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I let Julian make love to me that night, and the entire time he whispered his words of protection, I was left wondering if I were Eve, Julian was the snake, and his dick was the apple, promising me everything I ever wanted. Maybe not the best comparison, but it would certainly make Harper proud.
Was this man truly trying to save me? Maybe he was, but at what cost? Had he been lying all along?
Chapter 29
Poppy
"Pull over, Harper," I groan, my hands reaching out and desperately grasping the dashboard. Harper apparently thinks she's a race car driver, and the Dallas highways are her personal Grand Prix.
"I can't."
"Pull over, I'm gonna puke." I insist.
"We have to work on your gag reflex; you puke too easily. Tell me, did Julian ever complain about it." She jokes as she deftly cuts into the right lane, narrowly cutting someone off as they blast their car horn at her. "And, it's not my car, so puke away. I don't have to clean it."
"Harper!" I exclaim.
She giggles, a sound bizarrely out of place, and then, with another swift jerk, she's barreling off the highway. I groan and bury my head in my lap, swallowing down bile and fighting the urge to vomit with every fiber of my being. The next moment is a blur of motion, followed by the slamming of brakes and my seatbelt yanking me back into my seat, a harsh reminder of our frantic escape.
"Okay, puke away now," Harper declares almost cheerfully. "Or swallow. Every girl has to learn someday."
"One more sexual joke, and I'm going to...I don't know, but I'll do something." I hiss as I sit up, one eye cracked open, disbelief mingling with relief as I realize we're off the highway in one piece—a feat I hadn't deemed possible mere moments ago.
I open the door and attempt to step out, only to be abruptly reminded of the seatbelt still clasped around me. My mind's a jumbled mess, and I am hardly able to process thoughts clearly, especially not after what Harper and I did. It was like a scene straight out of a spy movie thriller.
I met Harper at the rooftop pool, where she assured Julian we needed some girl time. The men relented, clueless about how to piece me back together. My current state made Humpty Dumpty look un-cracked and confident.
Once secluded at the pool, Harper, with an air of casual expertise, hacked into the building's cameras, spotted all the guards, and meticulously plotted our escape route. The plan's success hinged on her surprisingly adept hand-to-hand combat skills—skills that included literally dick-punching a CIA officer guarding the exit, then tasing him before securely taping his mouth shut with duct tape she'd cunningly hidden under her sunhat.
I shudder even to guess what she's managed to pack in her pool bag – likely a three-ring circus, complete with a fire-breather and a lion tamer. Because, of course, why settle for the mundane when you can carry the entire spectacle?
Mind you, she did this all well, wearing a bright red bikini; I think that was part of her ploy. No man can look away from Harper in a bikini.
I never questioned why Harper insisted I slather on an excessive amount of tanning oil when I first arrived. It was a premeditated move, designed to make me as slippery as an eel. The last guard we had to escape got a hold of me, but I was so oiled up that his hand slipped, giving Harper enough time to show me that my bestie was sidelining as a ninja turtle. Seriously.
When she learned actually to fight, I had no idea. It seemed everyone, even her, had kept secrets from me. I’m starting to doubt Harper just had a desk job when she worked at the NSA. Desk jobs make you slow; trust me, I’ve sat at one for the last three years. My cardio went from mid-level high school athlete to huffing and puffing as I chased down a turtle.
Yet, Harper hasn't slowed down; if anything, she's become more lethal.
Consider us modern-day pirates wearing lipgloss because our escapade led us to commandeer a car—a Tesla Model Y owned by my neighbor in apartment 405. Harper boasted about hacking into Tesla's impenetrable firewall, bragging she'd programmed my neighbor's car as her getaway if need be. Harper even had a cover story: The car would be back at the apartment by ten in the morning, before the owner, Bethany Marshall, had to leave for her 11 a.m. hair appointment. The car was programmed to drive back autonomously.
What bizarre universe had I stumbled into? Best friends capable of effortlessly taking down a CIA agent in a red bikini, boyfriends wrapped in layers of lies, and cars that casually took the wheel themselves. All I yearned for was simplicity amidst this whirlwind of madness.
I push my feet out of the car, hitting the concrete. I open my mouth, bracing my palms on my knees, but nothing comes out. Nothing, just like my reaction when Andrew first violated me.
Why can't I even summon up the urge to puke?
Ugh.
A whiff of burgers and fries teases my nose, and I look up to see Harper rounding the car, her three-inch wedge cork heels stopping in front of me. "In the mood for food?" she asks, a hint of genuine concern lacing her tone as she tugs down her mini yellow sundress.
"How can you think of eating at a time like this?" My voice is a mix of bewilderment and accusation. We've just run from Julian. There's no phone, and there's no way to apologize. Harper mentioned she had left him a note. It feels cowardly not to leave one, too.
What the hell would I even write?Hey, I love you, and I want to plan a future with you, but my evil ex planted seeds in my head, roots I might think hold some merit since our first encounter was so bizarre. But hey, if this all turns out okay, would you please forgive me? If you don't, I don't think I could survive losing you.Either way, I’m fucked and not in the good way, not the way you fuck me, Jules.
"Adrenaline makes me hungry," Harper admits as she cuts through my thoughts. She does have a way of acting as my gravity, pulling all my attention towards her. "You should see me after sex. I could devour an all-you-can-eat buffet," she says, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.
