Page 21 of Endless Love

“We’re going to steal a car.” Her tone is so disbelieving that it makes me laugh, because stealing a car is very far down the list of the worst things I’ve ever done.

“I wasn’t going to use those words.” I turn off our car, killing the headlights immediately. “Mostly because I knew how you’d feel about them. But yes.”

Charlotte goes very still. The only sound is the crinkling of the bag between her hands as she freezes, and I let out a slow breath, searching for patience.

“We don’t have a lot of time, Charlotte. I need to get this done before anyone driving around out here sees us parked here and decides to call it in, or notices and says something tomorrow when the owners open up and find a car that wasn’t here before, and one gone. The idea is for it to take as long as possible for them to catch on. I can’t sit here and argue with you about this. This is what we have to do.”’

Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips nervously, and I feel a jolt of unwanted arousal. This isn’t the time or the place for distractions, but my body doesn’t seem to be on the same page, because just that swipe of her tongue over her lower lip has me throbbing.

“Just—sit here,” I tell her, forcing back my frustration with a heavy hand. “I’ll handle everything. Just get in the car I tell you to when I’m done, okay?”

The space between her eyes wrinkles, an irritated line that tells me that she doesn’t like me telling her what to do. Not in this context, anyway.

“Fine.” She crumples the bag between her hands. “Just tell me how high to jump, Ivan.”

The sarcasm in her voice is thick, but I don’t have time to deal with it or evaluate it. I don’t have time to make her feel better, which is what I desperately want to do.

But I also need to keep her safe. And even if that means driving a deeper wedge between us, that’s what I have to do. Losing what there might have been between us is my penance for what I’ve done, and I’m just going to have to live with it.

I pulled into the back of the lot, as far from the office building near the front as possible. I look for the most nondescript vehicle I can—a Toyota, Honda, or Nissan in a bland color, something that there could be hundreds of on the road. When I find one—a late nineties Corolla in a beige green that makes me cringe, I quickly go about swapping out the plates. This will get us to the Dakotas, probably, at which point I’ll steal something better suited to snow, in case we get a mid-autumn snowfall. And then, closer to Vegas, I’ll swap back to something like this.

To her credit, Charlotte doesn’t get out and try to argue with me, or run, or do anything at all. She sits stock still in the passenger’s seat, statue-silent, as if by checking out of the situation entirely, she can simply not be complicit in it. She’s in denial, I know that, but I’d rather deal with denial than her spitfire fury in this particular moment when time is of the essence.

The spitfire fury will come later, I’m sure, and I can’t say that I hate it. The memory of her fighting with me earlier today is a strange mix of hurt, regret, and arousal that makes me feel sick and turned on all at once, a jumble of emotions that I’ve never experienced before. It’s unique to her, and I have a feeling that it’s because I feel things for her that I’ve never felt for any woman I’ve ever fucked before.

Of all the women in the world, I had to fall in love with this one.But just looking at her is enough to tell me that if I haven’t fallen all the way, I’m close to the edge. My heart does a strange twist in my chest when I look at her stony face, and I have to look away quickly, refocusing on the process of hotwiring the car we’re going to steal.

Once I get it to start, I back it out of the spot, getting back into our current car and pulling it into where the Corolla was parked. I grab the keys, our bag of road snacks, and do a quick sweep to make sure that there’s nothing identifying left in the car—this one was mine. I hate leaving it behind, but it’s yet another reason I’m glad I didn’t bring the Mustang.

“I need you to follow me in this,” I tell Charlotte calmly. “We’re going to dump it somewhere where there’s plenty of trees and it will take a while for anyone to find. By the time one of the idiots on the town police force figures out how to add, and puts this car and the stolen one together and gets us, we’ll be long gone.

She looks at me like I’m the idiot. “What?” I try not to snap, but a little of the tired exasperation I’m feeling slides into my tone.

“I can’t drive a stick, Ivan.”

“Shit. Of course not.” I run one hand through my hair. “Okay, fine. Drive the Corolla and follow me. Just drive it like normal, I’ll have to detach the battery wires to turn it off.”

Charlotte stares at me for another long second, and I realize what I’ve just asked her to do—drive a stolen vehicle, as if I were asking her to pick up milk from the grocery store. “Charlotte, I?—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” She holds up a hand, shaking her head. “Fine.”

She slides out of the car, grabbing her bottle of water as she goes, and stomps over to the Corolla. She seems intent on letting me see just how displeased she is, but I can’t exactly blame her. I’m just relieved that she’s doing it.

Guilt slithers through me. The only way she’s getting out of this without catching a charge herself if we get caught is by me admitting to all kinds of things I haven’t actually done—like threatening her if she didn’t go along with it.

That’s a problem for the future, if it happens,I tell myself, starting up the Acura and putting it in gear. I see Charlotte getting into the driver’s seat of the Corolla, a grim expression on her face, and I let out another sigh.

Another wedge. Another thing for her to not forgive me for. The tally is adding up, and every day that goes by is probably going to only make it worse.

There’s nothing I can do about it except focus on what Icanchange.

And that’s whether or not she gets out of this safely.

10

CHARLOTTE

Ifeel like I’m in some kind of alternate reality as I follow Ivan out of the small town that we drove through. I don’t even know what it’s called—I’ve been too distracted to look for any identifying signs. It’s not as if it matters. I’m not going to run for a police station or commit any of this to memory to give someone as evidence later.

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