Hitched: A Dark Hitchhiker Romance (Ride or Die Romances)

Lex

This girl will not stop chewing on her fucking nails as we drive into the parking lot of a seedy motel about an hour south of where she picked me up. It’s dark and the rain refuses to let up. The rhythmic sound of the rain and the constant click of her nails against her teeth are driving me mad. At this point, I want to cut her fingers off to end the incessant noise.

“For the love of god, stop!” I shout. She slowly draws her hand from her face and puts it back on the steering wheel.

Thank fuck.

I tuck the pistol into the back of my sweatpants and cover it beneath my t-shirt. Rain pelts us the moment we step out of the car. When we get beneath the cheap vinyl awning, 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, and she takes a hurried step forward with an angry blush to her cheeks. I don’t want to deal with her any more than she wants to deal with me. It would be easier and quieter to kill her and take her car. By the time anyone finds her body, I’ll be in Mexico.

She hasn’t done anything to get me to that point yet, but it would never be entirely off the table.

We walk into the lobby, and a bell rings overhead. Wallpaper struggles to keep its grip on the walls, and what’s still intact is black with mold. I look at Selena. It’s clear she’s never been in a dump like this before. She’s wearing a slightly damp blazer and slacks, for Christ’s sake. She looks clean and professional. I sure as fuck do not.

A squirrely old man waddles from the back room. His eyes jump between us. “Can I help you folks?” he asks with a furrow of his gray brow.

“We need a room for the night,” I say.

“Alright. We just need a photo ID and a credit—”

“We need . . . a room.” I keep my voice low and smooth as I wrap my arm around her waist. Her lips tighten at my touch, and I hope he doesn’t notice that she clearly isn’t here by choice. I don’t need another death on my hands so soon.

A look of understanding washes across the man’s face, and heat flushes his cheeks almost as much as it does hers. “Oh, that kind of room.” He swivels his head to look toward the back room. “Eighty dollars cash will do it,” he says with a flirty smile. His eyes travel down her body and overflow with hunger, and I’m tempted to gouge them out and give him something to eat that isn’t her.

I clear my throat. When Selena doesn’t produce her wallet, I pinch her side again. She lets out a small squeak and pulls cash from her purse.

The man cocks his head. “You okay, miss?”

I squeeze her waist closer to mine.

She flashes the man a disingenuous grin. “Yes, just nervous. It’s my first time here.”

“Hopefully not the last,” he says with a gross smile.

I dig my nails into her side. She hasn’t done anything wrong, but he’s being a pig. In the broad scheme of things, I’m not much better, but at least I’m subtle about taking a moment to check out her curves.

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.

The rain continues pelting the blacktop as we exit the lobby. There’s an ominous silence beneath its gentle patter. A heavy quiet beneath the rain. She braces herself against the weather and hurries along, her eyes darting from one numbered door to the next, until she stops at our room for the night. 306. The six is missing, but it clearly existed at some point. I can tell by the grimy outline that remains. I unlock the door and let her inside.

Her fingers move to cover her nose, and I can’t blame her. A fragrant bouquet of stale piss greets us, and the sheets look like they’ve been run through the same washing machine for the last ten years. The threadbare comforter has likely been there since 1963, but the television on the warped dresser looks like a newer model. The stains on the carpet bridge the gap between decades, having accumulated over the many years since this shithole was built. A roach scuttles along the baseboard. It pauses and seems to assess Selena with the same horror displayed in her rich brown eyes.

By the look on her face and the curl of her lip, she’s never been in a motel room like this. I flop down on the scratchy comforter covered in horrifying floral patterns. No matter what kind of bed it is, it has to be better than the one in my cell. The mattress releases a loud squeal as I scoot back and lean against the headboard.

“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.

She sighs, slips off her jacket, and hangs it on a hook. The metal rips from the wall and drops her expensive blazer onto the filthy floor. She picks up her beloved haute couture piece with her trembling hand and holds it away from herself as if she’ll catch a disease from simply looking at it. “Disgusting,” she whispers.

“Fancy little show bunny,” I say with a laugh.

Her eyes shoot to me and narrow. “Fuck you.” As she spits out the words, her brows furrow in surprise at her outburst. It’s clearly been pent up in her throat for a while now. 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. I’m trying to behave around her, but behaving has never been my strong suit, as my record has shown. I’m not even sure why I’m trying to be good. Why does it matter?

I had fucked-up parents—a doped-up whore for a mother and an absentee sperm donor for a father. I may not have known him, but if he fucked my mother, he was probably fucked-up, too. I was in and out of the system since I could walk. I’ve never known anything but pain.

And I’ve inflicted nothing but pain.

She walks into the bathroom and squeals at something in there. I get up to see what she’s fussing about and spot a used condom lying across the counter. I’ll give her a pass on this one. It’s pretty fucking gross, but I’ve also seen a man’s intestines lying on a prison sink, so . . . Actually, it looks eerily similar, but instead of being filled with come, the intestines were filled with blood.

She backs into my chest, flailing the moment my body stops her motion. With a snared panic, she leaps away because going forward means confronting the menacing condom. Her eyes dart from the bathroom to me and back, as if she’s trying to figure out which is more repulsive. I hook an arm around her waist to push her aside, and she jolts.

“Relax,” I whisper. “Now you’re hopping like an actual rabbit.” I push past her and grip the thin edge of the toilet paper between my fingers. The rusty holder squeaks in protest as I pull. Once I’ve gotten enough to create a barrier for my fingers, I push the condom into the garbage. “All better,” I say with a shake of my head as I walk away from her.

The stunned expression remains on her face. I’ve seen much worse shit than that in prison, and it will take more than a little condom to get me worked up.

She exits the bathroom like a surgeon who just scrubbed in, avoiding all contact with her surroundings. I rub the bridge of my nose. I’m exhausted. She has to be, too.

Even looking as weathered as she does, she still looks out of place. Like a rose growing in the middle of a landfill. Beautiful, but surrounded by trash. She perches on the rickety chair as I grab my pistol from behind my back and move it to my hip before getting into bed and drawing the stiff covers over myself. She folds her arms defiantly across her chest.

“Come on.” I lift the blanket on the other side of the queen mattress and motion to her. I fold the blanket over, hoping she doesn’t notice the clear come stain smack dab in the middle of one of the flower patterns, as if whoever did it aimed right for it.

She snaps her attention to me, her spine straightening until she looks twice her height. “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. She’d stroke out at intake when they made her pretty little ass strip before searching every single hole for hidden contraband. I smirk at the idea and pretend I’d be the one searching her body.

She lies as far away from me as she can, nearly falling off the side of the bed to keep from touching me. She looks up at the cracked and stained ceiling, her arms crossed over her stomach like she’s rehearsing her own funeral. 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?

Selena

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. My body tenses, the hair standing up on the back of my neck. I worry for a moment that he’ll try to sleep with me, but he keeps his crotch tilted away from my body.

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.

“Goodnight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he says with a chuckle. I shiver at the thought of those creepy crawlers.

“Will you at least tell me your name?” I ask, knowing I won’t fall asleep anytime soon, especially with the imaginary bugs crawling all over me now. Or real bugs. Real ones seem more plausible.

“Sure,” he says. Sleep punctuates his voice. “Just not tonight. Go to sleep, Selena. We have a long drive tomorrow.”

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. Breathless, I grab my jacket and rush for the door. I have no idea what I’ll do if I make it out, but I can’t miss this opportunity. It might be my only chance.

A metallic sound rings out, and I stop with my hand still firmly gripping the door handle. I look back and meet his dark and dangerous gaze. His pistol is trained on me.

I was stupid to think I could get away from him. Three elephants with a sinus infection breathe quieter than I do when I panic, and they’re probably stealthier when climbing out of bed, too.

My stomach churns with fear, and I let go of the door, dropping my hands lifelessly to my sides. He climbs out of bed, never letting the barrel drop from me. 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? I’m not sorry for trying, but I should have slowed down and forced myself to be quiet like the little rabbit he thinks I am.

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. My chest heaves against his huge hand. He groans and leans over, burying his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling my scent like a certifiable creep. “You have no idea the willpower it’s taken to stop myself from touching you.”

“I’m married,” I choke out. He doesn’t seem like the type to care about the sanctity of marriage. Or laws. Or human life. It’s worth trying, though. Anything is. Including my escape, I guess.

“Do you really think that fucking matters?” His breath heats my ear.

I swallow hard. “Please don’t.”

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

He’s right, though.

Bryce doesn’t deserve me, but I didn’t have a choice. It was an unofficial arrangement between our families—a business transaction at best and my nightmare at worst. The bruises which paint my skin remind me how much he haunts my dreams. Not just my dreams, but my reality.

“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.

I was meant to be a virgin for my husband. It wasn’t a religious thing. It was a business requirement.

“Do you want to be with one man for the rest of your life? What’s left of it, at least.”Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

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.

He growls, leans his weight into me, and puts his pistol behind his back. His hand rides up my thigh. My breath hitches and tears gloss my eyes.

I’m a faithful wife. I’ve always been faithful, despite it all. A tear slips down my cheek as I blink.

He blows a frustrated breath against my skin. “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.” His thumb strokes the front of my pants as his hand falls to his side.

I’m untouched. For one more day, at least.