Hell's Kitchen by Lili St Germain, Callie Hart Page B

still in there, asshole.”
    I smile broadly as I unfold myself, stepping out of the open door and into the alleyway I’ve directed him down. “Excellent. Open the trunk, please.”
    The annoyed look on his face morphs into actual fear. “Hey, man, just take the car, okay? It’s insured. I won’t say nothing to nobody. Hell, I didn’t even see you.”
    If only that were the truth. “It’s okay,” I say. “I won’t kill you. But I really need you to open that trunk.”
    He looks past me to Scarlett, lying unconscious on the backseat. “You gonna put her in there?” he asks, his tone almost hopeful.
    “Sure,” I lie. He looks relieved. I fight the urge to smack him out. I’ll be able to do that in just a moment.
    “Hurry,” I urge, shaking the gun at him. With great reluctance, he reaches in through his open driver’s door and presses a button.
    “It’s open,” he says, and if Scarlett thought I was sweating, she obviously hasn’t seen the river pouring off this guy’s shiny bald forehead. He’s freaking the fuck out.
    “Go round and open it up,” I say, my eyes never leaving his.
    “I got heart problems,” he says. “I can’t be in confined spaces!”
    I raise my eyebrows at him. “Get in,” I demand, pushing him toward the trunk and smacking the back of his head with the side of the Glock. He yelps, covering his head with his hands. “Okay, okay.”
    He clambers in awkwardly, until finally he’s on his side in the trunk.
    “If you have a heart attack in there, I’ll kill you,” I say, slamming the trunk forcefully.
    I make my way to the driver’s door, pausing to shut the door I just used to exit the backseat. Scarlett’s still sleeping like a baby, her chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. I didn’t kill her with my little artery trick. Thank Christ. She’s of no use to me dead.
    I get in the driver’s seat and push the chair back, catching a glance of myself in the rearview mirror. I’m still wearing my driver’s cap.
    How fitting.
    I tip my cap to myself in the mirror, take the emergency brake off, and ease the car back into the busy morning traffic; my soundtrack the oscillating ringtone of my brother’s desperation.

FIVE

    SCARLETT

    When I come to, my neck feels tender, bruised almost. I look around, wondering where the fuck I’ve ended up today. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve passed out and forgotten where I am.
    A steady diet of booze and pills will do that to a person.
    I scrub my hand across my face, the gesture meant to make my vision clearer somehow, but it doesn’t work. My eyes feel crusty, my mouth is dry as fuck, and I can hear someone singing along to a song about city boys born and raised in south Detroit.
    And then I remember.
    I sit bolt upright, taking a huge gasp of air in as I do so. Salvatore is driving, still wearing that ridiculous-looking cap as he sings off-key. I take in the buildings outside as they pass by, quickly recognizing the Meatpacking District. My guess is proven correct when I catch sight of a sign for Bleecker Street. We haven’t gone far, which makes me hopeful that I can still somehow get out of this pinch. But first … Something’s missing. Something isn’t right.
    “Where’s the driver?” I ask dumbly, scanning the backseat. No answer. I realize he can’t hear me through the Plexiglas that separates us, especially with the music turned up so loud. I pound my fist into the clear divider to get his attention. “Hey, motherfucker!” I yell.
    He turns and flashes me a grin. “Good morning, Scarlett Winchester .” His voice is muffled somewhat by the divider, but I can still hear well enough as he drawls my name. He lets the syllables roll slowly off his tongue like he’s my best friend, or my lover, and that’s annoying. Especially since it’s not even my real name. Scarlett Smith was far too boring for Hollywood casting agents, and my daddy liked to collect rare guns. I was almost Scarlett Colt, until I