Hitched (Ride or Die Romances)

by Lauren Biel

Every bad decision I’ve ever made put me right here, on the side of the road, in the middle of the night. During a fucking storm.

There are two types of people in this world: those who stop for a stranger on the side of the road and those who keep on driving.

I had just gotten back my privileges when I escaped. I might have gone a little overboard with the newfound freedom they gave me. Took a whole fucking yard instead of an inch, but that’s how I’ve always been. Men like me don’t deserve freedom, but we sure as shit chase after it.

The only useful thing I learned in prison was how to deal with the things I can’t control.

I pull over, flashing my emergency lights. I’ll get myself killed at the rate I’m going, blindly driving down a highway at night. I turn off the car and sit in the near silence. Only the patter of hard rain against the car breaks the quiet.

There’s a knock on the glass, and I snap my attention to the passenger-side window. That sound definitely isn’t the rain. It’s too loud and purposeful. My heart skips several beats and climbs into my throat. The wind shifts and the rain changes direction, and that’s when I see the shadow outside my car. The giant hand knocks on my window again. I turn off the ignition and lower the window a mere inch. Even with such a small gap, the rain finds its way down the window and onto the seat. “Can I help you?” I call over the pounding downpour. “Would you be willing to give me a ride to the next exit?” the shadow asks.

Torn between being smart or kind, I don’t answer him. I’d want someone to help me if I was stuck in the rain. Thunder crashes and makes me jump. “Miss, it’s okay if you don’t want to,” he says with a smile.

“Sorry to waste your time. Drive safe.” He pats the roof of the car and walks away. I take a deep breath and watch him meander through the storm-cut beam of my headlights. Their weak glow gives me a little more information about him: he’s a big guy. Massive, really, with flimsy, wet material hugging his muscles. I lean forward and watch him as the wipers make another pass. Don’t, I remind myself. He doesn’t even have a jacket, I argue back. Nothing but that short-sleeved shirt, which is plastered to his body, and there haven’t been any other cars on the road for a while now. No, Selena, don’t even think about it. He tugs at my heartstrings. If he’s so bad, he wouldn’t have walked away, I rationalize with myself. I take off my seatbelt, lean over, and prop open the door. The wind pushes back against my hand as water assaults my skin. I struggle to keep it open. “Hey!” I call out. When he doesn’t turn around, I beep my horn. He stops, looks back, and seems to consider my invitation for what feels like forever as the cold rain soaks my skin. He heads toward my car.

“You sure about this?” he asks. I focus on the way his full lips hide a hint of a smirk. I swallow hard and nod. I’m not sure about anything. This isn’t like me.

“Are we going?” he asks, ripping me out of my panic. I look around and struggle with the simple motions of putting the car in drive. I can’t even take my foot off the brake. “I really can’t see,” I say. “Can we wait?” His eyes dart as he looks behind us. “I can drive,” he says, and unbuckles his seatbelt. I shake my head. Handing control of the car to a stranger is the definition of a bad idea.

“God, I did not want to have to do this.” My heart races as soon as the words leave his lips. The hairs stand up on my neck. My peripheral vision fades to a white blur as my body panics before my brain knows what the hell is happening. He brushes a hand through his hair, exposing a tattoo of a skull with a bullet hole right beneath his hairline. Alarm bells explode inside my head. The man leans over and yanks something from the back of his pants. “Either you drive, or I’ll drive,” he says calmly.

“Don’t do something stupid, pretty girl.” His voice is soft, almost sensual. He isn’t panicking, but his calm demeanor is making me panic. I remove my hand from the handle and put it on my lap. “Now drive.”

The fear on her face makes me feel a moment of guilt about what I’ve done and what I’ll have to do. I hoped to carjack some piece of shit and leave them on the side of the road—probably dead—but no, I ended up in the car with a sweet-faced young girl. It isn’t ideal, but it is what it is.

It’s just who I am at this point. A felon.

“Just keep driving south.” “I can’t.” Her eyes widen and breaths rush from her mouth. The fear on her face doesn’t come from me, which makes no fucking sense. It’s different. I look at the purple rabbit’s foot hanging from the rearview mirror and chuckle too low for her to hear over the rain. It sure isn’t her lucky day. “You don’t have a choice. What are you so afraid of, rabbit?”

“You don’t understand . . .” She shakes her head as if she doesn’t want to explain herself to the man with a gun on his lap, which is fair. “Then make me understand!”

When she shakes her head again, I lean over and put a hand to her throat. She squeaks as my warm skin wraps around her, but I don’t squeeze. “I’m asking you once more, rabbit. What are you afraid of? Besides me.” She feels so small and vulnerable in my grasp. Her dark eyes widen, and she lets out a wavering exhale. “He’ll kill me,” she whispers. The words pinch past her lips, as if it hurts her to say them. My jaw ticks. Who has this girl so damn scared? Who does she fear more than the escaped felon beside her?

“Not my problem. You’re going to drive where I tell you, then you’ll be free to go.” Her throat bobs against my palm as she swallows, and she makes a point of dropping her gaze to the road in front of her. “That’s a good girl.” I pull my hand away and let my fingers crawl down her neck, nearly reaching the swells of her breasts before I pull away. I can’t help stealing this moment. It’s been so fucking long since I touched a woman. She’s lucky I have more control than I did over a decade ago. The trip would have gone much differently then. And felt a lot fucking better.

I am so exponentially fucked. I shouldn’t have allowed him inside my damn car. He’s running from something, but I need to run home to something. The clock on the dashboard flashes the time, ticking ominously toward nine. My phone rings, and his name pops onto the screen. My fingers rush to ignore the call, but the man beside me grabs my wrist and hits the answer button instead. I look at him and shake my head. He squeezes my wrist harder. “Selena?” The voice blares from the car speaker. I’m frozen in fear. The man beside me slaps my cheek hard enough to shake me back into the moment, and I can only hope my husband doesn’t hear him. “Hi . . . hello, sorry, bad reception from the rain,” I say, my throat tightening. “Why aren’t you home?” “I had to pull over because of the rain. I couldn’t see anything in front of me.” “You know that’s not true. I’m watching the tracker on your phone. You’re going the wrong direction.”

“Tracking you?” he asks as he shakes his head, which is really fucking judgmental for a man who’s holding me at gunpoint. “It’s complicated.” He stares at me before dropping his gaze. “Drive, rabbit.” He gestures forward with the barrel of his gun. Rabbit? I hate that he calls me that. I don’t want a nickname from him.

I pull her into me, lean down, and whisper in her ear. “Don’t do anything stupid, rabbit.” “Stop calling me that,” she snaps in a harsh whisper. “Go on, rabbit. Hop.” I pinch her side,

When she brushes her dark hair back and tucks a few strands behind her ear, I notice a purplish pink hue on her newly exposed neck. Her lips are tight, and her jaw is tense. She looks so uncomfortable, which I guess is a normal response for normal people when they’ve been taken against their will.

“What’s wrong, rabbit? Not up to your standards?” I ask, but I already know. This girl has never spent a night in less than a three star, I’m certain of that. If she’s really roughing it, she might have found herself in a two, but definitely not this. I’m not even sure you can give a single star to a place like this.

Her frustration makes me hard in an instant. God, she looks cute when she’s mad. I adjust the front of my pants. I don’t want her to see me hard, because if she gets scared . . . like that . . . I won’t be able to stop myself from doing something I will not regret.

Even looking as weathered as she does, she still looks out of place. Like a rose growing in the middle of a landfill.

“Come on.” I lift the blanket on the other side of the queen mattress and motion to her.

“No way,” she says with a shake of her head. “I didn’t ask you. It’s not a question.” I raise my voice. “How else will I know if you try to leave?” She scoffs. “It can be hunting season if you’d like, little rabbit.” I reach for the gun on my hip, but I don’t need to draw it. She lets out a long breath, stands from the chair, and climbs into bed as if she’s crawling into a casket. I fight back a chuckle. She wouldn’t survive a night in prison. Not one single night.

A tear wells and slips from the corner of her eye. I wonder what the tears are for. Is it the room? The situation? Or whatever waits for her at home?

The room bothers me and the man beside me disgusts me, but I can’t get my mind off my husband. I raise the sleeve of my blouse and rub the painful bruise on my right wrist. The stranger leans over and drapes an arm across me, and I flinch as he grazes the bruise that runs across my abdomen. I grip his wrist to push it off me, but he tugs me into him before I can.

I hate being in bed with him, but I’m not as afraid of him as I should be. The real devil waits at home. If this adventure doesn’t end in a death sentence, my return home will. Bryce will fucking kill me. At least the man beside me would make it quick, unlike my husband.

I don’t know how I fell asleep or when I snuggled up to him, but when I wake up and realize the warmth against my body is his, I jump out of my skin. Panic shakes me to my core, and I rip away from the bed.

He steps into me and fists my hair. I whimper against his rough grasp and reach for his wrists. “I was trying to be fucking nice to you, rabbit.” “I’m sorry.” I strain to get the words out. Am I sorry, though?

His nostrils flare, smelling my fear as he tugs me into his body. His hand rides up my stomach, snakes between my breasts, and stops at my throat. I strain against his touch as he squeezes and threatens to block the air from reaching my lungs.

“You have no idea the willpower it’s taken to stop myself from touching you.”

“Something tells me your husband doesn’t deserve someone like you.” His kind words contradict his harsh voice.

“Does he deserve you?” he asks as he kisses my neck. His affection chokes me more than his hand around my throat. I’d rather have his hand on my mouth than on my neck. I’d rather he kill me now than try to sleep with me. “If you do what you’re thinking of doing, I’m dead,” I tell him. It’s true. Even if I don’t end up six feet under in some half-assed unmarked grave courtesy of this man, if I go home to my husband, I’ll end up that way if this man uses me. My husband will know. He always knows everything. “You said he’ll kill you anyway,” he says as he wraps a hand around my throat once more and pushes me against the wall. “So why not let me fuck you?” My throat tightens from his words, not his touch. “Tell me, rabbit. How many men have you been with?” His thumb grazes my jaw. I shake my head, and he increases the pressure on my throat. “Just him,” I whisper.

“Do you want to be with one man for the rest of your life? What’s left of it, at least.” I try to nod but his hand keeps me from moving. “Yes,” I say. But of course I don’t. I haven’t enjoyed sex since . . . ever. I just accepted that he’d be my shitty first and my unbearable last. I had no choice but to accept that it was my life now.

“Mark my words, little rabbit, I will fuck you,” he growls. “If not now, later. Maybe tomorrow. But for this little stunt, I will have you beneath me.”

I’ve never cared about desecrating a woman before. It’s taking everything in me, but I don’t want to add her to my list of victims. But does it even matter? It’s not like I can let her leave alive once she drops me off. I’ll have no choice but to break her in the worst, most final way.

“You were a bad little bunny,” I say. The more I think about her weak escape attempt, the more my frustration grows. Her lips tighten, and she refuses to look at me. “You know that, don’t you?” “Leave me alone,” she snaps. Mouthy little bitch. I take a deep breath and lean closer to her. I rub my hand up her thigh, enjoying the way her muscles tighten against my touch. “If you keep touching me, I’ll steer us into oncoming traffic.” “No you won’t, sweet rabbit,” I whisper. I call her bluff and run my hand across her lower stomach and slip it down the front of her slacks. As she grabs my wrist to stop me, she swerves over the center line. “Focus on the damn road,” I snarl as I rip her hand off my wrist and put it on the steering wheel.

“Please don’t,” she begs. Genuine desperation pours through her strained words. It makes me hard as hell. And this is why I’m fucked up. I love how much she wants me to stop, needs me to stop. “Please don’t what?” “Touch me,” she whispers. I smirk at her, sinking my fingers lower. “Touch you where?” She blinks away a tear. “Down there.”

“You’re a grown woman, rabbit. Use your words. Tell me what you don’t want me to touch and why.” She doesn’t speak. I’m not in the mood for these games. “Why don’t you want me to touch your pussy?” I give her one more chance to answer before I say fuck this and make her pull over so I can take her how she doesn’t want to be taken. She takes a deep breath. “Don’t touch my pussy”—she whispers the word—“because I’m married.”

desperation to preserve the sanctity of her fucked-up little marriage. And I wholeheartedly disregard it. I lower my hand and palm her pussy. She gasps at my touch, and not in a good way. She really expected me to stop, which is hilarious. Nothing would keep me from getting my hand on her. She had to know that. “I’m not going to play with you, rabbit. I’m just going to hold my hand here.” I try to soothe the panicked rise and fall of her chest with my words. I hold my hand against her warm pussy, with two of my fingers slipping between the closed seam of her lips and resting there.

deciding she might be more willing to talk with her swollen clit beneath my fingers. “Eight . . . teen.” “Young little rabbit, huh?” My breaths roll over her chest, and she shivers. I feel it in my fingertips. “Has he been the only one to make you come?” Her lips tighten, and she refuses to answer me. But I know. Her body responds to my words so fucking well. Her slick, warm excitement coats my fingers, and I fight the urge to swirl my fingertips around her clit and make her come against my hand. “If you don’t answer me, I’ll touch you,” I growl. She refuses to respond, so I curl my fingers against her. She jolts. I warned her I would play if she didn’t. “Yes, he’s the only one who’s made me come,” she whispers with a hint of defeat. “Don’t you want someone else to make you come? Don’t you want to know how it feels to have another man inside you?” She shakes her head. “I don’t want another man.” “What does he do to you?” I keep my fingers still against her clit. “Don’t make me talk about it.” Her gaze cuts to the steering wheel, and she tries to pretend she’s anywhere else. But she isn’t anywhere else. She’s in her car, with me beside her and my hand on her perfect little cunt.

I don’t want to talk about it with anyone, but especially not him. It’s painful enough to remember the day my life changed forever. The day I learned who I was promised to. I knew what kind of person Bryce was and what his family was like. I knew I would live a regimented life under his thumb and that I would never be happy again. I expected him to watch my every move. But I hadn’t anticipated the violence. He’s an angry drunk, just like his father.

“I’m not talking about it,” I say, as firmly as I can with his hand palming me. “If you don’t, I’ll make you come, rabbit.” I know he means what he says by the harshness of his glare and the feral growl that leaves his lips as he says my nickname.

Before I can come up with a lie, his fingers dance against my clit, which begins to throb against my will. My stomach tightens at his touch. “He doesn’t . . . do . . . anything to me. He’s just . . . controlling,” I say through breaths that are becoming too sharp to control. “You’re lying to me.” He leans his weight into me and rubs me faster. His thumb slides against my clit, back and forth, and I fight back each moan that rises into my throat. He doesn’t deserve them. My heart pounds against the wall of my chest. I don’t want him to get me off, but I also don’t want him to discuss my marriage. My hell at home.

“You’d rather come than tell me about your marriage?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. I drop my gaze from the road and nod, slow and unsure. “Fair enough, rabbit,” he says as I clutch the steering wheel. He rubs against my clit again before he opens me. He slips two fingers inside me, then withdraws his hand and rubs my unintended wetness over my clit. I shudder as my body responds to his touch. It feels so good, and that makes me feel so bad. So guilty. A small moan leaves my lips, and it darkens his eyes. “Does that feel good?” he asks, even though he knows. He can tell by the way I’m losing control of my body. My pelvis tilts against my will. I nod, but it’s not enough for him. “Tell me with your words.” He circles around my clit before brushing over it between every stroke of his fingers. “It feels good,” I whimper. “I’ll tell you my name if you come.” He dips his fingers into me again. “Do you wanna know my name, sweet bunny?” “Yes.” I pant the word.

My body tenses, each muscle aching for release. I struggle to keep my eyes on the road with each forward scoop of my hips. He fucks me with his fingers, and I come against his hand. He growls as he feels me spasm around him, at the twitch of my clit. I shudder and try to keep hold of the wheel. “My name’s Lex,” he whispers in my ear, his hot breath leaving goosebumps along my skin. He pulls his hand from my pants and puts his fingers into his mouth. Tasting me. He pushes his spit-coated fingers past my lips. My stomach tightens. I don’t want to like what’s happening. Everything inside me tells me not to. But the hungry way he looks at me makes me want it to happen again.

I adjust the front of my pants without drawing her attention. I love knowing she’s drenched, sitting in come that my fingers coaxed from her. She’s so mad about it that her brows are permanently furrowed at this point. She hates the warm, sticky wetness that came from someone who isn’t her husband. It came from me.