Page 22 of Wanted

The laugh she releases nearly drags me from my folded position. The sound alone has me wanting to see the way her face changes with humor. A warmth unfurls in my gut.

I chase away the thought by closing her door with an excessive shove.

Does she feel as trapped as I do? She jumped from a car without knowing what lies ahead, and I’m bringing a stranger into my private place of solace. A slave to impulsivity of my own, offering to help when I might be the worst option she has.

As we drive along the highway, the silence from earlier returns. I’m not sure what it is about her, but if she isn’t sparring with me, she’s lost in her thoughts. Or sleeping. I peek over for what feels like the fiftieth time to find her forehead resting away from me against the window.

Should she be sleeping with a concussion?

“I hope you like dogs.” My rough voice is loud in the close confines of my van.

“Love them.” Her drowsy mumble doesn’t alleviate my newfound concern.

One. Two. Three. Four

Not now.

The scolding doesn’t stop the numbers from appearing, but they stop when I reach eight. The tingle in my fingertips slowly fades.

“I have a lot,” I finally manage to say.

If she hasn’t caught onto my strange compulsion, she will. My stomach twists with shame. From the corner of my eye, I catch movement, but I don’t want to give her the opportunity to read my face.

“How many is a lot?”

I focus on the conversation instead. “Right now, I have fifteen.”

“You have fifteen dogs? Are you crazy?”

The oft-used phrase antagonizes a raw nerve.

“No,” I bite out more harshly than intended. “My family runs a dog rescue.”

“That’s so cool,” she breathes, sitting straight in her seat, invigorated by the conversation. “Can I meet them?”

I exhale slowly through my nose. “It’d be hard not to, seeing as they live with me.”

“I think you officially have the best job in the world.” Absent of a sarcastic jab, her tone is imbued with the first hints of warmth since we met.

Flicking the turn signal, I turn off the county road onto my half-mile dirt driveway. A tranquil feeling infuses my veins when the tires hit the gravel. The silver gate to the main house, gleaming beneath the afternoon sun, is open from my haste to deliver Frankie to the hospital. I pull through before hopping out to close it behind us.

“The serial killer vibes are still going strong with you,” Frankie says when I return to the van.

“It’s not like you’re stuck here. You’re the one who climbed over my fence,” I retort.

“How would you know?”

“That’s the only way onto the property. Based on where I found you, I can deduce you didn’t walk up the driveway.”

“Fair enough.” She switches her attention to my house.

All this talking is fucking exhausting. I’ve spoken more in the last four hours than I have in the past week and a half. I’m going to have to gargle some salt water to soothe my overworked vocal cords once she’s settled in the guest room.

We step into the cool air, and she meets me in front of the van. My black jacket remains draped over her, almost as if she forgot it was there. With the meager clothing she has, I’ll collect it later after I find her something else to wear.

“Don’t worry about the dogs. They’re sequestered in the lower level.” I unlock the door and push it open to let her precede me inside.

I don’t give her time to look around. She doesn’t need time to form an opinion of my space, and frankly, I don’t want to hear her voice one. I like my life. I like my house and my dogs and my job and my isolation.

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