.

I try to detach myself from this stranger sitting next to me. We’re not friends; we don’t know each other. But his voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to reality. “I have a demand for you.”

I look at him, mentally preparing for whatever request he may have. “What do you need?”

“Could we stop at a department store? I forgot a few essential things when I left.”

I raise an eyebrow in confusion. “Were you in a hurry?”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “A little. So?”

So what? It’s none of my business. You’re just an intruder on my road trip. I don’t care.

I shouldn’t care...

“No problem,” I reply with a forced smile.

His only response is a tiny grin and a nod as he settles back into his seat. He lowers and leans into it, closing his eyes. “I’m going to rest now.”

My remaining neurons short circuit. A nervous chuckle gets stuck in my throat. I could dump him at the nearest police station if he sleeps. But he doesn’t know I know he’s armed. Maybe he thinks I only saw his injury, or he realizes everything and intends to kill me anyway, toying perilously with my mind.

But the way he looks at me with trust and wariness makes my heart twinge. Like he wants to trust me but doesn’t know how.

I don’t know if he’s the kind of danger I should run from or the kind I should chase.

A primal part of me wants to chase him like prey, sink my teeth into his flesh, and never let go.

My right arm, acting of its own volition, reaches behind me and searches for something specific. I grab the fluffy fabric and hand him a cozy pillow. He gives me a slight, indistinct murmur before smiling. The smile is different, less forced. There’s something surreal about the moment. I return my attention to the road, but in the rearview mirror, I see my lips curve in a tender smile. It’s a genuine smile, one I haven’t had in a long time.

Oh, no. I’m getting attached to someone out of my reach. Why am I even entertaining thoughts of a cheesy romance? I can’t afford to fall for a stunning hitchhiker with an unclear past.

Woah, wait a minute. Fall?

I glance at him, wanting to etch every detail of his face into my memory. I’m suffering from sexy bad guy syndrome, and my emotions are reckless. Both beautiful and devastating.

After a few minutes, his breathing slows and deepens.

The last few days have been difficult for him. The glass cut is likely from flying through a window, which I assume occurred after a fight, and explains his swollen eye.

If only we had met under different circumstances.

Stranger Danger, Marianne!

But I’ve picked up a dozen hitchhikers in my life, and I’m still doing it.

I have this need to help…

A visceral urge to help others has been ingrained in me for as long as I can recall. Maybe it’s because my mother abandoned me. The burning desire to be worthy and valuable constantly rages within me.

My mind is a mess, and I can’t control my thoughts half the time. They spin out of control and land into the pitch-black corners of my soul, waiting to be fulfilled... or not?

Helping others is the only way to prove my worth to myself and have people in my life. I need to give something to receive something.

The mere thought of having a positive impact gives me purpose and meaning. This need to help others isn’t just a passing fancy; it’s a part of my very being.

In recent years, this need has taken over my life. I go out of my way to help anyone in need, whether taking hitchhikers to their destination, accompanying a friend to an A.A. meeting, or taking over a shift for a colleague. I even resist the urge to lash at those who piss me off.

I need this to feel less broken.

I drive, trying to ignore the weight of what might happen. I’m trying to convince myself that he’s dangerous, but the danger lies in the attraction he makes me feel.

Yes, it’s sexy bad-guy syndrome.

The previous gloomy weather has given way to a brilliant day, but it’s lost on me. As I put on my sunglasses, my arm accidentally brushes against his thigh, sending me a thrill of forbidden excitement. I don’t know this man’s name, and he doesn’t know mine—and given the circumstances, it’s probably for the best. At least I still have a shred of self-preservation left.

Sunglasses on, I scan the road for the next exit with a department store. Mall-Mart: two miles. Perfect. It allows me to drop him off at the mall and still make it to my uncle’s house tomorrow at a decent hour. The idea of the hitchhiker staying with me at my uncle’s makes me tremble with unidentifiable arousal, but it’s just a fantasy.

Someone, somewhere, wants me to abandon this man. Maybe.

Who knows what kind of threat the man in my car poses?

My thoughts are consumed with all the chances I’ve missed, and the strange call adds to my feelings of failure. The last thing I want is for anyone to pay attention to me. Avoiding any kind of spotlight has become a reflex for me because it triggers intense anxiety. Not being seen means being safe.

But a scary part of me likes Stranger Danger’s attention and craves more of it. I’ll meditate on the subject when I’m at the beach.

If I get there.