How the Hitman Stole Christmas - Sam Mariano Page 0,18

Dumpster of the farm supply store down the street.

Or, hell, Jasper’s experienced—maybe he’ll hide me somewhere better and they’ll never even find me.

Even if they do and he doesn’t get away with it, I won’t feel any better. I’ll be dead.

I don’t even look over at Jasper when he gets in the car. He shoves the bag into the backseat with all the others, but I don’t look. I don’t want to know what’s inside.

I’m silent as he drives us back to the motel. He uses a knife to cut my zip ties and then he climbs out. He didn’t tell me what he wanted me to do, so I sit there and rub my wrists until he comes over and opens the door for me.

“Come on out,” he says.

I shoot him a dirty look, but I don’t sass him. He’s clearly nuts, and I don’t want to provoke him to do anything more horrible to me than he is probably already planning to.

Once we’re inside the dated, dingy motel room, I squeeze into the tiny bathroom so I can finally pee. The space is so small I have to practically climb in the bathtub to close the door. I’m surprised Jasper even lets me, but before I get the flimsy door all the way shut, he slams a hand against it to stop it closing.

Startled, I jump. My wary gaze darts to his.

He holds out his hand expectantly. “Cell phone.”

I frown, but I dig it out of my purse and hand it to him. Don’t know why he wants the damn thing—it doesn’t work.

Once he has the phone, he moves out of the way so I can shut myself in the bathroom for a little privacy.

It doesn’t feel like privacy. The room is so small, it feels claustrophobic.

Panic claws at me from the inside. Even in relative safety with the insubstantial barrier of the door between us, all I can think about is the white plastic bag from the adult store. Jasper brought that bag inside and dropped it on the single, small bed in the room. As soon as he started taking things out of it, I felt so ill I remembered I needed to pee, and that’s how I ended up in the bathroom.

I’m terrified to find out what’s in that bag.

It gets harder to breathe when I think about it.

I need to get a grip. I need to figure this out. Surely there is a better way to handle this. Surely I don’t have to be murdered in this fleabag motel in the middle of Bumfuck, Wisconsin.

Nope, I’m not going out that way. I’m not.

I take a deep breath and let it out as I look in the mirror. There is a light in the bathroom, but it’s so dim, it might as well be a candle.

Once I feel like I can breathe without needing to vomit, I square my shoulders and wedge myself into a corner so I can open the door and slip out.

Jasper has taken his coat off and now he’s just standing there in a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt.

Despite my reluctance to investigate the contents of the bag, I can’t help noticing a few things right away.

There’s a white box with a picture of a lady on the front wearing some kind of face harness with a ball in her mouth. There’s another larger white box, I can’t tell what’s in it but there’s a picture of a woman kneeling in front of a man with her hands together like she’s praying.

On the bed beside the boxes are two piles of lace. I walk closer and see that one pile is a black bra and panty set, and the second pile is a red lace thong with a matching top that covers a little more than a bra but would still leave my belly button exposed.

He bought me lingerie?

Glancing over and seeming to read my mind—or maybe just the confusion on my face—he explains, “Figured you might need a change of underwear since you didn’t have a chance to pack. They didn’t have a whole lot I thought you might like, but these seemed okay.”

I guess that was nice. Wouldn’t want to get murdered in dirty panties. How embarrassing.

“Thanks,” I murmur, picking up the red lace set and holding it up. Somehow it looks like there’s even less material now that I’m looking at it.

If he plans for me to need to change panties, he must not intend to