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“You were scared of this guy,” I say, squatting behind her and gently slicing her duct tape loose. They even left my knife on my belt. No, there’s no pride in this victory, just exhaustion.
“I was scared of all of them.” Betty shakes out her fingers and circles her wrists.
“But especially him.”
Betty snorts. “Well I’m notnow.”
True. It’s hard to be scared of a glorified, passed-out office worker playing dress up. His forehead’s all cut up from his lenses shattering, and there are shards of glass in his mustache. This asshole doesn’t even know he’s beaten yet, but he will.
“Well, you decide what we do to him.”
Some guys might bring her flowers, but I’ll do them one better. I’ll bring her the helpless body of any man who threatens her. That’s romantic, right?Ithink so.
“What we… what we do to him?” Betty stares at Echo’s unconscious frown. Even passed out, he’s a pissy little jackass. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we could kill him.” I say it casually, like we’re discussing the merits of a picnic vs a restaurant dinner. “Fast or slow, either works. Or we could throw him overboard and let fate decide.”
That might be easier for her. More psychologically comfortable. Hitting the water might wake him up; it might not. The blood on his forehead might attract sharks; it might not. Tossing Echo overboard would give him a better chance than he’d ever face with me alone.
Cook her slowly above the lava field.
Prick.
“I—I don’t want to decide that,” Betty says, fumbling her words and shaking her head. “Don’t make me decide that.”
No problem. One swift kick, and there’s a slither of limbs across the deck, then one final splash.
“Done,” I tell her, helping her up. “I decided. That’s on me, okay? You never have to think about those guys ever again.”
Betty wobbles as she stands, and she looks queasy. “P-please don’t kill Tango,” she says. “He was the nicest to me.”
I suck in a deep, salty breath, trying with all my heart to ignore the wave of jealousy and bitterness that crashes through my body. I save her life, and now I’m the one she’s scared of? He’s the one she protects? The urge to march to the bridge and tear his freckled head off is strong, but I squash it down. That won’t help.
Betty relaxes when I nod, and her fingers tangle with mine. The roaring beast in my chest settles down, grumbling.
She just doesn’t want more violence. That’s fine. That’s fair.
I have other plans for the redhead, anyway.
Seven
Betty
One time, back at the coffee shop, Miriam and I spent twenty whole minutes with our elbows propped on the counter, watching a construction crew work across the street. It was a lull with no new orders, and those guys were better than TV. When the clouds parted and the summer sun blazed hot, they all took their shirts off, muscles slick with sweat.
“Damn,” Miriam said, whistling under her breath, but it wasn’t the bare chests we were swooning over. This was some kind ofeliteconstruction crew, not the stoned, jeering weirdos you sometimes get. They were serious, quick, moving together in perfect sync to build scaffolding at record speed. “Is there anything sexier than a truly competent man?”
I hummed along in agreement back then, but I had no idea.Noidea.
Because River Dawes is the ultimate competent man. He fights, he tracks, he survives in the jungle. He commandeers a boat like it’s nothing, and back on that beach he ate my pussy like a dream.
Compared to River, poor Tango is a trembling kid. He keeps shooting me pleading looks, likeIcould save him, when he’s the trained agent or mercenary or whatever. He’s the one piloting our boat, River looming over his shoulder and barking commands.
When we first burst onto the bridge, covered in sweat and sea spray, Tango yelped and nearly fell out of his chair. He fumbled for his knife, but River moved faster than a blink, and then Tango was sprawled over the boat controls, chalky white behind his freckles, palms up in surrender.
“Do you want to die on paper, or for real?” River asked him.
“P-paper,” Tango stuttered. “Definitely paper.”
