Blood to Dust (27 page)

“Did I hurt you, Cockburn?” His full eyes cut to my split lip, and I’m filled with horror, because I can actually feel the tears stinging the backs of my eyeballs again.

I’m taking this partnership way too far.

“No. Well, yeah, it hurt, but I still enjoyed it.”

“Then why are you crying?” He pushes his hair back, furrowing his brows. “Tell me.”

I shake my head no. It’s starting to get a little chilly in the pool, but I don’t budge.

“Hey, Nate, can I ask you something? And don’t get offended.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me too. What am I not getting offended about?”

“When exactly are we parting ways? I need to have a real date in my head, so we can. . .you know, plan everything and make sure we’re ahead of the game.”

Nate moves his hand over his beautiful wet hair, drops of water decorating his thick eyebrows, eyelashes and strong jaw. God, his face. It’s only been twenty-four hours and I’m already addicted. How will I live without seeing it every day?

“How about next Wednesday I take off to Mexico? It leaves us plenty of time to take out those two clowns. Camden will have to come to the States once he hears his father dropped dead, so maybe I can even help you out with him. A whole week is enough. Trust me.”

I nod silently. There I have it. A date. A deadline. A defined, obvious end to whatever it is I’ve built with this guy.

“Thanks.”

“You’re shivering,” he says, rubbing my arms up and down, splashing water around us. “Let’s get back to the presidential suite. Order some room service,” he jokes. I laugh a little on the outside and die a lot on the inside.

Hell, I’m in love with three men.

Beat, the felon.

Nate, the poet.

And Christopher Delaware, who I don’t even know yet.

We’ve got them. The motherfucking passports.

It’s bittersweet to see my ticket to freedom clasped in Pea’s small hand. I’ve never had a passport, so I’m no expert, but this one looks legit. It has my face on it, and the identity of Christopher Delaware is real. Meaning, the poor motherfucker does exist. Only now, I’ve regressed back to being twenty-five and apparently I was born in Nebraska.

Nebraska shares a border with Iowa, the bane of my existence and Pea’s next stop.

Did I mention I fucking hate Iowa?

Prescott has her new ID. I’m glad she does, because it’s a great way to cover her ass. And what an ass that is. Speaking of, she’s been walking funny all day today, so I’m glad we spent most of it in the Beatmobile, heading north back to Stockton. I know she’s sore from yesterday, and I should feel guilty, but honestly? Couldn’t be more thrilled. She let me into her ass. That’s like code for
Ask me on a date
or something.

I was just about to. For a second there, when we were in the pool, I was about to throw all the fucks I give about my safety out the window and just go for it. I wanted to ask her if she’d like to go to dinner when this is all over. Not here in California. But maybe somewhere else. Maybe even in fucking Iowa, for all I care. After all, by then, I’ll be Christopher Delaware.

Then she threw the deadline in my face, and reminded me that we’re just a business arrangement with a little pleasure tossed in.

A lot of pleasure tossed in.

Still, it’s work. She wanted to know when I’d leave, and I gave her an exact date because she put me on the spot. It’s not like I’m counting the days and hours I have left with her, but I’m not gonna lie, it stings like a bee-tch.

I fling a look in her direction from the driver’s seat, watching her squeezing her stress ball, eyes trained on the road.

“We need to crash somewhere outside of Stockton. The deeper we get into their territory, the better their chances of finding us,” I say.

“I know a place in Lodi, so far away even the owner isn’t sure where it is exactly. I’ll pull the address.” She turns her body to the back seat and fiddles with her backpack. I peer down to check the time on the dashboard and see that time is on our side. It must be a sign from God.

“I’m pulling over to take a piss and pump some gas.”

“Cool.” She awards me with the same treatment as her word. She’s never been so cold to me before.

Fuck it, she doesn’t have to like me, and it’s probably even better if she doesn’t. It’ll only make things easier when she pisses off to Iowa.

I shut off the engine and stride into the bathroom while Prescott pumps gas. It’s becoming harder to leave her to do things on her own without the nagging fear of them taking her again. This time, I may not be there to release her. I take the fastest leak in the history of piss, and when I get back, I spot her standing just outside of the gas station, next to a payphone, one finger stuffed into an ear and the other ear covered by her cell phone. She’s talking to someone animatedly.

Who the fuck is she talking to and how is it more important than guarding our stupid, impractical car?

I stride in her direction, knowing that I’m intruding and not giving a damn. Our destinies are chained for the time being. This is not about acting like a jealous boyfriend.

Because I’m not her boyfriend.

And I ain’t jealous.

Right.

“Okay,” she says and nods into the phone. “Yes, of course. Whatever you want. Whatever you need. Thanks again for reaching out, I really appreciate it.”

Pea, polite and well behaved? That’s new and unbecoming. When she hangs up and slants an eyebrow in question, I fold my arms on flexed pecs. I’m tense, and not just because of this phone call. Something feels off. It’s in the air. It’s in her eyes. It’s fucking everywhere. Life taught me how to recognize when things are about to explode, and right now, I need a bulletproof vest.

“Who was it?”

“None of your business,” she chirps with a sugary smile. I grab the hem of her jacket and pull her to my body, invading her personal space.

“Spill it, Cockburn, or I’m riding your ass dry tonight.”

“I swear to God, Nate, call me Cockburn one more time and I—”

The payphone behind her starts ringing. We don’t pay attention. At first, it doesn’t even register at all. All I hear is snippets of our conversation. Some are things I tell her, some are things she tells me.

“. . .maybe if you didn’t act like a cold-hearted bitch. . .”

“. . .I’ve never met someone so self-centered. . .”

“Next Wednesday can’t come soon enough. . .”

Finally, when the payphone doesn’t stop ringing for a full minute, and the sound somehow becomes ear deafening, it dawns on me that:

A) Our car was left unattended and we’re in a fucking rundown gas station.

B) Payphones don’t usually ring, let alone for so long.

C) We better pull our shit together if we want to get out of this alive.

“Shut up, Prescott, I mean it, just shut the hell up.” I’m tired of her hot and cold behavior, and I’m really pissed with her for not letting me in on who she was talking to. It’s making me edgy and suspicious of the girl I like.

The girl I like
. Great. So I did grow a bushy vagina after all.

I trudge toward the payphone, pick it up and press it to my ear. I don’t even have to say
hello
. The second the receiver hits my skin, a cockney accent seeps from the other end.

“Hello, Nathaniel. You know, I thought you were a lot smarter than this. Granted, not a bloody genius, but clever enough to know my game is too dangerous for you. You’re lucky you’re in the middle of a highway.”

I look around me, trying to spot him or one of his wise guys. Where could they be? Cars flash by from each side of the highway, golden mountains fill every corner of our landscape. There are two other cars and one truck driver lazing around the gas station, so I bet wherever they are, the only reason we’re still alive is because they can’t aim straight at our heads without missing. I’m trying not to panic, but one look at Prescott, and I’m seeing red. Her eyes widen in shock when she realizes who I’m talking to. Well, technically, I haven’t spoken yet, but that’s about to change.

“Now, now, Nate. You know I’m a saint, so I’m willing to let this one go. Just this time. Go back to the car. Act as if nothing’s happened. Hand the girl back to us. I’ll be waiting in my office. I want her delivered straight to my door. Do it, and I’ll spare your miserable, meaningless life. Got it?”

The hair on the nape of my back stands up in warning, but I take comfort in one thing. God’s in Blackhawk. Otherwise he wouldn’t have directed me to his office. That means someone else is watching us. And I bet it’s his little toy soldier, Sebastian.

“Am I clear?” he repeats, this time louder. His urgency doesn’t escape me.

“Yeah,” I answer indifferently, propping a lazy foot on a step under the payphone, holding the receiver between my ear and shoulder. Purposely looking like I couldn’t give two shits. “But there’s one little problem.”

“And what would that be?”

“She’s not going to be any good for you.”

“How so?” He seems intrigued.

“Well. . .” I glance fleetingly in her direction. She’s looking at me like I’m the Messiah, shifting her weight between her feet nervously, choking the stress ball in her fist. “Because soon, you’ll be dead. And dead people? They don’t really need a companion, Godfrey my friend.”

He barks out a laugh that bounces off my ribcage, not quite reaching my heart, but having enough impact to make me shiver.

“If you’re going to shoot the king, you better make sure that he’s dead. I’m so much stronger than you,
Nathaniel.
”

“And I’m so much angrier,
Godfrey
,” I warn quietly. “You better start running, because we ain’t stopping until we play fucking football with your head. No hourglass in the world is going to stop us this time.”

Pea’s eyes are so big right now, I can see my whole reflection dancing against her irises. I’m trying to read her face, and if I ain’t wrong, I see admiration, surprise, panic, anger and confusion. It’s a lot, but it’s all there in those hazels.

“Goodbye, Godfrey.” I smirk then slam the phone with a loud bang. Prescott rubs my arm, eyes bright and wide. She looks startled, but there’s also something soft behind those brown-greens.

“I don’t know how to. . .” she mutters, looking away. Heartbreaking expressions of surprise, terror and gratitude paint her face. She can trust me, and she knows it. No more fucking around with my dagger in her panties. “Thank you.”

“Who were you speaking to?” My tone may be dry, but my heart is doing cartwheels. I guide her to the car by throwing an arm over her shoulder, mainly to shield her whole body from behind. I’m not sure why I’m protecting her life with mine.

Actually, I am. But saying it aloud, or even thinking about it makes me want to punch my own face. We practically run to the car, working our way so that we’re always close to the other customers at the gas station.

“Someone named Dorian. He says he’s Preston’s counselor.” She’s breathless, trying to keep up with my pace. “Dorian said Preston is in rehab in Vallejo. Got into a bit of trouble with booze, but he’s getting better now. That’s really good. That means that he’s alive, Nate.”

“Why wouldn’t he be alive?” My brows furrow. She lifts her shoulders. “He was always haunted by a lot of things. Our family, his sexuality, life in general. But this. . .this is a breakthrough. I need to go there, Nate. I need to see my brother.”

Alarm bells. Loud and deafening, fill every space between my ears. She can’t hear them, clouded by the euphoria of finding her only loveable family member. But it seems really fucking convenient that Preston shows up right along with Godfrey and Sebastian. In a rehab facility in Vallejo, a place we don’t know, a place with miles and miles of dead zones where they can corner us, catch us and end us.

Still, I gotta tread around this subject carefully.

“When were you planning to do that, Baby-Cakes?”

“Tomorrow,” she says. I open the door for her and shove her in, slamming it in her face. “Come on, Nate.” Her head pops out through the open window. Goddamn, does she want them to shoot her between the eyes? “It’d be quick. If we get suspicious, we’ll make a U-turn. What do you say?”

Hell to the no with a side of absolutely no chance.

“Get your head in the car, Cockburn.” I push her forehead into the vehicle. “And slide the fuck down before I kill you myself.”

With that, I jog to my side of the car. We gotta get this freak show back on the road, before one of Godfrey’s spies slays us.

Jumping into the Beatmobile, knowing full well that we’re being followed, I zigzag into small towns, populated residential areas and busy highways. There’s a RAM that’s about as low profile as a circus clown shadowing our every turn. I bite down on my tongue to stop myself from barking at her. She’s fucking insane for wanting to go after Preston when we’re being hunted like easy prey in an open field.

“I can see the bastards,” she swallows uneasily, her eyes narrowing into slits. Her gaze clicks with the young black man in the RAM, who drives behind us, through our rearview mirror. There’s a fat white guy next to him, grinning like a crocodile. If I get my hands on him, he’s going to look like he’s been mauled by one.