Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
“Chill. I don’t have to slow down. I’m not over the speed limit.”
No. We’re cruising at eighty kilometers per hour on a dark, deserted road, blocking the impatient driver behind us who can’t overtake on the bend or the solid white line.
The headlights dim and flash.
“He fucking flashed me,” Mint says.
There’s a signpost planted a short distance ahead where the shoulder is wider and we can pull onto the side.
“Just move over,” I say, glancing back, but with the brights blinding me, I can’t make out if the driver is alone.
Mint curses but does as I suggest. He puts on his indicator, slows down, and moves over to the left, driving at a snail’s pace. I hold my breath as the truck overtakes. When the taillights pass in front of us, I almost blow out a sigh of relief, but the truck swerves to the left and comes to a dead stop. Mint steps on the brakes, burning the tires. The sudden stop throws me forward. The seat belt cuts into my chest as I slam my hands on the dashboard for purchase.
“What the…?” Mint mutters, his voice tight with anxiety.
Fear stabs into my ribs. Crime isn’t uncommon in our area. Thieves wait in the dark for people who’ve won big at the casino or for people with snazzy cars, cars like Porsches.
I swallow. We’re fucked. We’re dying here today. Why did I let Mint talk me into a date against my better judgement?
The driver’s door opens. A black boot hits the tarmac. The man who gets out has to fold his body double. The size and broadness of him makes my fear escalate. We can’t go forward. He’s cut us off.
“Reverse,” I say, my voice rising in panic.
Mint throws the car into reverse, but he misses, and the gearbox complains with a squeal.
“Reverse!” I say again, glancing behind me to check that the road is still clear.
The ditch! With the bend in the road, it’s right behind us. If Mint reverses, he’ll crash the car. He seems to realize it at the same time as me. He twists the wheel to the right, but there’s not enough room to turn between the ditch and the truck. The gear slips once more, and the engine stalls.
Shit.
Mint grips the wheel hard as the man stops next to us. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a black leather jacket. His face is above the window, too high for me to see. For a second, nothing happens, and I stupidly pray the man will just go away, but then he knocks on the window with the barrel of a gun.
My tiredness evaporates and sweat breaks out over my body.
Tap, tap.
I stare at the black barrel of the gun, coming to my senses just as Mint pushes on the button to lower the window.
“Don’t,” I say, shaking so hard it sounds in my voice. “Don’t open.”
“I don’t have a fucking choice,” Mint grits out. “Shut the fuck up and we may just have a chance of making it out alive. Let me handle this.” When he’s wound the window down all the way, he squints up and says, “I’ve got money, man. Take whatever you want and just let us go.”
The man bends down, resting his elbows in Mint’s open window. His biceps are huge and his hands covered with thick veins and a dark dusting of hair. His face comes as a shock. I’ve always imagined criminals to be ugly. This one has a square jaw and a strong chin with a day’s worth of stubble darkening the tanned tone of his skin. On one side of his head, his hair is shaved short, and on the other, it’s longer. His fringe falls in a messy curtain over half of his face. It’s tousled and wet, like he’s just had a workout. The color is dark brown with golden highlights.
The headlights of the truck illuminate the road with a foggy light. I can’t make out the exact color of his eyes, except that it’s dark. It’s a disturbing kind of dark. Piercing.
His upper lip is fuller than his bottom lip, making his mouth look sensual, and they tilt in a dangerous way as he looks from me to Mint.
The leather of his jacket creaks as he leans deeper into the car. He doesn’t hurry, because both Mint and I are frozen in terror. Leisurely, he takes the key from the ignition. A whiff of leather and tobacco reaches me, a smell that reminds me of my dad and my childhood, but the comfort I associate with the smell is out of place in the situation.
“I’ve got money,” Mint says again in a high-pitched tone.
The man’s voice is deep, penetrating through my breastbone and resonating in the cavity of my chest where my breaths come shallow. “That’s assuming it’s your money I want.”