Page 16 of Along for the Ride

She turns her head and her brows furrow when she sees me in nothing more than underwear.

I answer her question before she can ask. “Decided to wash my jeans too.”

She nods and her attention returns to the television.

I knew my shirt would be big on her, but it practically swallows her whole. I’m struck again by how small she is. “How has a girl like you survived on the street?”

She shrugs. “I had no choice.”

She shifts onto her side and the collar of the T-shirt droops as her hair falls away from her neck. Greenish-yellow bruises stand out on her skin, wrapping around her throat like a fading noose. Someone has put this girl through hell.

“What are you running from?” I ask.

Her eyes drop and she readjusts, covering the bruises once more. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I walk to the edge of the bed and pull back the covers, too tired to pry information from her sealed lips.

Her eyes go wide, and she shifts to look at me. “Aren’t you sleeping on the floor?”

I can’t hold back my laugh this time. Fuck no, I won’t sleep on the floor. I did enough of that growing up. We only had one bed in the house, and I let Karson have it. My dad had a permanent spot on the couch when he was home. When he wasn’t, I didn’t sleep there because it always smelled like sweat and piss.

“Not a chance,” I tell her as I get into bed. She tries to get out from beneath the covers, but I grab her arm and pull her down again. “No one is sleeping on the floor.”

“I’m not sleeping in bed with you!” She struggles in my grasp, but she doesn’t stand a chance against me.

I wrap my arm around her waist and haul her backward before forcing her down. She doesn’t realize what effect she has on me, and this struggle has only made it worse. If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll stop.

Because soon, I won’t be able to.

“You’re not leaving this bed, Leana.”

She quiets at the sound of her name, the will to fight evaporating from her eyes. “How do you know my name?”

I release her from my hold and turn onto my side, facing away from her so I won’t be tempted. She won’t try to leave again. “Go to sleep, wanderer.”

She moves a bit, then places a pillow between us. A smile forces its way onto my face. If I wanted to take her, does she really think a pillow would stop me? I won’t take her, though. I won’t even touch her. She might feel too good or taste too sweet, and then I really won’t be able to get rid of her. As tempting as she is, I refuse to give in.

I stay awake until she’s snoring softly, then I allow myself to fall asleep.

ChapterEight

Leana

Iwake up in bed with him. The tall one. The brick shithouse of a man. I don’t even know how I fell asleep beside this hulking stranger. Probably because my body was so in need of sleep that it didn’t matter if I was lying beside the devil himself, as long as I was in a fucking bed.

After getting a solid six hours on a memory foam mattress, I’m feeling a lot better too. The nausea has quieted to a whisper, so I can ignore it. I still have a slight headache, but it probably has more to do with dehydration than withdrawal. I still feel like shit, but less shitty. Functional, at least.

Which means I need to get the hell out of here.

I peer over the pillow separating my skin from his. He’s on his back with his face turned toward me, and even though he’s fast asleep, he’s still imposing as hell. His muscles have been carved from marble, and I’m pretty sure his abs have abs. I picture him shirtless with an ax in his hand, hauling it over his shoulder and sending it into a block of wood with the ease of a hot knife through butter. Sweat slipping through the curves surrounding his pecs and...

And what the fuck is wrong with me?

He’s not a sexy lumberjack making thirst traps for social media. He’s the man holding me hostage, and I need to get the fuck away from him.

I quietly slip out of bed, careful not to wake the sleeping giant beside me. When I look around, I realize how fucked I am. My clothes—including the spare set in my bookbag—are in a laundry room somewhere in this hotel. I can’t go out of the room like this, wearing only his oversized T-shirt and a skimpy pair of panties. I can’t call for help, either. Not when I was the idiot who stole the SUV that brought us here.

Jail isn’t an alternative for me. Being crammed into a room with women who have done unspeakable things—and who might do unspeakable things to me—is just as bad as living with Mickey.

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