22. Bella

22

BELLA

I wake to Nic lying behind me, his warm hand sliding up my thigh. My body responds instantly, even as my mind struggles between the comfort of his touch and confusion about what this means for us.

Most of the day yesterday, I was sure he was putting distance between us. And then, like a switch, he couldn’t get enough of me, taking me in the bathroom and then again in bed. But after, he’d gotten up, saying he wanted to work on his plan. So I’m surprised to find him in bed next to me when there’s another bed.

His lips brush my neck, and I arch into him.

“Are you awake?”

“I am now.” I wonder if it’s morning. The room is still dark except for a sliver of light from the bathroom. “What time is it?”

"Early." His hand continues its journey between my thighs, making me gasp. "Too early to think."

He's right. Thinking only leads to questions I'm not ready to face. Questions about what happens when we get to New York, about whether I'm just a distraction until he deals with his father, about why he never mentions a future that includes us together.

His touch erases those thoughts. His fingers find sensitive spots that make me writhe. “Ready?”

“Yes…” I’m needy for him. He lifts my leg, and from behind, he enters me. The fullness of him chases away everything but the sensation of his moving inside me.

His breathing grows ragged against my neck. The room fills with our gasps and moans. This connection between us feels too intense to just be physical. But maybe I'm just young and naive, seeing meaning where there is none.

I push the doubts away and lose myself in the pleasure building between us. His movements grow more urgent, and I match his rhythm. When release claims me, I cry out his name.

“Fuck yes…” He comes too, the energy of him quick and frenetic, and then it slows until he stops.

I nestle into Nic spooned around me. I could stay here all day. All the days.

"We need to get moving," he says but makes no effort to let me go.

"I know." I press closer, stealing a few more moments.

He rises first, going to the shower. I follow when he’d done. As we prepare to leave, I want to ask what happens next, not just today's plans, but after. I'm afraid of his answers, afraid they'll shatter this fragile thing between us.

I slide into the passenger seat of our stolen car, watching Nic's profile as he navigates us back onto the highway. The morning sun catches his dark hair, and my fingers itch to run through it like they did hours ago in bed.

“How much longer is the drive?” I ask.

“Four or five hours. Depends on whether we take detours.” He’s back to being serious, focused.

Just an hour into our drive, Nic pulls into another shopping center parking lot. "We need to switch cars again."

"Already? We just changed yesterday." I scan the lot, guilt twisting in my gut at the thought of stealing another person's vehicle. These poor people. Sure, insurance will pay, but what a hassle to figure out how to get home, filing for insurance, living life without a car until they can get a replacement.

"Can't be too careful." Nic parks near a weathered sedan not that much different from the one we’re in. “We can’t afford to have my father find us, or the cops. In either case, we’re dead. Jail won’t protect us from him."

A few moments later, I’m in the next car. He switches the plates with the car parked in front of the one we’re stealing, then we’re off again.

“Now New York?” I ask.

“We’re going to New Jersey.”

I wonder if he’s been keeping the details of his plan from me on purpose or if he’s winging it. Considering how much time he’s spent thinking about it, it must be the former.

"You know, we're kind of like Bonnie and Clyde.”

Nic rolls his eyes. “We’re not robbing banks.”

“Did you know that Bonnie and Clyde preferred to rob small stores and funeral homes over banks?”

He glances at me. “How do you know that?”

“I watched a show about it. Bonnie wrote poetry. Maybe I should compose some verses about our adventures.”

He laughs. “Over the river and through the woods, to kill Gino Nardone we go?”

“I like to think I’d come up with something more… poetic.”

He gives me a quick glance. “You do know that Bonnie and Clyde’s story doesn’t end well, right?”

I try not to think about Nic and me getting shot in this stolen car. "True. But they didn't have your strategic mind leading the way. Plus, I'm way smarter than Bonnie."

I reach for the radio, switching it on. A familiar guitar riff fills the car, and I can't help but sing along.

"You know this song?" Nic asks, sounding surprised.

"The Killers? Of course. Mr. Brightside is a classic."

“Were you even born then?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. When did it come out?”

“Early 2000s, I think.”

Probably not, but I don’t want to say that and remind him of our age difference. He doesn’t say it’s a problem, but a part of me wonders why he keeps trying to back away from me.

“What do you like to listen to? Mozart?” Okay, so I’m making an age joke.

“Ha-ha. Classical music isn’t bad. It’s calming when… well… never mind.”

“When committing crime?”

He nods. “I like rock. Classic, but contemporary as well.”

“Do you like Radiohead?”

“I listened to Karma Police in law school." He drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat.

“You’re not such an old man, after all.”

He shakes his head. "I think I proved that pretty thoroughly last night."

Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I hold his gaze. "You certainly showed impressive… stamina."

He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Careful, or I might have to pull over and demonstrate again."

I bite my lip, torn between embarrassment and desire. I’m glad we’re in a good place now, though. I hope we can keep it up until our ordeal ends.

The lighthearted mood evaporates as we cross into New Jersey. Through the windshield, I spot the flashing lights of a police checkpoint ahead.

“Fuck.” Nic scans the area. “Dammit.”

“What?”

“There’s no exit before we reach it. I can’t detour without creating suspicion.”

“Why are they stopping people?”

“No clue.” He pulls out his wallet as we pull behind a car in line. He pulls out a card from the back. I note that it’s a driver’s license but it has another name. “Check the glovebox and tell me the name of the registered owner. See if his insurance is in there too.”

I do as he asks. “James Reader. What if this is about the stolen car?”

He shakes his head. “I doubt it’s that.” But he looks grim. I feel like he’s not telling me something. “Hand me the ball cap.” He puts it on, bringing it low across his brow.

"What do we do?" I whisper, watching the line of cars inch forward.

"Act natural. You're my girlfriend and we're heading home from visiting family. This is your brother Jimmy’s car. He leant it to us when ours broke down.”

I nod, trying to steady my breathing. Five cars ahead of us now. My palms grow sweaty as I watch the officers peer into each vehicle, checking IDs and asking questions. I also notice there are a lot of guns.

Three cars.

Nic shifts in his seat and angles his face slightly away from the window.

Two cars.

My heart pounds so hard I worry the officers will hear it. I try to appear relaxed, like any normal passenger, but I’m pretty sure I’m not being successful.

One car.

"If anything happens," Nic says under his breath, "Tell them I kidnapped you. Call your sister."

I don’t want to do that. He’s helping me. Why would I turn on him?

Nic's face transforms as we pull up to the checkpoint. The hard edges of his expression soften, and an easy smile replaces his usual guarded look. Even his posture changes, becoming more relaxed and open.

“Afternoon, Officer.”

"License, registration, and proof of insurance." The officer shines his flashlight into our car.

"Of course. What’s going on?" Nic pulls out his fake driver's license and hands him the car registration. Inwardly, I send a prayer up that the car hasn’t been reported stolen or that the report hasn’t reached this far east.

“What’s your business?”

"Just heading back from my girlfriend's parents' place. First time meeting them. Nerve-racking stuff, right?"

I’m impressed at how smoothly he delivers the lie. The officer's stern expression cracks slightly as Nic continues spinning a story about our fictional weekend, adding just enough specific details to make it believable without overdoing it. He even jokes about my father's terrible cooking, making the officer chuckle.

I force myself to smile and nod at appropriate moments, trying to match Nic's easy demeanor.

“Hold here.” The officer walks away, taking Nic’s fake ID and the registration. When he returns, he stands outside the driver’s side. "Step out of the vehicle, sir." The officer's casual tone vanishes, replaced by stern authority.

“What’s the problem?” Nic opens the door as if to comply, but he doesn’t get out.

"There seems to be a problem with your registration, sir."

This is it. Our running has come to an end.