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I’m fucking crazy about you.
It’s a depressing realization, not one that I’m willing to admit out loud. But the thing about the truth is, sometimes you don’t need to look for it. Sometimes it finds you.
I wouldn’t have killed Godfrey and Sebastian. But she asked for it, and, well, what she asks for, she’ll get. At least from me.
“I do like you,” I finish quietly, not stupid enough to entertain myself with the possibility of giving her the whole truth. “I like you, all right.”
“I like you too.” Her nose brushes back and forth against mine in an Eskimo kiss.
Breathe, assclown. Fucking breathe.
I pull away and look back at the highway while I rev up the engine.
“But I didn’t say I was damaged goods.”
“You think it. Which is even worse. Now, repeat after me: I’m not a victim, I’m a goddamned survivor.”
“I’m not a victim, I’m a goddamn survivor.” She rolls her eyes. I hit the accelerator and speed south, determined to get to our destination before night falls.
“Lift your head up, Baby-Cakes. Don’t let your crown fall. And just for the record, I didn’t come because you were using your teeth like my dick was dental floss. Trust me, I’m so hard for you, the thought of checking into a motel tonight makes my mind work overtime.”
“Who said we’re sharing a room?” she asks with a sly smile.
That’s my Prescott.
“We’re sharing a room. And I’m licking your crack. You owe me one for the Beatmobile and the loss of Stella.”
“Nate Vela, you’re a vile man.”
“And I’m going to violate every hole in your body tonight.”
Great. I cried in front of him.
I’m a crybaby. During my captivity, I made sure I cried when no one saw, because I remember what Camden told me all those years ago. Never let your enemies see you break. Your indifference disables their victory. So by the time Beat came for me, my eyes were always dry.
Nate is wrong. I’m not untouchable. I’ve been touched too many times. Each handprint left a scar. It would take years to scrub off the marks and dig out my true self again.
I fall asleep curled into myself, next to him, while he eats up the rest of the journey to Los Angeles at an absurd speed. The minute we hit La La Land, we walk into the first mall we hit, take the passport pictures and get out with our fingers laced together. I’m not sure who makes the first move, it kind of feels like our hands just magnetically connected. The silence between us is comfortable and accepting, and most of all—content. But I’m keeping secrets from him, at least two that’d make him walk away from this arrangement, and I hope to God he doesn’t find out before we split.
Nate has his hoodie over his head to hide the tattoos—although it’s hard to go unnoticed when you’re a six-foot-five pile of muscles and hotness—and I wear my best innocent expression.
It’s time to get down to business.
Is actually a hot shot in the Department of State. Fortyish years old. Neat hairstyle. A real life Walter White, only less relatable. You’d never guess what this suited, respectable man does to make an extra buck. But the extra cash is needed in order to pay for his dark little cocaine addiction.
No one knows.
Not even his wife and three picture-perfect kids.
But me? I sold him two pounds of cocaine when he was on a business trip to San Francisco and cut his price by sixty percent under the condition that he would owe me. Big time. It’s time to cash in on his debt.
It’s time for everyone to cash in on their debts.
We meet Bryan behind a kosher bakery on Fairfax Avenue. I’m wolfing down a chocolate babka, taking long sips from my Americano and watching Bryan and Nate through my big dark shades. I hand Bryan our pictures with chocolate-covered fingertips and he tells us that by tomorrow at noon, we will both have passports under different names.
Nate Vela will die, and from the ashes of his cursed name, a phoenix named Christopher Delaware will rise.
As for Prescott Burlington-Smyth—If you thought my parents burdened me with an unfortunate last name, you’d be surprised, because the only name Bryan managed to snag that fits my physical profile is Tanaka Cockburn. And while Tanaka is a beautiful name. . .
Cockburn.
Nate sprays his coffee all over Bryan’s white dress shirt when he hears my new name, then proceeds to turn away, walk to the corner of the alleyway, and rest his hands on his knees as his massive back shakes with wild, unrestrained laughter.
“I shouldn’t have to pay for a name like that,” I mutter into my foam cup.
But what Nate doesn’t know is that I’m barely paying for this service. I’m only footing the bill for the actual production of the passports, which sums up to a few hundred bucks.
