I'd like to say that since we kissed there's been some kind of unsaid understanding between the two of us. That we've developed a kind of affection toward each other and are now getting along better.

If the fact that I was handcuffed to the car door and Ryder had moved his gun from his holster to his lap was any indication, that was not the case.

We'd said our goodbyes to Sarah and started down the road. We had maybe gone a total of ten feet before the arguing started.

In my defense, it's completely his fault.

I simply asked him if I could drive. I was unaware that letting me drive is a cardinal sin in his eyes and he'd rather drive the car straight into a ravine. Apparently, the control freak can't stop acting like an ass long enough to let me drive.

Since I couldn't drive the car, I decided to drive him crazy.

Somehow the idiot had managed to wrestle with me and handcuff me to the door without ever straying off the road or crashing. I was actually impressed and then pissed because he'd handcuffed me once again.

He then threatened me with his gun when I purposely continued to clang the metal bracelet into the car door repeatedly.

I stare out the window at the passing scenery as Control Freak Stevenson continues to drive, his gaze fixated on the road. My attention strays from the scene out the window and on to the car's radio.

"Don't even think about it," Ryder says. He doesn't even glance my way, or at least, I don't think he does. I can't see behind his sunglasses.

I narrow my eyes at him. "I would like something else to listen to other than your voice. It sounds like a dying cat."

"Someone's clearly in a good mood," He says sarcastically. "I don't want the radio on. I want to listen."

"To what? The sounds of me dying of boredom?"

"That would be worth listening to," He replies.

I get the unmistakable urge to hit him.

I glare out the window, wishing he'd just disappear in a puff of smoke.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. "Ryder?" I say. "How did Volkov know where I was?"

Ryder turns his head to look at me. "I don't know. I didn't have the chance to ask him. When I do I'll get back to you."

I glare at him as he stares straight ahead at the road. "I'm serious Ryder. There was no way for Volkov to know where I was."

"There was also no way for me to know where you were, remember?"

"Yeah but you-" I cut off abruptly. You put a tracker on me.

"But I, what?" Ryder asks me.

How could I be so careless? How could he be so stupid?

"Where does the signal go?"

"What are you talking about?" Ryder questions, confusion lacing his tone.

"The tracker. The glasses. Where does the signal go to?"

"My phone."

My irritation with him goes up a couple notches because of his tone.

"Who else can access it?" I ask.

"Me, myself and I."

I want to slap him. "I mean it Ryder, who else can access it?"

"Just me. It's hooked up to my phone. I can turn it on and off remotely whenever I want to," He replies and then pauses. "Well, when it's on the FBI can see it too. It's their tech."

I curse him out. Once I go through every name I can think of for him, I start repeating them all in French.

Ryder lets out a sigh. "There you go summoning the dead again. What is it with you and French?"

"Is the tracking device on right now?" I ask him.

He shakes his head. "No. I turned it off when I caught up with you. What's the problem?"

"Do not turn it on again."

"Don't give me a reason to."

I want to kill him. Okay, maybe killing him is taking it a bit far. I want to seriously maim him though.

"What's the problem matchstick?"

"The problem is that the FBI has access to the tracker."

"Only when it's on," Ryder says. "And I don't see how that's a problem."

"Do you know what bribes are?"

"I'm not an idiot."

"That's up for debate," I respond. "Volkov gets what he wants through bribes and extortion mostly. There are people in all forms of law enforcement on his payroll."

Ryder's jaw clenches as he finally understands the problem. "So he's likely to also have access to the tracker, but only when it's on."

"Not just that," I reply. "He's probably learned that the FBI is protecting me now as well."

Ryder nods and says nothing for a long moment, his jaw still clenched. His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "We can't go back to the FBI," He finally says. "We can keep in touch with Damien and my father, but no one else."

"Which also means we can't use any of the FBI safe houses."

Ryder nods slowly in agreement. "I'll figure something else out." He lets out a long sigh. "This is all your fault."

I know those words did not just come out of his mouth.

"Excuse me?" I practically growl.

"If you didn't keep trying to run off, I would not have had to put a tracker on you."

"It's your fault for putting the tracker on me to begin with. Nobody forced you to do it."

"You forced me," He retorts hotly.

"How do you figure that?"

While he goes on to explain how this is all my fault, I go on to try and tell him how it's actually entirely his fault. Though, with our voices clashing and steadily getting louder, I don't believe either one of us can actually hear the other.

What was a spirited argument-that I was going to win, might I add-has basically turned into a yelling match now.

I don't even know what he's saying. I can't make anything out of our voices clashing together as he continues to yell who knows what at me and I continue yelling threats and insults at him.

I'm so mad as I continue to yell back at him. I'm so mad I'm not paying any attention and one of the things I'd so successfully kept hidden for years slips out.

I don't even notice when it happens, but he does because he suddenly gets uncharacteristically quiet.

"What?" He says quietly.

It's a not question of what I just said. It's a question what just happened. Of what he heard. A question, I don't want to answer.

"What?" I repeat, my voice reverting back to normal.

Ryder turns to look at me before pulling the car over and to a stop. I debate the consequences of picking the lock on the handcuffs and jumping out the window.

He removes his sunglasses and narrows his eyes at me. "There's no way you're pretending that didn't just happen," He says lowly.

Watch me.

"Pretending what didn't just happen?"

His eyes narrow even more. "Nicky," His voice is a low growl and causes me to scoot across my seat and press myself firmly into the car door. "What, was that accent?"

Deny, deny, deny. "What accent?"

His glare gets even deadlier. "So help me gingersnap, I'll handcuff you to a light post and turn the tracker back on, see how long it takes Volkov to get to you."

"You wouldn't do that," I tell him.

"I would, actually," Ryder replies. "I'd just stick around to make sure you didn't get killed, and if Volkov happens to get shot in the process, all my problems are solved."

I don't reply and instead, make a point of completely avoiding his gaze.

"Are you going to answer me or not? You were speaking to me with an accent, now what was it?"

"Does it really matter?" I ask him.

"Yes," He replies.

"Why? Is knowing pertinent to keeping me safe?"

"Considering I'm debating the repercussions of handcuffing you to a light post, I'm going to have to go with, yes."

I let out a long breath of air and try to cross my hands over my chest. It doesn't exactly work since my one hand is still handcuffed to the door.

"French," I finally mutter.

Ryder shakes his head and starts the car back up again, pulling back onto the street. "Your file says you were born in the US, so are your parents originally from France?"

I don't answer. Mostly cause I'm trying to get the lie straight in my head before I start to tell it to him. I don't want to mess it up.

The file I created mentions nothing about me being adopted, so that's not something he needs to know. I don't recall if I put anything in the file about my fake parents being living or deceased, but since he used present tense I'm going to assume that means I've left them alive.

I do remember that I'm supposed to be an only child. So, no brothers in this story. He doesn't need to know that I was born and raised for the first five years of my life in France, since I was supposedly born in the US. So, ultimately, telling him my parents are originally from France would be the best bet since I could have potentially picked up the accent from them.

The accent I was doing so well hiding until he really pissed me off. This was my first slip up in years. Years. Not even Sarah's aware I have the accent.

"Yes," I finally reply to Ryder. "My parents were both born in France." Technically not a complete lie.

"Why do you hide the accent?" He asks me after a long silence.

I shrug. "An accent is sometimes more memorable than a face."

Ryder just nods absentmindedly as he continues to drive, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. "So that's how you know French," He mutters softly.

"How else would I know the language?" I question sarcastically.

"I don't know," He says. "You could have looked it up. You could have taken French in high school."

"Did you take French in high school?"

"No. I took Spanish." He looks my way. "Did you take French in high school?"

"Yes."

"Now that's just cheating."

"It is not."

"It is."

"No."

"Whatever you say, rusty."

"There are no rules against it," I tell him.

He scoffs. "There's an unspoken rule. You don't take a language you already know."

"Did you know Spanish before you took it?"

"I knew the numbers."

"And now?" I question.

"I know the numbers, how to ask for a restroom, and how to say that the fish is dead."

"When is that ever going to be helpful?"

"Hey," He starts. "It's not my fault I don't remember the language."

"So the only language you actually know is English," I clarify.

"Is that such a bad thing? Lots of people know English." He looks my way again for a second. "How many languages do you know? Just English and French?"

"I know Russian as well." The second the words come out of my mouth I wish I could take them back.

"Why?"

I look out the window and away from him. To tell him that Volkov taught it to me, is basically waving a red flag in his face and shouting "Hey, something's not adding up with this girl!"

"I don't want to talk about it," I finally mutter truthfully.

He seems to pick up something in my tone because he doesn't say anything.

After a long time of awkward silence, he lets out a light laugh. I turn away from the window and look at him curiously.

"What?" I question.

He just smiles and continues to stare out at the road. "I think that's the first real conversation we've had without it turning into bickering." He looks my way once again. "You're not so bad to actually talk to."

I can't help but smile back at him. "I wish I could say the same," I reply, but instead of my usual bitter tone, my tone is light and teasing for once.

He smiles wider. "Well I take it back talking with you is absolutely . . ."

He trails off and pauses for dramatic effect before looking over to me. "Horrendous."

I laugh and so does he. I stare out the window at the road in front of us and then turn back to him, only to notice he's looking at me with an odd glint in his eyes and a small smile on his face.

"What?" I question.

He shakes his head and smiles widely, putting his sunglasses back on over his eyes. "Nothing, carrot top. Nothing."

"Then, get your eyes back on the road before we crash."

Ryder purposely swerves the car.

"Ryder!" I shout.

He laughs loudly and goes back to staring out the window at the road ahead. "You've got nothing to worry about matchstick. I've never accidentally crashed a car."

I groan and bury my face in my hands. "That doesn't make feel better."

He slides his sunglasses down low enough to wink at me. "It wasn't supposed to."