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“I should have said goodbye,” Sloane whispers.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” I tell her. “Unfortunately, I get the feeling that won’t be the last we see of either of those two.”
We don’t go back to the apartment. We don’t go back to the warehouse. Once we’re on the freeway, Zeth drives like a model citizen—exactly on the speed limit, indicating when turning, wearing his seatbelt, checking his blind spot, the works. He makes sure there’s absolutely no reason for highway patrol to pick us up. We sit in a stony silence. I can’t help but play what Oliver told me on repeat over and over in my head. A clean slate for me and for Zeth. How many times is that going to come around in a lifetime, especially for Zeth? I mean, I know he’s been involved in some seriously dark crap, but I don’t know the true extent of it. I don’t want to know. For them to offer him the whole get-out-of-jail-free ticket, whatever Alexis has gotten herself involved in must be pretty serious.
Agent Denise Lowell: the name on the card. The name of the woman who covertly threatened me and told me she was the one who shot my sister in the back. It’s also the name of the woman who could change our prospects forever. I could go back to work. That’s just as attractive an idea as Zeth being record-free on the national police database. And Rebel hasn’t exactly done much to put himself in my good graces right now. Alexis either. I mean, what do I really know? What can I tell the cops? I have a telephone number for Rebel and an address in New Mexico, which is out in the middle of nowhere.
I know Rebel’s the head of a motorcycle club, and I know my sister thinks she’s in love with this psychopath. Lastly, most importantly, I know Rebel is the evil son of a bitch who put up huge money to screw me.
I suddenly can’t take it anymore. I have to know. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? About Rebel? You knew he was trouble, but when we found out about him and Alexis you didn’t tell me.”
Zeth’s voice is back to a low rumble when he answers. “I’ve heard so many crazy things about Rebel—that he fucks girls and does some seriously grim stuff to them, then leaves them for dead. I’ve heard a lot of different things about his sexual proclivities that even made me fucking blush. His name is attached to a string of girls who get bought and are then never seen again, Sloane, but the moment I met the guy I knew it was bullshit. He may be fucked up, and he may be into some weird shit, but Rebel doesn’t hurt girls. I don’t know why he wanted to buy you but it wasn’t to fuck you and kill you, I promise you that. Have you seen the way that motherfucker looks at your sister? There’s no way she’s been in danger from him for a single second.”
That’s not what I wanted to hear from him. He is a good judge of character. He sees people quite unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. I was waiting to hear what a terrible monster of a man Rebel is, but instead Zeth has just confirmed that niggling little voice in the back of my head—he actually seems like a good guy.
Damn it.
“We’re almost there,” Zeth tells me. I don’t know where there is and I don’t ask. I just want today to be over. The kid in me figures I can just go to sleep and Michael and Lacey will both be with us and everything will be fine. The cops won’t be after us. Charlie and Julio will both have died in some horrific, fluke gas explosion that will also have killed both of their crews. Not a single man left standing. Alexis will be back at college finishing her degree, still too naïve and young to even look twice at a biker and consider him suitable husband material.
Everything would be perfect.
Except, it wouldn’t be perfect, because Zeth isn’t a white-picket-fence guy. Even in this dreamed-up reality of mine, Zeth is still a brooding, dark creature who I don’t entirely understand. Our situation might change but he will always be who he is. Not for the first time, I take a beat to sit back and think about this. Do I want your traditional happily ever after with this man? Would I want to do that to him, even, sending him out every morning to go participate in a blue-collar workforce with a home-made lunch wrapped in a brown paper bag?
The answer is immediate: no. No, I do not want that.
That is not the kind of happily ever after Zeth and I will ever share. Our version of a happily ever after…I don’t know what that looks like just yet. But I know it would be wrong to try and picture this man beside me in any other way.
“What’re you thinking, angry girl?” he rumbles.
I look at him, the cuffs of his tight black T-shirt rolled up a couple of times over those massive arms of his, his ink spiraling over his skin in waves of black and red and green, the always rigid set to his shoulders, and the intense way he’s glancing at me every few seconds out of the corner of his eye. I like the way he asks me questions; not the questions themselves, but the way that he asks. Everything Zeth says is said with purpose. He wastes no words. If he tells you something, it’s because it’s important, and it’s the truth. If he asks you a question, it’s because he really wants to know the answer, not because he wants to fill the silence, or because he’s dreading what you might say.
I realize that’s not a bad way to be. “Are you sure you want to know?”
He grunts, as though he knows he might not like the answer, but then says, “Hit me.”
“I was just thinking that I’m not afraid of you anymore.”
That seems to catch his attention. I get a longer look out of the corner of his eye; he seems so serious, but for some reason I feel like giggling. It’s not I’m-a-stupid-little-girl-giggling-over-a-hot-guy-wow-have-you-seen-those-biceps laughter. It’s the maniacal laughter of someone who knows they’re choosing a hard road for themself, filled with potholes and dangerous hairpins that could easily end up sending them toppling over a forty-foot drop, but still choosing it anyway. Still choosing it, knowing it’s perilous, and hitting the gas pedal instead of the brakes. I bite my lip and then smile at him. “I’m not afraid of you, and I’m not afraid of what you represent. For me.”
