Page 57 of Hunted: Season Two

As if my thoughts are being plastered across my face, Nolan places a soft palm on my inner thigh and delivers a gentle pat, wordlessly telling me to relax.

That everything is okay.

That everything is going tobeokay.

Just like it always is.

After agreeing in the form of a small nod, I steal a glance at the side mirror just in time to see a black, luxury SUV drift over into our lane. While there’s a white sportscar spaced between the two of us, its small size doesn’t act as a substantial shield from what could easily be an enemy’s vehicle.

Paranoia has me pressing my curly, blond wig covered head slightly harder against the window.

Holding my breath and squinting like it’s magically going to give me better vision.

We arrive at a stoplight, which is when the vehicle I’m watching cuts over into the turn lane, allowing them an open opportunity to pull up directly beside us.

Open fire.

Attack.

Make an attempt to grab me and drive off.

Instinct has my left hand reaching for the weapon wedged between the seat and console; however, the second the SUV appears directly in view, relief immediately washes over me alongside a deep exhale. Seeing a couple clearly arguing about a GPS misunderstanding – considering how they keep pointing to the screen in the middle – threatens to make me smile much like the small child fast asleep in the backseat.

I remember my parents always argued over directions whenever we traveled.

They’d do their best not to yell yet the whispered snipping was for some reason much worse.

Although, those spats often ended with me getting a Kit Kat bar.

And IloveKit Kat bars.

“Can we get a Kit Kat bar on the way home?” I ask at the same time I cut my driving boyfriend a glance. “I’m…suddenly…having a craving.”

“You sure that’s the ‘break’ your craving, Rabbit?” questions Mutt on a waggling of his eyebrows. “”Cause I’m more than happy to break you off a piece of somethin’ else.”

“The bear mace threat I made early in our relationship still stands.”

He lightly chuckles and adjusts the aviator sunglasses blocking most of his face.

Out of the three of us, he lucked out on easy disguises.

Gray sweats.

Gym bag.

Aviator sunglasses.

Garcia described the whole look to be “midlife marriage crisis” which I then enhanced with a “mistress persona” of a blond wig, getting rid of my tongue ring, a mini sweater dress – that I swear my ass canliterallybe seen in – thigh high boots, a set of fake butterfly tattoos on the back of my legs as well as an Audrey Hepburn pair of black sunglasses and matching oversized hat.

I look like something out of a very badly cast b movie.

And so does The Kid.

He’s playing the role of young personal assistant to our boyfriend in a very expensive attire that’s complete with the overly gelled back hair, “trendy” sunglasses and “keeping your life together” tablet. Said device is actually doubling as a secure communication outlettoGarcia to keep him informed of our whereabouts, notable discoveries, and literaleyeson the situation.

No one is taking being this far from home lightly.

Especially not me.

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