Page 17 of Runaway Hearts: Seduced by Danger

The mere thought of having a positive impact gives me purpose and meaning. This need to help others isn’t just a passing fancy; it’s a part of my very being.

In recent years, this need has taken over my life. I go out of my way to help anyone in need, whether taking hitchhikers to their destination, accompanying a friend to an A.A. meeting, or taking over a shift for a colleague. I even resist the urge to lash at those who piss me off.

I need this to feel less broken.

I drive, trying to ignore the weight of what might happen. I’m trying to convince myself that he’s dangerous, but the danger lies in the attraction he makes me feel.

Yes, it’s sexy bad-guy syndrome.

The previous gloomy weather has given way to a brilliant day, but it’s lost on me. As I put on my sunglasses, my arm accidentally brushes against his thigh, sending me a thrill of forbidden excitement. I don’t know this man’s name, and he doesn’t know mine—and given the circumstances, it’s probably for the best. At least I still have a shred of self-preservation left.

Sunglasses on, I scan the road for the next exit with a department store. Mall-Mart: two miles. Perfect. It allows me to drop him off at the mall and still make it to my uncle’s house tomorrow at a decenthour. The idea of the hitchhiker staying with me at my uncle’s makes me tremble with unidentifiable arousal, but it’s just a fantasy.

Someone, somewhere, wants me to abandon this man. Maybe.

Who knows what kind of threat the man in my car poses?

My thoughts are consumed with all the chances I’ve missed, and the strange call adds to my feelings of failure. The last thing I want is for anyone to pay attention to me. Avoiding any kind of spotlight has become a reflex for me because it triggers intense anxiety. Not being seen means being safe.

But a scary part of me likes Stranger Danger’s attention and craves more of it. I’ll meditate on the subject when I’m at the beach.

If I get there.

Chapter 4

Guns and Malls

Asmile spreads across my lips at the spirited rays of the sun chasing the clouds away this late afternoon. As I pull into the sprawling parking lot of the Mall-Mart, my fingertips fidget on the steering wheel. The pavement is worn, with patches of grass and weeds sprouting between the cracks.

I love shopping. But as I glance at the figure in the passenger seat, my smile fades.

I must wake him now. Stranger Danger presents a pleasant picture; regular deep breathing raises his chest with each inhale. Sunlight plays patterns on his face, and compassion tickles my stomach.

First step: unfasten my seatbelt.

It’s stuck, of course. Things never work the way they should.

Fucking new car!

I press the button calmly, and the mechanism unrolls with magic. It’s a miracle.

Like a butterfly landing on a desert flower, I place my hand on his shoulder. I then find myself with a cold metal barrel pressed against my forehead.

Oh.

A hot coil tightens in my abdomen.

I don’t even blink.

Eyes sleepy but fierce, his fingers curled around the gun with a confident grip, hair in a sexy mess. He’s a maniac. Sanity is a distant memory, replaced by a primal instinct to survive.

I should’ve left him to rot in the disgusting gas station toilet. I’m a threat to myself. Worry creeps into my stomach as I stare at him and realize my heart holds no fear. Positive proof: I’m missing a few neurons. But time is still running; I’m not dead yet. A glimmer of understanding illuminates his eyes.

“Shit!” he mutters.

Why am I not scared of the gun? Of him?

Something hot and bitter wells up in my throat, but it’s not anxiety. My blood warms, my fists clench, and my heart hammers.

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