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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.
