Page 48
“We got tagged together for a job. It’s nothing,” I say, turning off on a dirt road with a warning sign that reads Bear Country.
“Are you sure it’s nothing?” she asks.
I can feel Sabrina’s eyes on me, but I refuse to look at her. “Positive.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “You’re a grown man, so I can’t tell you what to do even though I think this is a terrible mistake, but please watch out. You know what her family is capable of.”
I choose my words carefully. “She didn’t pull the trigger, Ma.”
“She’s guilty by association,” my mom says, final. “I don’t want to talk while you’re in the car with her, so I’ll call you later. Love you, hon. Remember, only trust a Chastain if you want a knife in your back.”
She hangs up. I drop the phone into the cup holder. Ma washed my mouth out with soap the first time I said “Chastain,” so I shouldn’t be surprised by her reaction, but I still bristle.
“What the hell was that for?” I say without looking at Sabrina.
She shrugs. “I’m not going to ‘keep my lips shut’ because you don’t want to deal with your mom. I’m not your secret.”
That’s fair, but I’m not in the mood for games, so I say, “So this wasn’t payback for the kiss?”
“Payback? Why would I need payback? That kiss meant nothing, remember?”
When I kiss you again, I’ll make damn sure you can tell the difference.
“You sure as hell kissed me like it meant something.” We roll up to the trailhead and I kill the engine. The mountain is steep, but there’s a winding dirt path between all the pines.
“I told you, that’s how I kiss all men that are possessed by demons.” Sabrina slings her backpack over her shoulder and gets out of the car.
Like she’s fine.
Fine.
I sit there with my hands on the wheel, watching her walk toward the trail without looking back. My chest pulls tight as I watch her go. It’s quiet now, and all those thoughts come rushing in. Walker and I chasing cattle on the ranch, making Ma dinner, throwing knives at targets. If it weren’t for the Chastains, those moments wouldn’t be memories.
It was an accident.
What if it was?
“Get it the fuck together,” I mutter, forehead hitting the steering wheel. “It’s just a job.”
Ma’s bar of soap is starting to sound a lot better than a ten-mile hike with my exorcist fake wife.
25Sabrina
Over four hours and however many blisters later, I’m regretting every decision that led me to hiking up this gargantuan dirt mountain.
The “trail” is a sadistic death trap designed by a masochist, or Nosferatu, or Lawton Montoya himself. This better be worth it. If we don’t find a pot of gold or a severed head—no, a pile of severed heads—at the top, I’m turning around.
Hazardous rocks jut out everywhere, and the gigantic pine trees are so tall, they would crush us if they fell. Not to mention the uphill grade rivals a double black ski slope. My poor feet are on the brink of bleeding thanks to these brand-new hiking boots I should have broken in, but at least my thighs are getting a killer workout.
Lawton saunters up the mountain beside me, hands in pockets, scanning my face. “You sure sweat a lot, don’t you?”
As if having overactive sweat glands would offend me. I wipe my upper lip. “I’d like to see you hike up a mountain with a ten-pound bulletproof vest, a twenty-pound backpack, and bloody welts on your feet.”
“Want to swap shoes?” he offers, those heavy brows serious.
“That’s all you’re offering? Don’t be a half-assed gentleman. You should offer to carry my bag. Besides, there’s no way your shoes will fit. What size are you?”
He runs his tongue along his bottom lip. “Thirteen.”
