Page 12 of Runaway Hearts: Seduced by Danger

It’s not rocket science to figure out where this equation leads. Nobody carries that kind of gun or walks around bruised and bloody unless they’re a criminal.

I’m going to die, sliced up by a crazy hitchhiker.

My mouth dries, and a restlessness pricks at my legs.

But then again, he’s hurt. Maybe he’s losing blood; maybe his life is in danger.

And mine?

I get out of my car. The wind picks up as I open my gas tank, and the air carries the potent smell of gasoline, mingling with the scent ofimpending rain. The gas station, a relic of the last century, stands alone on the cloudy road.

The man enters the convenience store. It’s almost comical how he walks like he’s invincible. Professional gangster, tough as nails. And here I am, professionally screwed.

I imagine what they’ll say on the six o’clock news:“A young woman was found sliced up so her killer could make a house of cards out of the pieces…”

My right hand reaches up to my left arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze as the summer humidity sticks my pink blouse to my skin.

The man looks arrogant, but his eyes narrow at each step. He’s a human being. A wounded human being, and I’m a nurse.

I fill up the car while chewing on my bottom lip. My heart is pounding, unsure of what might happen next. The options before me are unappealing—leave him there, join him, or wait for him to return and pretend nothing’s wrong.

How wrong is this, anyway?

I finish filling the gas tank and go inside to pay. The dimly lit store seems to hold its breath like it’s afraid to disturb the spooky stillness that hangs in the air. A knot forms in my stomach as I scan the aisles, my heart trying to spread my ribs apart. I grab snacks and drinks.

Sharing the road with a wounded criminal sounds ominous, but I like it.

But when I come to the exit, my phone’s ringtone blares. I don’t recognize the number.

Did Eric change his phone number?

My breath catches in my throat, and my irregular heartbeat drums in my ears.

Shit.

Time slows as my legs weaken, and unwanted sweat rolls down my neck. My sweaty palms land on the door, and I step forward, but the ground drops from under me. My vision blurs, and my breaths turn shallow. My body is on the brink of collapse.

Come on, Marianne. It’s just a phone call.

“Yes,” I answer, my vitals coming to normal.

An old voice comes through the line. I don’t recognize that, either, but it’s not my ex. “If you value your life, you’ll leave him,” the voice growls.

I glare at my phone. “Wrong number, dude. Get lost.”

I don’t even know if my life has any value at all.

“You have a few seconds to leave, miss.”

This must be a prank. As the call ends, my phone chimes with a shared file. I ignore the incoming text message and focus on the task ahead.

As soon as I decide I want to help the wounded stranger, even if he’s in deep shit, my spine straightens while my muscles tighten, and my mind becomes as clear as a diamond under a spotlight. I grab my first-aid box in the glove compartment, put it in my beach bag, and a bolt of electric thrills strikes me.

I’ll tend to his wound myself.

Once I get the kit, I stroll to the back of the convenience store. I cast a glance both ways, making sure the coast is clear. Whistling the “Mission Impossible” soundtrack, my footsteps echo on the empty gas station pavement like an adventure anthem.

The unexpected is here, and I’m eager to see how far I can take it.

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