Page 108 of The Way We Win

“You took care of me,” he opines, conjuring a fantasy far different from what really happened. “You changed my bandages and kept watch over me until I was back on my feet.”

“You nearly died twice. Then you got an infection.”

I shudder remembering how scared I was that he’d die on me.What would I do then?

I was sure I’d go to jail for being his accomplice, even though I wasn’t involved at all in any of his crimes.

I only found out the hard way that my husband was arealcriminal and not just a bad boy with tattoos who rode a motorcycle and cut hair for a living.

When he didn’t die, the first thing I did was go online to figure out a way to divorce his ass and get as far away from New Orleans as possible.

“We were a regular Bonnie and Clyde.” He’s still going.

“I never signed up to be your Bonnie.” I throw cold water on that fantasy. “Bonnie and Clyde ended up dead, you idiot.”

It took all my creative skills to hide his behavior from Austin, who was too young to understand why strange people would show up in the middle of the night.

“You’re still my girl, Allie. I never would’ve signed those divorce papers if you hadn’t got me drunk.” He has the nerve to sound hurt. “Why’d you do that?”

“To get away from you.” My voice is coming back with force. “To get Austin away from you. To give him a chance at a good life.”

“Well, it broke my heart.”

“It didnot,” I snap. “You only care because if I’d still been your wife, they wouldn’t have been able to make me testify against you in federal court.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and I know I’m right. Selfish bastard.

Then all of a sudden, he rears back and slams his fist against the dash with a roar that makes me jump in my seat. My wrists are still bound, and I swallow the fear in my throat.

As long as we were together, Rip never hit me or Austin. He’d get angry at times and break shit, but he never hurt us. Ifit got really bad, he’d smoke a blunt or take a pill—or both, and zone out for the rest of the night.

But he’s been at Angola for seven years. I don’t know what he’s like now.

“That’s why you’re going back with me.” He glares, and a different light is in his eyes, a desperate gleam. It chills my blood. “You’re going to tell that judge your testimony was false. They forced you to say all those things, and I’m innocent.”

“You think a judge is going to believe a word I say when you’ve broke parole, kidnapped me, and dragged me across state lines to change my story?” Shaking my head, I lean back on the seat. “They’ll spot that lie a mile away.”

He drops his speed, and we’ve reached the turn to cross the causeway over Lake Pontchartrain. We’re sitting at a red light, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him in some light.

He’s lost weight. His features are sharper, and the muscles in his arms are more pronounced. His jaw is tight, and his thin lips tremble as he takes another pull off his cigarette.

It’s not a tremble of fear. It’s more a tremble of tension, of someone who’s right on the edge. It can’t be withdrawals, as I’m pretty sure he didn’t have drugs in jail.

“I’m not going back there.” He exhales a growl as he says the words.

“How are you not going back to jail after this? You’ll be lucky if they don’t bring the FBI in on your ass.”

He snatches my upper arm so hard, a yelp slips from my lips. “They’re not bringing in anybody because you’re not going to say I kidnapped you. You came to me on your own.”

His white-blue eyes fire with anger, and I catch my breath. I’m not so sure he won’t hurt me this time.

Thankfully, the light turns green, and the car behind us honks their horn. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, and he releases me.

“Fuck you, motherfucker!” he yells, sticking his arm out the window and flipping the bird.

They lean on the horn, and he pulls his arm in, taking the left to get on the long bridge that connects Mandeville to New Orleans. I shift in my seat, and he throws his cigarette out and rolls up the window.

“You’re going to tell them you came to me because you were worried about me.” He speaks as if he’s making up my story on the spot. “You felt bad, and you wanted to make it right.”

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