All evidence to the contrary, Al was not a heartless bitch. Oh, she tried, but somewhere down in that blackened pit she called a soul, there was a little sparkle of humanity that kept coming to the surface at the most inopportune moments.
So after she locked him in the trunk, she stayed nearby, listening to make sure he would be all right. She heard a few halfhearted thumps as he kicked out at the walls in frustration, followed by a sneeze, and then silence.
So, she was right. He was sick. That, or the dust in there was bothering him.
When she was sure he wasn't going to explode, she went back to get the bags she had dropped. She lovingly picked up her crumpled trench coat, straightening wrinkles and brushing away the dirt that clung to the dark wool. The man should be shot for mistreating such a good coat, honestly.
She stowed her bags in the car and carefully unfolded the blanket she had covered him with yesterday. She would have to give it to him—she really didn't want him to freeze—but she wasn't sure what would happen when she opened the trunk. Every time she thought she had him pinned down, he managed to surprise her as violently as possible. The only thing that had saved her so far was that she could think on her feet, while he seemed to need a little more time to plan.
And leaving him alone in there would give him plenty of time for that…
All right, do it quick. Like a band-aid.
She unlocked the trunk and flung it open, prepared to use the blanket as a shield.
But it wasn't necessary this time. He just glared up at her, shivering slightly and looking absolutely pathetic (without losing an ounce of rage.)
"Here," she said, tossing the blanket over him. "Stay warm. I'll stop and feed you later."
"You said you'd take off the straitjacket."
"Sorry. If I can't see you, this is the next best thing. I'm not leaving you loose in here."
"Wait!"
She slammed the trunk shut. He yelled something that was muffled, but probably pretty unflattering. She smiled. Poor little guy.
