Floored by Ainslie Paton

the two of them had talked about putting her in a witness protection program. It’d cost more than what her chauffeur’s fee was and there was no guarantee she’d be accepted into it or, now that he knew what she was like, stay put. She was already running from something. As unorthodox as this was, it was preferable, and skating inside the edge Stud was prepared to sanction. But she had to get in the fucking car and drive.
    She probably hadn’t slept much either. She’d waited a good two hours, until she thought he’d passed out, before she came down the stairs to the car only to find her keys missing. He’d watched her through dusty curtains from a third room across from his own, with Stud sitting behind him on the bed, on the phone, making arrangements for the car to be refitted, and giving him curry about the stapling.
    She’d tipped the contents of her bag out on the ground hunting for her keys. She looked towards his room. She knew he took them. She was too embarrassed, too caught in the lie of running, after she said she’d stay, to knock on his door. He hadn’t enjoyed seeing fear and frustration war in her. Or the defeated way she went back to her own room. That’s why he didn’t mention it now. She didn’t need any more crap thrown at her.
    But if she didn’t get with the program and right now, it’d be a different story. He’d rain such shit down on her she’d wish she walked back to the city in the dead of night. His undercover self wasn’t a nice guy—unless it suited him to get something done. And today, it simply didn’t suit him.
    “When you’re fucking ready, Driver.”
    “What’s in the cake tin?” She so wasn’t ready.
    “Cake.”
    They’d be having a staring competition if she’d meet his eyes. She kept her gaze down on the oil-stained driveway. “Is anything you say the truth?”
    “No. I’m the liar of the year. But you already know that. I don’t see that it makes much difference. A liar’s money is as good as anyone else’s in the bank.”
    They did the non-staring thing. Her eyes on Rorschach blots on the cement, his on her tension-filled frame.
    “Catch.” He tossed the keys high. She could get in the car and run, and Stud would pick her up and pull official police business on her, or she could make some sign she was going to co-operate. “I’m going to pack up.” He left her standing there with the keys in her hand, expecting to hear the engine come to life while his back was turned.
    He heard the car door close. He heard the locks engage. He stuffed yesterday’s bloodstained clothing in one of the plastic shopping bags. He sat on the edge of the bed to wrestle his boots on. It was quiet out there: distant traffic, the TV in the next room, a kid wailing, someone on the stairs. She wasn’t driving away. She was going back to her room. He rolled back on the bed and closed his eyes. That was all the fight he had left in him. Now he needed breakfast, the bank and to get out of here.
    In six hours they’d be in Leeton. The day after—Mildura. When they were a thousand or more clicks away from the city, he could take a deep breath again. If he was lucky no one would be looking for Fetch that far out of the city. Driver would be safe. If she ditched him in Mildura and it took her another two days to drive home, she’d have been out of the scene for four full days. Her trail would be cold. With her Statesman so well camouflaged and that business card leading back to Stud, she’d be in the safe zone.
    He lay on the bed till he heard her on the stairs again. Then he got up and pulled a t-shirt on. He knew he made her uncomfortable when he wasn’t fully dressed. Fair enough. And he’d meant what he said about not going to her room. This was a business proposition and a police matter, not a two-bit driving holiday with a reluctant girlfriend. He was her client. She was his driver. That’s it. That was clean, easy, decent. And safe.
    Now his only issue was making