Hunter Hayes Imgaines

DRIVE! (Part 2)

At the sight of a figure darting in front of the car I immediately push on the breaks. I'm a second too late.
    I hit the figure with the front of my truck, causing them to go crashing to the ground. I sit there, frozen in my seat.

I just hit someone with my truck. I put both of my hands on the back of my head. This is going to bite me in the butt. I can just imagine the paparazzi and reporters blowing this incident forever.

Just as I'm about to get out of the car to check out whoever I hit, the figure pops right onto their feet, locking eyes with me. Her hair looks like a mess as it's sprayed over her face and sticking to a line of blood dripping from her temple.

I caused that. Crap.

Police sirens sound from a distance, probably a few blocks over. The girl, her eyes wide but not frightened, runs over to the passenger side of the truck. She opens it, throws a full duffel bag onto the ground, and jumps in before shutting the door behind her. She turns to me, out of breath.

"DRIVE!"
##

I stare at her incredulously. “WHO ARE YOU?”

The woman rolls her eyes and climbs over the console between our seats, stomping her left foot onto the gas pedal. We blast off. I scramble frantically to get my hands on the steering wheel to keep us from wrecking.

The girl, sweat dripping off her forehead, turns to me as we fly down the street. “Keep your foot on the gas, would ya?”

Scared and terrified and just plain shocked, I do as I’m told and replace her foot on the gas pedal. I pray that she doesn’t take out a gun and hold it to my head next.

When she tugs the duffle bag onto her lap and opens it, I tense up and flinch. She pulls out a granola bar and tears into it. She gives me a offended look. “What’d you think was in the bag?”

“Gee, I don’t know, a weapon or explosive or a gun?!” I exclaim. “What am I expected to expect?”

She scoffs. “Gosh, if I knew you were this moody then I would’ve just gotten hit by a different car.” Before I can respond, she takes ahold of the steering wheel and then jerks it so that we turn sharply into an alleyway. I let out a yelp in surprise and fear. She quickly puts the car in park and then tears out the key, the lights on the car going out.

My heart beats loudly in my chest. “What’s going on?” I ask, panting as I try to catch my breath.

The woman smiles slyly. “You, my good sir, were just my getaway driver. Thank you for your assistance.” She turns and reaches out to open her door, but I quickly lock it with a button on my door. She tugs on it, then shoots me a glare. “Why’d you lock it?”

“Please,” I say, “just tell me who you are and why the cops were after you. I think as your getaway driver I have the right to know.”

The woman slumps back into the seat, playing with the strap of the duffel bag. “You’re pretty nosy.”

“You’re a pretty criminal.” I blush as soon as it comes out. I cough. “I mean, you seem like a criminal.”

She ignores my slip-up and sighs. “I’m not criminal.” She opens the bag and I flinch, earning a glare, and then she pulls out some more food. I stare at it, confused. She stuffs it back into the bag.

“No weapons. Not a criminal.”

“Why do you have so much food in there?” I ask, then my eyes widen. “Did you steal it?”

“I’d call it more as taking in plain sight and no one noticing until I pathetically dropped it onto the ground and half of it fell out,” she mutters. I purse my lips, thinking. She takes in my expression. “You’re going to turn me in.”

“No,” I say, then turn on the car again. She jumps up.

“The cops-”

“I don’t hear them anymore,” I tell her. I then start to drive. She watches me with confusion and curiosity.

“Where are we going?” she asks after about ten minutes of silence and driving.

“My place.”

“Wait-”

“Don’t freak out,” I tell her, seeing her expression. “I’m not a creepy pervert. I just want to help you.”

She narrows her eyes. “Help me?”

“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my head. “You stole the food. You couldn’t pay for it, am I right?” She doesn’t answer, so I continue. “Where do you live?” She still doesn’t answer, but this time I press. “Miss?”

“My name’s (y/n), not miss,” she snaps, then sighs, “and I don’t really have a house.”

I nod. “Would you mind staying the night at my place? I have a spare bedroom that has a pretty hard lamp that you could use as a weapon if you don’t trust me.”

She bites her lip, thinking. “You don’t have to.”

“I was a crappy getaway driver, so I could at least give you a place to sleep.” I glance at her as I drive. “So? What do you say?”

She smiles faintly. “Thanks. And, just so you know, I know karate if you try to pull anything on me.”