Page 2 of Hunted, Season Three

Or kicked his chin.

Or grabbed his crotch to remind me where it is he’d like me to always be sitting.

Maybe I should’ve gotten him a lump of chocolate coal for his stocking to remind him of how much misbehaving he tends to do on a daily basis.

Curiosity prompts me to stretch further to get a view of them yet reveals to me the opposite.

No Kid.

No Mutt.

Just the cans.

Wait.

Just the cans?

Unexpected dread instantly drops into the pit of my stomach at the same time all of the air in my lungs vanishes.

Shit.

Was this whole thing a setup?

Did we just drive straight into some sort of trap?!

Should I get out?!

Should I go check?!

Get a closer look at everything?!

One hand reaches for the handle, yet instinct paralyzes me in place.

No.

Getting out would be a mistake.

Make me more vulnerable to…whatever…or more likelywhoeveris most likely waiting.

Or lurking.

Angling myself further into The Kid’s seat to get a better view of the seemingly deserted situation causes my heart to pound so hard that sucking in a full breath is practically impossible.

I’m being paranoid.

That’s what Brad wants.

Hewantsme to feel powerless.

And terrified.

Chances are I’m just overreacting.

Fuck, I hope I’m just overreacting.

That they’re around the front of the truck checking under its hood.

Or each other’s.

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