Page 76 of Wicked Auction

Torin reaches into the back seat and comes back with the black bag. “Remind me never to chase you by car,” he says wryly. “Wig.”

I yank it off with one hand. My own hair is still in a damp bun.

“Good girl,” he says quietly, and something in his voice does something to my chest that I'm going to ignore. “Can't believe you fucking lost them.”

“Did I not say I could?”

I don't smile on purpose. It happens anyway, and then my stomach lurches the other direction. Oh no. The nausea is sudden and absolute, and I barely have time to get us onto the shoulder before I'm out of the car and on one knee on the asphalt, heaving.

His hand rests on the back of my neck while I finish—my body doing what it's doing without my permission as I kneel on the side of the road in a dress that cost more than my first car, vomiting into the dark.

“Fuck, baby. I’m sorry,” he says. “You did so good. I'm so proud of you.”

“Must’ve been the alcohol and adrenaline. Yay.” I spit, then wipe my mouth. “We have to go.”

“I'll drive.”

I don't argue. My legs aren't steady, and I know it, so arguing would be pointless. He picks me up, puts me in the passenger seat with an efficiency that leaves no room for discussion, practically throwing me in, then reaches across to buckle me. Then we're moving again, and he's doing at least a hundred through the tunnel that leads to Logan.

I rest my head back against the seat and look at the lights blurring overhead.

“Change.”

He strips out of his shirt while he drives, which is a remarkable feat, pulling on a polo with one hand while the other stays on the wheel. He moves like a man who has done this before.

I look through the carry-on he hands me next. There's a fake passport, a wad of cash, and a phone charger.

“Now your turn,” he says.

I quickly change into the clothes he packed. He thought of everything. I decide just to leave my hair as is in the bun, but I slide on a pair of glasses with clear lenses. I pull down the rearview mirror as I adjust my hair and take in the new look.

He does too, giving me a sidelong glance as we're driving 90 mph down the interstate through a tunnel.

“Keep those,” he says in a dangerous purr. And just like that, I imagine myself on my back, my legs wrapped around him…

The glasses are paired with a preppy white button-down shirt, slim-fitting jeans, and canvas sneakers. God, it feels good to wear normal clothes again.

I hear a siren in the distance, and he grips the steering wheel so tight, his knuckles whiten.

“There are loads of hospitals in Boston,” I remind him. “Might not be for you.”

The sirens fade as we take the exit. I reach into his black bag, pull out some gum, then fix my gaze on a point ahead of me through the windshield and breathe through my nose. I don't think about the way the road is moving.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m fine.”

“You're the color of the inside of a sink.”

“Ewww.” I sigh. “I’m thinking about the ID switch, about my brother being there and what it means, and about the fact that we’re standing, like your brother said, in the wide open with a spotlight on us.”

“Good.” He nods. “We've got this. Take out the little black box. Front pocket.”

“Are you sure it's already time to take the tracker out? I mean, we have to go through security, and then we have to get to the gate.”

“It’s time.”

“I’ve never done an identity switch at Logan Airport. It's kind of sprawling, isn't it?”