Page 51 of Last Man Standing

SCARLETT

WELL, SHE’S NO FUN

My eyes sting, dry from the truck’s heater vents. My body aches, because twelve hours in a vehicle, even a really big vehicle with wide seats to curl into, are still a lot of hours sitting.

My neck hurts… I don’t technically know why. It just does.

But most concerning of all is the way my stomach roils. Because we’ve been going and going and going, and I can’t be entirely sure if we’re making progress or if we’re going in circles.

Though I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.

“Are we nearly there?” I sit sideways in my seat, my back against the door, my arms wrapped around my knees, and my cheek pressed to the chair’s padding. The sun went down hours ago, lots and lots of hours ago, and we ate not long after that.

I’m not hungry, not while nausea swirls in my stomach, but dinner was so long ago, I should be hungry, and because my stomach is empty, that nausea only grows and swells, tormenting me to the point of mouth-breathing and puffed cheeks.

“Could we maybe pull over for a sec?” I close my eyes and release a breathy groan. Anything to make the racing trees outside stop moving. “Please?”

“You get carsick, Princess?” He doesn’t pull over. He doesn’t even slow the truck. But he does merge lanes and brings us onto a circular interchange. “Can you hold on for ten more minutes?”

I peel my eyes open and look out into the darkness. I have no clue where we are. I’m not even sure which state we’re in, since the bright lights of the truck’s dash make it impossible for me to make out much more than racing trees and, sometimes, falling snow. “Where are we exactly?”

“Can’t tell you that.” His jaw flexes, stress rolling off his broad shoulders. Reaching into the back, he rifles around for a moment and comes back again with a hoodie.

One of his.

He tosses it into my lap and goes back to staring at the road. “Put that on.”

“I…” Frowning, I study the thick black material. “I’m not cold.”

“On your head,” he grits out. “I can’t take you in until I know your eyes are covered.”

Stunned, I push up straight and twist to the front. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No. Most folks I bring past our security checkpoints come with a hessian sack over their head, or a serious brain injury.” He grinds his back molars. “Put the hoodie over your face, Princess, or I can’t take you beyond here.”

“But I don’t even know where we are! I honestly couldn’t even say if we’re closer to New York or Seattle. I stopped paying attention a long time ago, so letting me see the last three turns before we arrive at this annoyingly secret place won’t change anything.”

But it might make me puke.

“I’m not asking. I’m telling.” He snatches the hoodie from my lap and slams it against my face. I’m not sure he means to crush my nose and bring me pain, or if he’s simply oblivious to his own strength, but tears fill my eyes anyway. They soak into the thick fabric and burn the back of my throat. “I don’t wanna have to hurt you, Scarlett. I don’t wanna make the decision for you.”

“But you⁠—”

“Hold on to your power,” he snarls, his fierce grip threatening suffocation. “Hold this up so I know you’re not looking. It’s nearly one o’clock in the damn morning, so just do us both a favor and do as you’re told.”

I slap his hand away and yank the hoodie down. Opening my mouth wide, I gasp for fresh air and clamor to refill my spasming lungs. “What? You don’t trust me to close my eyes?” I shove his hand away a second time. “Or you think I’m lying when I say I have no friggin’ clue where we are? What am I gonna tell people? Uh, there were roads. And trees. And I think I saw a horse behind a fence.”

His powerful jaw grinds tightly together. He fists the hoodie and jams it against my face, harder than the first time, firm enough to cut off my air completely. “No,” he sneers, loud enough for me to hear over the screaming in my brain. “I don’t trust you. I hardly even know you, and you already have trouble following you.”

My chest throbs and aches in search of air. Veins bulge as blood and panic coalesce and sprint. I claw at Sebastion’s hand and try desperately to pull it away. Not even so I can see. Purely so I don’t suffocate and die. “Okay!” I cry out desperately. “I’ll hold it up.” Aching sobs bounce through my lungs while memories slam against the back of my mind.

Roy held a pillow over my face once. He woke me from my sleep and stared down into my eyes for the excruciatingly long minutes it took for my soul to accept I was probably going to die.

How much more can one woman be expected to take? How much terror must she endure? How many heavy-handed men must she know before she no longer has to fight so hard to survive?

I curl into my seat and make myself as small as physically possible. But where I loathed the hoodie a moment ago, I now cling to it and cry into the soft fabric. I sob against the material, harder when Sebastion’s hand falls away, and squeezing my eyes closed, I forget all about the nausea.

What nausea? I feel only pain now.