The van ground to a halt.
There were no lights inside the back of the vehicle, just the smudged orange that leaked through the tinted windows after the few hours that had faded away. Hugging myself violently, I'd fought down waves of carsickness mixed with the effects of being drugged. Conway's swerving finally caused me to puke all over myself. It had mostly been water, but it still smelled awful.
He opened both doors, illuminating me in the darkness. Behind him stretched a wall of glitter; stars that winked at me, a sky I might never see again. Stop thinking like that. You don't know what's going to happen.
That was the worst part of all.
“Hungry?” he asked me.
I gestured at myself, feeling no shame. “I threw up everywhere thanks to your crazy driving. So no, not very hungry. I need clean clothes—and I need to pee.”
His arms stretched the doors open wider. It made his lats flex along his rib cage; I hated how good he looked. “I'm not asking for your list of demands.”
“Unless you want piss to join the mess back here, help me out.”
I couldn't read his face; his front was all shadow, his edges lit up from behind so that parts of his shirt became translucent, like a bird's wings as it flew too close to the sun. What was creating the source of light? “Don't try anything,” he said, half-stepping inside and reaching for me.
Scooting closer, I let him grab my arms. He was strong enough to lift me from the van—I was surprised at how gently he did it. The new Conway and “gentle” went together like peanut butter and sewage.
He balanced me at his side. Ignoring his closeness, I looked around, getting my bearings. We were the lone vehicle parked next to a small building with a single orange light bulb set in the overhang. It was surrounded by stiff grass, two vending machines stuffed in a corner by a faded restroom door-
a self-service rest stop.
Every state had them; it gave me no hint as to where I was.
“Come on,” he said, hooking me by the elbow.
“Wait!” Intentionally I let myself stumble; it was easy with my bindings. “I can't go anywhere like this.”
“Don't fuck around. Walk.”
Digging deep, I channeled my inner toddler and went boneless. Flopping to the ground, I scraped my knee, wincing. “You're asking too much, just untie my ankles. I can't use the restroom like this.”
He glared at me, his eyebrows scrunching together above the bridge of his nose. Conway looked over at the van and then at the sky—was he waiting for something? Then he shook himself, scooping me up and carrying me towards the restroom.
He's not waiting for someone, I realized with a start. He's hurrying because someone is waiting for him. My stomach knotted up as I imagined who it could be. What if it's not a person, but a departure time - a plane? Fuck, if he got me out of the States, no one would ever find me.
Shaking with paranoia, I was slow to notice how Conway was cradling me against his firm chest. His fingers were pressed into my shoulder and the top of my outer thigh.
Looking upwards, I studied his strong jaw bobbing overhead. His facial hair was the same sable color as his hair. It gave him a wild, devil-may-care appearance. If I brushed it, would it feel like sandpaper? Tingles I didn't anticipate flowed under my skin. No one had ever held me like this, it made me hot as an oven in summer.
But it didn't make me feel safe. Once upon a time, it would have.
Kicking open the restroom door, he set me down inside. “Go. And be quick.”
The room was made from mildew-coated tiles and flickering lights (the victim of sparse public funding). The soap container held more pink-residue than actual soap. Above the rotten smelling sink drain was a toaster-sized mirror that had a few major chunks missing. At least the toilet was clean.
Conway stared at me; I stared back. “Well?” he asked.
“I'm not going with you watching me.”
“After the stunt you pulled earlier, I'm not leaving you alone.”
“Stunt?” I laughed sourly. “Trying to save my life is a stunt?” He said nothing, just observed me silently. “Conway, I can't escape. This room has no windows. Stand outside the door. Give me a small bit of privacy. I deserve that much.”
His arms knotted over his chest. Whether he agreed or not, he must have realized arguing was a waste of time. “Be quick.” The door drifted shut behind him.
Dropping onto the toilet, I shut my eyes and sighed; I hadn't been able to hold it much longer. How is this happening to me again? If fate existed, it had a fucked up sense of humor.
Cleaning up, I waited to flush—I didn't want him to know I was done. I couldn't escape through the walls, but there could be something here that would help me later.
Moving around as quietly as I could on my tangled ankles and flats, my eyes throbbed from how intently I looked for something. Paper towels, toilet paper, a tiny garbage can... it wasn't striking me as helpful.
I caught my reflection in the mirror—smeared makeup, stained dress, tangled hair. Part of my face was gone where pieces of the mirror had been broken free to reveal the matte foil beneath. That's it. Anxiously I reached up, gently pulling at the glass.
Outside, Conway coughed. “Almost done?”
“Yes!” I managed, popping off a finger sized piece of glass. Hurriedly I wrapped it in layers of toilet paper. It didn't look like much, but to me, it was perfect.
I had a weapon.
Tucking the now safely contained shard into my underwear, I flushed the toilet. Walking would be a challenge but my tied ankles gave me a natural excuse. Conway wouldn't suspect a thing.
He came in as I was rinsing my hands. In the mirror, I saw him watching me. Could he sense my new confidence? Tossing paper towels into the bin, I faced him. “Okay. Now I'm hungry.”
****
I very, very carefully knelt down in the back of the van. Surviving would be much more difficult if I sliced myself open with a piece of mirror.
Conway handed me a bag of chips from the vending machine. Then he offered me a small bottle—lemonade. The wave of sorrow that drowned me caught me off guard. Lemonade. Had he given it to me on purpose? Reaching out, I closed my hand on the bottle, studying his face for... for any hint that this wasn't how it seemed. That kidnapping me was a ruse and he'd take me home. We'd worry about how to move on, but we'd do it. Somehow.
He let go of the bottle. “Drink up, we leave in three minutes.”
“What is this?” I whispered, clutching the lemonade.
“A snack.”
I couldn't look at him anymore, so I stared at my fingernails. My voice was a fragile warble. “How can you be so cruel that you'd give me something to remind me of all the ways you protected me?”
Crickets sang outside the open doors. I wished for a car engine, the crunch of tires, but we were the only ones here. The van rocked when he stepped out, his boots disrupting the gravel.
My gaze was blurry with tears. Lifting my chin, I saw the back of his head—the hard lines that bridged between his shoulders and neck muscles. Everything was stiff, but didn't he always look that way?
“It's just lemonade,” he whispered.
I thought about throwing it at him, except I didn't know how long I'd be here, or when we'd stop next. My pride didn't extend past my need to survive.
But I didn't drink it until he was gone.
I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.