Burn (9 page)

“Anyway. The fucker died three years ago. Someone killed him, cut him up real fucking good. I had to come to the hospital to ID him, and that’s when I saw you. You were waiting for an elevator, and I was just sitting there, trying to take it all in. That he was dead and he was obsolete and I didn’t even have to think about him anymore. And you…I took one look at you and I saw that you were just like me. Something had happened to you to make you turn off everything around you. You were walking through life looking and acting and sounding just like everyone else, but you weren’t. You had directed every last part of you inward. And I…” I need to hit something. I need to lay my fists into something solid and heavy. Fuck this. I shouldn’t be doing this. What the hell am I thinking? My hands are just itching to burn with some sort of pain, but instead I feel something warm and soft against the bare skin of my back. It’s not her hand this time. I exhale, looking up at the ceiling—why I’m sabotaging myself like this? It’s her lips. She’s kissing me. And it feels so fucking good. She stays still, as though she’s waiting for me to walk away. When I don’t, she presses her body flush with mine and slides her arms around my waist, linking small hands together over my stomach.

Fuck.

Shit, fuck, motherfucking bastard
.

I might as well finish now. This massive cluster fuck of a situation can hardly get any worse. “And…I wanted to know what had hurt you so badly, Sloane. So I made up my mind to do that. And I did. I found out about your sister. And Michael followed you when you went to see Eli that first time. And now here we are.”

I’m waiting for her to react, but all she does is stand there with her arms around me and her forehead pressed against my back, breathing in small, shallow breaths of air that she blows out across my skin. This is a first for me. I have no idea how to react to any of it. The only person I’ve ever told any of this is Michael, and that was only the raw instructions of it. Follow the girl, find out what she’s doing, don’t let her see you. That kind of thing. I never told him why, and he never asked.

Eventually I can sense she’s going to speak because her breathing cuts off for a moment, like she’s concentrating very hard on something. And then…

“How? How can you be so good and so dangerous at the same time, Zeth? You’re a contradiction.”

The scathing laughter erupts from me before I can rein it in. “There’s nothing good about me. I watched you. I followed you. I worked out what made you tick. I made plans to break into your life and manipulate you just like Eli did. I’m no better than he was.”

I can feel her forehead rolling against me as she shakes her head. “You’re not. You’re better than you think. Why don’t you want to admit it? You can’t, can you? Not even to yourself.”

There are a lot of things I can’t admit to myself. A lot. But being good isn’t one of them. I’m not blind—I know the kind of man I’m looking at when I find myself standing in front of a mirror. “Don’t get your hopes up, Sloane. There’s nothing here to be redeemed. Nothing here that you can try to fix.”

She’s quiet for a while. She probably didn’t wanna hear that. Most girls don’t. They all think they can change you. Iron out the creases in your screwed up life. But then she whispers, “I’m not gonna try and fix you. But…I would like to try and understand you.”

I feel like telling her the truth. That
I
don’t even understand me. I doubt that’ll do me any good, though. So I just stand there like an awkward motherfucker, trying not to enjoy the feel of her slim frame shifting against mine. This is fucked up five different ways from Sunday.

“Zeth?”

I grunt out a response. “Mmm?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

Oh, here we go. The needing part.
I
need a stiff drink. “What?”

“I need you to turn around and put your arms around me. Can you do that?”

The thing about Sloane is that she never says what I think she’s going to say. I’m definitely not expecting her to say that. She wants me to hold her. Holding someone like that, the way she’s actually holding me right now, isn’t about sex. It’s about something else. Something I’m not sure I have to give, and yet this morning I practically told her the exact opposite, knowing how it sounded.
You’re the girl who’s too blind to see what’s standing right in front of her.
Well, she’s throwing it right back at me now. She’s telling me she sees. And she
wants
it. Fuck. How did this end up happening? I should have just said I had the clap and gone and slept on the couch. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She’s been tensed against me while I’ve been running through every curse word I can think of in my head, and yet she hasn’t let go. She hasn’t panicked and run. She’s far more fucking brave than I am. So I turn, and I put my arms around her, and I hold her.

Zeth doesn’t sleep with me in the bed. He sleeps on the floor on the other side of the room, about as far away from me as he can get. I know he’s unconscious from the slow pull and draw of his breathing, deep and regular. I, on the other hand, can
not
sleep. Tonight didn’t exactly pan out the way I expected it to. I definitely didn’t expect to see a side of Zeth that frankly scared the shit out of me, made me feel completely vulnerable¸ and also like a complete fucker for blaming him for Alexis all this time either. If I’m honest, I didn’t even know I was blaming him. Not until I went and hung out with those girls.

They were mostly sweet and seemingly happy, but their lives weren’t exactly what I’d envisioned for Alexis. She wanted to study architecture. She wanted to create beautiful things that people would marvel at, and instead she’s been pounding shots of tequila and then having guys pound on
her
. God, why did I just think that? Just the idea of it makes me feel sick. I need a coffee. I need Pip. I need the safe little bubble I’ve created for myself back in Seattle. Or the bubble I
had
created before all of this happened. There’s probably no going back to it now. I have no idea if I can even go home without Zeth’s boss trying to kill me.

I pull out my cell phone from underneath my pillow, needing to do something. I automatically head to the messages and hit compose.

Me:

You awake? I need a mental assessment.

And then, a few moments later,

Pippa:

Yeah. As if I would ever be asleep at 2 am. What’s up, chica? Your vacay not as relaxing as it should be? I’m telling you, get a massage from a gorgeous boy. That’ll sort you right out.

I hate that I’ve lied to Pippa about my sudden disappearance, but she would have a fit if she knew where I really was. And who I was with. And what I was planning on doing. All of it, basically. The whole arrangement would cause her head to implode.

Me:

Massages! Yes! I’m planning on those. But as for relaxing…

Pippa:

Yeah, yeah. I know why you can’t sleep, woman. And you know I don’t approve.

Me:

I can’t help it

Pippa:

Finding another guy will take your mind off him! Go and flirt with Hawaiian surfer boys!

Me:

And if I don’t want Hawaian surfer boys?...

I almost can’t type the next part. To actually admit it to myself.

…What if I only want him?

Pippa:

Then we’re all doomed.

Pippa:

Don’t worry, chica. I’ll support you whatever you decide. I just think there are better guys out there for you. Try and get some sleep, okay?

I spend the next half an hour clutching hold of my phone, wondering if she’s right. Am I doomed if I go down this path? I can’t help but think I am. He said it himself—there’s no fixing him. And if he hadn’t told me about Eli and his plans for me, would I still be feeling this way right now? Would I still want to get out of this bed and go and curl up inside his arms over on the floor? God, why can’t I just even be honest with myself? Yes, I would want that. I would. I’ve wanted to be that way with him for a while now. I just thought he didn’t want the same thing, but now things are a little clearer…

Ha! Yeah. About as clear as mud.

I tuck myself tight into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest. I just need sleep; Pippa’s right about that. I close my eyes and try and force unconsciousness on myself, but it’s no good. Especially when a deep rumble begins in the distance, out in the desert. The sound oscillates and grows, deepening with each and every passing second. Thunder. Perfect. Desert storms are violent and noisy. There’s no way I’ll get any sleep until it passes.

“Abrir la puerta!”

“
Que están aquí!”

The calls come from outside, loud and close. It’s the guards, Teo and his friends who are watching the gate. And I understand enough Spanish to know that they’re shouting for that gate to be opened. That they are here, whoever
they
are. I climb out of bed, pushing the blinds down so I can see what the ungodly noise is, and the glass in the window begins to shake in it’s frame.

Motorbikes.

It’s not thunder after all, but motorbikes, pouring in through the open gate into the compound, so many of them that I lose count. The sleek black machines snarl like wounded animals, and the sounds of men laughing fill the courtyard. My heart is beating so hard in my chest that I can feel its pulse in every single part of my body.

“Rebel,” Zeth says. The timbre of his voice is as deep and menacing as the throttle of the bikes. “That’s Rebel’s crew.” He’s watching me by the window, utterly still, his bare chest bathed in the bright white light from the bikes’ headlights that cuts through the window.

“Who’s Rebel?”

Zeth closes his eyes. “Someone very bad. Someone you don’t want to know.”

I’m awake before dawn, staring at the ceiling. I didn’t really need to worry about my waking nightmare, mistaking Sloane for someone else—not when I didn’t really sleep at all. I’ve been thinking about things. How to handle this whole fucked up situation. First things first, I get up as quietly as I can and head outside. It’s fucking hot here during the day, but at night the desert is frigid. Clouds of smoke fog my breath as I take a quick walk. The line of bikes propped up alongside the villa is worrying. I count them, one through eleven. Eleven fucking Widower Makers. I hadn’t banked on this. I’d banked on a lot of things, but Rebel showing up with his boys hadn’t even made a guest appearance on my list of
shit that will probably go down
. His MC is based out of New Mexico. He must have pretty much set off as soon as he’d gotten off the phone with Julio yesterday and ridden all day and night until he got here. Not a good sign. Thirteen hours with your balls crushed up against a gas tank is gonna make anyone cranky. And from what I’ve heard about Rebel, he gets cranky easy.

But then again, so do I.

Back in the room, Sloane’s still asleep. Her hair looks like a bird’s been nesting in it, and there are weird crease marks on her cheek from the pillow; she’s fucking beautiful. I feel like a spare part standing there staring at her, so I stomp around the room, making enough noise to wake the dead.

“Zeth?”

I pause in gathering up the bedding I slept in and turn to find her half sitting up, blinking at me through huge, sleepy owl eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Yeah, I totally meant to fucking wake you. “We should probably have a conversation about tonight.” Tonight. Julio and Rebel, two big dogs, trapped in a small building with god knows how many people, all of whom are up to no good. And then me and her in the middle of it all. Yeah, I’m a sick motherfucker. Why? Because there’s a good chance Julio’s gonna murder my ass. And an equally good chance that Rebel with recognize Sloane. And yet my dick is still getting hard when I think about taking Sloane to his event.

“Yeah? What’s the plan?”

“The plan is that you get your ass dressed and come for some breakfast. No one’s gonna be up yet. We can talk and eat.” My stomach’s complaining like it thinks my throat’s been cut and I’ve been starving it for days. I need sustenance. And I need to leave this room before I forget all sense of reason and climb up in that bed with Sloane.