Page 6 of Easy

Chapter7

I’m so frazzledthat I don’t know what to do. I’m creeping toward my house, following the dark winding farm roads outside of town. The moon sits like a dinner plate against an inky sky. Stars scatter in a thick path like diamonds that fell out of a rich man’s pocket. They glitter brightly in the darkness.

Indecision has me paralyzed. The last place I should be taking him is toward my home, but my brain seems to have flipped to autopilot. When I’m freaked out, I run home and hide. Let’s just say I’m past the freak-out point. My heart already crawled up my throat and ran down the street. It’s in the next town by now, and now I’m a heartless bitch debating whether or not to help a guy I maimed.

I pull into my driveway and crunch up the path that leads to the house, weaving through the property until the street is completely hidden. I throw the car in park and look over my shoulder. Concert Hall Guy’s still out, big body sprawled across the back of my car, eyes closed as if dreaming. When he wakes up this guy is going to think I kidnapped him. I debate bringing him inside or leaving him in the car. Stupidity would tell me to bring him in, or maybe that’s compassion. I don’t know. The two traits are tangled together at this point. If I invite him inside, the guy might recognize me. Or hell, maybe he’s the one who sent the email. Either way, bringing a strange, albeit beautiful man, into my little house would be foolish. The night could still get worse. Opting for a Taser instead of a gun may have been stupid. But, I didn’t think I needed one. I never imagined a scenario where I’d want the comfort of holding a strange man at gunpoint while sorting out my night. But Tasing this guy a third time would be cruel. It would suck if the helpful bystander was made impotent by being electrocuted too many times. That would deter any man from helping a woman ever again.

Sighing, I twist in my seat and peer down at the man. Dark lashes rest against tanned skin. Sharp cheekbones flow into a strong jaw. And those lips, they’re pink and full and surrounded with the perfect amount of stubble. There are no scars, nothing that says total psycho, but I suppose there is a way to pass the crazy test. After a brief inner debate, I lean over the seatback and reach for him. My hips rest on the center console as I strain my hand and reach into his pocket. Come on, wallet. Where are you? I need to Google this guy before he comes to and thinks I’m molestinghim.

Heart racing, I feel a hard bit of leather against the edge of my fingers. I lean closer, wrap my fingers around it, and pull. I remain perched on the console and have his license out before flicking my phone to life. I pull up Google and enter his name. Two seconds later, results appear.

CHASE DESPARAUX. Facebook, Twitter, Tumbler, and a few other social media sites pop up. No newspaper articles that say, WANTED KILLER. Nothing horrible. No devastatingly attractive girlfriend either. A few pictures of him conducting. That’s it. It doesn’t mean he’s kosher, but at least he’s not a known murderer.

I pocket my phone and close his wallet. I need to put it back in his pants pocket before he wakes up. I lean forward carefully and inch toward his body. His chest rises and falls slowly, still out. There’s a peaceful expression on that hardened face, almost pleasant as I reach for his back pocket again. I try to shove the wallet back in, but he’s heavy. The guy is laying on his side, and the weight on his back pocket prevents me from getting the wallet to slip into his pants. One side will slide in freely, but the part closest to the seat won’t budge.

Chanting, “Don’t wake up, don’t wake up,” I shove harder and slip my hand under his rump the tiniest bit. My finger tips are on his ass and stuck between this man and theseat.

I glance at him. Even breathing, so he’s still out. In the dark, I can’t see a damned thing. It’s all silhouettes and faint sounds. I don’t want this guy to think I Tased him to steal his money. This isn’t working. I need to change position, which requires getting out of thecar.

I cut the engine and quietly open my door and leave it open. The dome light turns on and brightens things. My pulse pounds in my ears, thinking the light will rouse the man, but no. He’s still out. Apparently, it’s not as easy to shake off the effects thistime.

I slink around to the back door and pull it open before ducking my head inside to try and look behind him. I need to get a better angle on replacing his wallet in his back pants pocket. I can’t reach over him. Crawling on him would wake him. I can’t really reach from here, not without something to lean on a little. I see a way to reach around him if I place myself on my tippy toes and hold onto the oh-shit strap. It gives me enough room that I should be able to put it back without touching him. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Attempt number two. After this I’m going to throw it on the floor and say it fellout.

I’m leaning halfway into the automobile with my feet on the gravel driveway and one hand holding me an inch over the beautiful man while the other arm is extended toward his ass clutching his wallet. I barely breathe as I reach over him, my face close to his back, and try to shift him enough to get the hand holding his wallet up under hisass.

That’s when a deep voice says, “If you wanted me that badly, you should have said so at thebar.”

I screech and fall. On top of him. My pulse spikes to stroke territory as gravity pulls me down. I flail, possibly punching him in the face as I claw backward and fall out of the car. I yelp with a THUD and drop his wallet somewhere along theway.

Icy Eyes sits up and leans on the car door before he looks down at me. “So, do you always pick up guys like this? Have them break up a fake fight, shove them in the backseat of your car, and then drive out of town and grope their asses?”

“No! I swear to God, this wasn’t staged.” My hands are on the ground on either side of my hips. Horrified, I frantically shake my head trying to think of something to explain myself that doesn’t make his suspicions sound founded. Jaw dangling, I gape and can’t find words.

He shrugs. “I mean, it’s different. You take the cake in the unique category. I’ve had girls try and take my shit before, but none ever kidnapped me.” He’s smirking the entire time he talks, but his tone is serious. He thinks I’m insane. The half-smile fades and he says somberly, “Can I ask you something?”

I nod, still sitting on the ground, looking up at his beautiful face. “What?”

“Is your house made out of gingerbread?” I blink at him. “Do I need to run like hell in that direction?” He jabs his thumb away from my house and toward the field. He glances at the acreage and then back at me, running a hand through his hair and down the back of hisneck.

Jaw scraping the ground, I gape at him. Is he joking?

Then he adds, completely dead-pan, “That wouldn’t matter anyway, right? I could run, run as fast as I can, but the witch still eats that sucker at the end of the story. Poor bastard.” The slight smirk is back, the corner of his mouth rising slightly on oneside.

I glare at him. “Did you seriously call me a witch? I could have left you back there.” Not that I would have thrown the guy to that lunatic, Tommy. Mr. Handsome aka Gingerbread Man would have ended up dead in a ditch.

He takes a step toward me. Chase. His name is Chase. “I don’t think you’re thatcold.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” I’m firm, even though my ass is still on the ground and he’s looking down at me from the backseat with his feet on the gravel drive. He stands.

His eyes sweep over me, taking in my outfit and bright hair. There’s no lift to the corner of his lips this time. Again, he shakes his head as he slips his hands into his pockets. “If you’re soliciting for being a cold-hearted bitch, then I’m not buying. I see you, no matter what you think.” He studies my Kool-Aid cut and then his cool eyes slip over my piercings—ear to eyebrow—before slipping down to my unmanicured nails. His gaze rests on my lefthand.

I don’t know what he sees, but he thinks he sees something. I’m on my feet and fold my arms over my chest. It looks too defensive, but I don’t care. This arrogant man can’t know me. If he has the slightest clue who I am, I’m screwed. I laugh, but it’s a jaded sound. I press a hand to my chest, flexing the fingers as I do it. “How flattering to be told I’m so transparent.”

“You made snap judgments about me. We all do it. The only difference is that I’ve never been wrong.”

I scoff and tighten my folded arms while cocking out my hip. “I’msure.”

He inhales slowly, lashes lowered, as a softness overtakes his features. Hard lines melt away and I feel safe. It’s as if I’m seeing his walls drop. The movement has a sensuality to it and I suspect the only other time this man makes that expression is when he’s tangled in sheets and covered in sweat. I should look away, but I can’t. There’s something about him, hypnotic and raw. It keeps me there, eyes fixated onhim.