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I resist the urge to cross my arms. Why on earth is he looking at me like I’m a piece of weird art he’s trying to figure out the meaning to?
“You guys carry weapons?” As shocked as I am, my voice comes out strangely even. I don’t know whether it’s because I’m starting to warm up to this crazy world I’ve been thrown into, or if I’m just in shock.
Jackson smirks at me as he reaches down, lifts up his pant leg, and reveals a holster strapped to his ankle. Sticking out of the top of the holster is what looks like the handle of a knife. “Of course we carry weapons, Cute Girl. It’s how we protect ourselves from the big, scary drug lords.” He winks at me and I gape at him.
I can’t believe he’s teasing me right now, after what just happened. No, what I can’t believe is that I’m actually flushing over the flirty smile he’s giving me.
“Most of the guys carry guns,” Jackson continues, his grin growing as more warmth rushes to my face. “But personally, I prefer the simplicity of a knife. It gives me an edge, you know. Plus, it’s harder to detect during pat downs.”
“Quit showing off,” Wilder says, unclicking the straps from my shoulders. “You’re going to scare her more.”
“I’m fine.” And considering the circumstances, I think I am. I mean, for one thing I haven’t jumped out of the car and fled. And for another… Well, that’s all I really have at the moment. “But can you guys at least tell me what’s about to happen? And…” Movement at the back of the car catches my attention. “And can someone tell me who those big dudes are walking up to the car? Do they work undercover too? Or do they work for your drug lord?”
Jackson and Wilder track my gaze and then drop the f-bomb about ten times in a row.
“Those guys don’t work for either,” Jackson says as Wilder starts tousling his fingers through my hair.
When I give Wilder a perplexed look, he either doesn’t see me or ignores me, which leaves me even more lost.
“Then who do they work for?” I ask Jackson, distracted by Wilder tugging on the hem of my white tank top.
Seriously, what is he doing? Because the butterflies in my stomach seem to like it a little too much.
Jackson doesn’t appear the least bit confused about what Wilder’s doing as he casts a glance at the big guys outside, who are now loitering around the back end of the car. “They work for a drug lord a few towns over and let’s just say that their boss and the drug lord we’re working for don’t get along very well.”
I swallow hard. “What’re they going to do to us?”
“Nothing,” Jackson replies without missing a beat. “They’ll more than likely just want to talk. Then we’ll fix the flat tire and get you home.”
“What about the training pit?” I don’t know why that’s my next question. With everything going on, it seems like the last thing I should be worrying about.
Jackson gives me a strange look then glances at Wilder. Wilder pauses from trying to tie a side knot into my shirt and a trace of a smile touches his lips. Jackson presses his lips together, as if fighting back a grin, then focuses back on me.
“If, after this, you still want to go to the training pit, we’ll take you tomorrow, okay?” He brushes his knuckles across my cheekbone, and a pleased grin rises on his lips when my eyelashes flutter. “But right now, we need you to get into character.”
“Character?” My head is a bit dazed from all the touching going on, the drug lords hanging around, and the almost car crash that just occurred.
Is this what their life is like every day? How to they handle it?
“Sexy, Badass Zhara.” Wilder gives up on the side knot and tears off the hem of my shirt.
I wrap my arms around myself as the bottom of my stomach is exposed. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m sorry, but the cute little hearts at the bottom of your shirt had to go—it made you look too sweet. And sweet’s going to stand out with these guys big time.” Wilder tosses the strip of fabric onto the floor and reaches underneath the seat to retrieve a plaid shirt. “This might smell a bit funky, but it’ll help make you look a little more grungy and rebellious and less like a pure and innocent virgin.”
It’s as if someone has doused my cheeks with gasoline and lit a match. “So I’m pretending to be a bad girl then?” If my stammer troubles them, they don’t show it.
Jackson nods. “Later on, we’ll flesh out your new persona a little more and create something you’re more comfortable with. But with these guys, you need to come off as tough and badass as you can. You can still keep the name Zhara, but under no circumstances are you to tell them your last name, okay? And let us do most of the talking.”
I nod, but feel like a big old liar, liar. Still, I tie the plaid shirt around my waist, which doesn’t smell funky, but like Benton’s cologne. Then I try to bury my nerves and play the part of a bad girl who deals with these kinds of situations all the time.
Whether I’ll succeed or not, is beyond me. But I guess I’m about to find out.
Get in the Car
Holy crap, I’ve gotten in way, way, way over my head. That’s the first thought that crosses my mind the moment I step out of the car.
Not only are the three guys standing—or more like looming—at the rear of the car, huge and bulky, but they’re even sketchier looking than Ralpho and Tank. Two of them look in their mid to late twenties with tattoos covering their arms, their hair is cropped short, and brass knuckles cover their hands. And the tallest guy has a hood pulled over his head and sunglasses on, so I can’t see his face. I don’t know why he’d wear all that heavy clothing when it’s like ninety degrees outside, other than maybe he’s hiding weapons underneath his jacket.
“You’re going to be okay,” Wilder utters under his breath as he ducks out of the car and moves up beside me. Then he places a hand on the small of my back and dips his head toward my ear. “We won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
It’s the second time he’s promised me something in
the last five minutes. I just wish I knew if he was the kind of person who carried out his promises. But I don’t know him or Jackson or any of the other Bad Boy Rebels very well. I’m just a girl who was thrown into their world by accident and is now attempting to play fake girlfriend to all six of them.
Wait a second. Am I supposed to be Wilder and Jackson’s girlfriend right now? These aren’t the guys Tank and Ralpho work for. So who am I supposed to be?
Le sigh. Story of my life.
Wilder urges me forward with a gentle push, guiding me toward the back of the car. My heart slams against my chest with each step I take and my legs tremble.
Wilder steadies his hand on my back. “Take a deep breath, Zhara,” he whispers.
I take a subtle, deep breath and then another. Relax, Zhara. Just breathe. Do not freak out or you’ll make the situation worse.
The breathing exercise helps until we reach the back of the car and the giant men focus their attention on us. They eyeball us over before focusing on Jackson approaching them from the other side of the car. Or well, two of the men focus on Jackson. The broadest of the three men, sporting a goatee and leather jacket, keeps his gaze zeroed in on me. The way he’s looking at me, like a hawk ready to strike, causes anxiety to claw underneath my flesh.
Even when Jackson starts speaking with the two other guys, Goatee Guy refuses to avert his gaze off me.
“Who’s the girl?” he asks Wilder, his gaze never wavering from me.
Wilder drapes his arm over my shoulder and he pulls me close to his side. “That’s none of your damn business.”
Goatee guy laughs, the sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. “If I say it’s my business then it’s my business. Now shut your mouth and lets chat.” Then he reaches inside his jacket, and I catch a glimpse of a circular, snake shaped tattoo with a series of symbols in the middle on his wrist. The symbol looks faintly familiar, but why? I have no idea, yet I know I’ve seen it before, like a distant, faded memory pressing against the far back of my mind.
My thoughts are soon distracted from the mark, though, as Goatee Guy opens up his jacket and reveals a glinting, silver object strapped inside a holster.
