by S. Massery
“Uh, Jackson?”
“Yeah?”
My mouth dries. “I think they’ve found us.”
There’s a vehicle quickly approaching on the highway, practically flying toward us. Its headlights are too bright to see anything else, but I think a black SUV will haunt my nightmares.
“Hit the gas.” Urgency laces his tone, and the headlights illuminate the left half of his face. “You can either drive faster or we die.”
I grit my teeth. The SUV hits us from behind, and we both fly forward. The truck swerves a little, but I get it back under control.
“My foot is to the floor,” I say. “Your dumb truck won’t go any faster.”
“Not good enough,” he mutters.
“You don’t think I fucking know that?”
He looks at me and smiles. “What a mouth you have.”
I shake my head, wondering how on earth he can be bantering in a situation like this. The SUV taps us again, and I flinch. It pulls up next to us. I jerk the wheel, cutting them off, and swear when they break hard, ending up right behind us.
“Keep low,” he says. “Brace yourself!”
We get hit again, this time harder and from the left side. The truck spins, tires screeching on the pavement. I shriek and take my foot off of the gas, gripping the steering wheel for dear life. We spin into the grassy median and stop, facing the way we came. In slow motion, the SUV stops and backs up. Its headlights assault us. I squint, my stomach in knots as two men get out. One holds his arm. His smile is bloody.
We’re going to die. I can’t picture a way out of this. I can’t see a future with Jackson and me in it, and it nearly guts me. This isn’t how I wanted to go—gunned down on the side of a highway. No way.
Jackson opens the door and practically falls out of it. I watch him go with a blank stare, dizziness throwing white spots around the edges of my vision. Oh god, he’s bleeding. He crouches and fires a shot. I’m surprised he still has bullets left. Worry twists my stomach into knots. I don’t want to die.
I don’t want Jackson to die.
That’s your first unselfish thought in a while, Delia. Too bad it probably won’t be enough to save you.
One of the men drops, blood blooming across his forehead. He falls backward.
The one with the bloody smile scowls. He lifts the semi-automatic weapon with his good arm and points it at me, and everything goes into slow motion. Even though the front of the truck separates us, it feels like the barrel of the gun is pressed to my forehead. The blood drains away from my face. Anger pulses through me, because how dare I be so weak? How dare I let these men kill me?
Beyond the anger, a river of fatigue inches along. I miss my parents. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing to die and see them again. I’ve tried so hard not to think of them, but they’re always there, lurking in the back of my mind. Tears fill my eyes, and I desperately try to blink them away. I can’t die with tears on my cheeks. Another shot rings out, and I close my eyes. I wait for the pain to hit.
Nothing.
My door creaks open, and warm hands pull me out of the truck. “You’re okay,” Jackson says into my hair.
Sirens wail in the distance. I flinch into him. My face is in his neck, and he hugs me to his chest. He scoops me up, one arm under my knees and the other across my back, and carries me around the back of the truck—away from the two men, who are crumpled in the grass. He sets me in the passenger seat and clicks my seat belt around me. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against my cheek, catching a tear.
I suck in a breath and meet his eyes. There are drops of blood across his face, and more oozes from his arm. He drops his hand away from my cheek and steps back. Ice rushes through me at the loss of contact, and I shiver after he closes my door.
“Don’t look at them,” he says once he’s in the driver’s seat again.
Such a valiant hero, trying to protect me from all of the evil, ugly things in the world. If only life worked like that. If only girls like me could be saved by men like him.
“No,” I say as he restarts the truck. “I need to see them.”
I need to remember their faces.
4
JACKSON
I need a drink.
Before working on wildfires, and after a tour with the Army, I worked for Scorpion Industries. They’re a military contractor who deploy their own units overseas, and we saw action on a semi-regular basis. Most of the time, we were finding and extracting American citizens from dangerous countries. Sometimes it was just a matter of locating our client and yanking them out, using however much force was necessary. Other times, we had aliases and had to do things almost like spies. There were other jobs, of course: hunting dangerous people where the US military couldn’t go, locating Americans who were hiding in non-extradition countries so they could be prosecuted, or getting actionable intel for the troops whose bases we frequented.
One mission out of the hundreds continually haunts me. We were moving in toward a city center when a young girl stepped out in front of our vehicle. She looked so lost. Wyatt was going to get out and ask her to move. Then she showed us the detonator in her hand.
Adult women, on some level, I understood.
Children? No.
That bomb went off and obliterated the road. Our vehicle flipped. Chaos in the form of bullets and anger rained down on us, and it was the first time I thought I was going to die. While we were there, I got used to the feeling. My brain knew what the rest of my body fought against: we were in a war zone. Chances of survival were much lower than at home. In the end, an Army patrol happened to be a block away and came to investigate. They saved our unprepared asses.
Every night for six months, that little girl haunted my dreams.
After I came back to the US and worked with the Forest Service for a while, that feeling faded. There were still moments when I thought death might come calling, but it never got close enough to run its finger down my spine. Not like before.
Not like tonight.
Delia is a shaking mess beside me, and no wonder. She was just shot at and she witnessed me kill not one, not two, but three people. If she doesn’t get out of this truck screaming, I’ll wonder at her sanity. I wonder at my sanity. I pulled the trigger without hesitation. As easily as signing my name.
Part of me reveled in it. In the power of the gun in my hand, and how easily it sat in my palm. The weight was familiar. A thrill raced under my skin, and that scares the shit out of me. I fought hard for the past two years to get away from violence and killing. Less than twelve hours after finding Delia, I’ve stumbled back into it.
My grip is tight on the steering wheel. We’ve been on the road for three hours, and the wind howls through the bullet hole in my side window. The bullet itself is lodged in the fabric of the seat behind my shoulder blade. If it had been me driving, it would’ve gone right through me. Delia’s small frame saved her from a world of pain.
Every so often, the whole truck rattles. It’s taken a beating, about as much as we have. Both of us are covered in glass, blood, and dust. One of the asshole’s bullets grazed my biceps, and I feel the gash more and more as my adrenaline fades.
The clock crawls past two-thirty a.m. We’ve both been silent for the past three hours, although at one point she slid into the seat next to me and tied a piece of fabric around my arm. Eventually, I pull off the interstate. Rock Springs is one of the larger cities in Wyoming, and right off of I-80. It’s easy enough to find a hotel, but I drive right by it.
Delia makes a noise of protest. “What are you doing?”
I roll my eyes and ignore her. In fact, I’m a little pissed at her, the anger growing only in the last few miles. I got shot because of her. I murdered three people because of her. And, without some answers, I don’t know if I can do this anymore.
I turn into the parking lot of an auto body shop next to the hotel and jump out. I grab her bag and ignore the way she eyes me. The weight of it pulls on my torn muscle, and I try to h
ide my wince. She scrambles to get out and practically tears the bag away from me.
“Jackson,” she says, disapproving. Her eyebrows scrunch down into a scowl.
“Delia.” I sigh.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re going to get us a room. You’re going to pay cash. And then we’re going to crash for a few hours, switch cars, and go…” Somewhere. In a softer voice, I say, “No one will expect you to be here. And you look a little less banged-up than I do.” I raise my arm an inch and frown. Ribbons of dried blood have tracked down my arm, dripping off my elbow.
She turns her big eyes on me, face ashen. I stare at her and will her to be half as strong as she’ll need to be. I raise my hand to her face, wiping away a streak of blood on her temple. I would guess it’s mine, because she escaped that motel room and the following madness with only scratches. I brush the glass out of her hair and revel at the soft texture.
A blush rises to her cheeks. I hide my smirk.
“Go get ‘em, tiger,” I say.
She frowns, but she tucks her hair behind her ear, spins on her heel, and heads toward the hotel. It’s almost three a.m., and the strain of the night presses in on me. It doesn’t help that I feel like a fugitive, lingering in the shadows. I only have a few minutes, keeping her in my sight through the glass.
I pull out my phone.
“I’m getting sick of seeing your name on my phone,” Mason grumbles.
“We had trouble.”
He grunts. It’s late, I get it. There’s some shuffling and murmuring, and I cringe because I can recognize my brother’s low voice from here.
Finally, Mason says, “Okay, go.”
The pain pulses down my arm with each heartbeat, radiating into my hand and up into my shoulder. “We got fucking ambushed. Three-man team. They demolished the room with assault weapons. We almost got shredded. I got shot.”
“Shot how?”
“Just a graze,” I mutter.
He chokes on a laugh. “You’d think your momma would’ve raised a tougher guy than you, eh? Oh wait—she did.”
“Mason.” I look down at the dark fabric tied around my arm. “We paid with—”
“A credit card. I know. You’re such a dumbass.”
“So—”
“Did I already fix it?” he asks.
I can feel Mason rolling his eyes at me.
“Duh,” he adds.
I grimace. “I don’t know who’s after her. That’s my next question. We’re in Rock Springs, but we need to get on the road once it’s light out.”
“Okay. You’re three hours from Salt Lake City. If you’re short on cash, head to the apartment. You’re welcome for erasing you from the hotel’s systems, by the way.”
I crack a smile. “Kind of ironic that you’re dating a detective. What does he see in your shady ass?”
He laughs. “It’s my ass that he sees. And what he sees, he likes.”
I make a gagging noise. Delia picks something up off the counter and nods to the hotel clerk.
“I gotta go. I’m clear to rent a car, then?”
He’s still chuckling in my ear. “Yeah. Call me when you get there.”
“Will do,” I answer.
I’m about to hang up when he says, “Hey, Skye?”
I wait.
“You don’t seem pissed. Why aren’t you ready to rip her a new asshole?”
“Honestly? Risking my life, saving hers… it felt good.”
He chuckles in my ear. “You’re in fucking trouble, dude.”
Yeah, I know. I should be more worried about this than I am. But it’s easy to tell myself I can just drop her off at the airport, get her to safety, and go back to my merry, boring life. This is just a break from the norm. A vacation.
Delia comes back, and I hang up.
She winks at me. Her confidence seems to have gone up a few notches, having successfully pulled the wool over the night auditor’s eyes. “Done.”
I follow her to a side entrance, up a staircase, and down the long hallway. I hover behind her as she unlocks the door and steps inside. Her confidence brings back some of the anger that Mason was looking for. A war is brewing inside me—saving her meant killing three other people. Where’s the justification?
She shivers when I lock the door behind us, and I drop my bag. The deadbolt sounds final.
I glare at her. “We need to talk.”
5
DELIA
Jackson leans back against the door. There is a hardness to his face that wasn’t there before, but part of me doesn’t want to jump to conclusions—that he’s blocking my escape route for a reason.
“Sit down,” he says.
I stare at him. Ever since I was a child, I didn’t take too kindly to orders. My stepmother used to call it insolence, while my father told me I’d be a strong negotiator one day. I learned how to bargain: to push my bedtime back further if I ate my vegetables without a fuss, or to get a new toy for a perfect report card. I got better at it after I hit puberty. Then, it worked best on those who weren’t family: the bodyguard below my window, whose eyes lingered on my breasts; the teachers who threatened to put me in detention for silly antics; boys who thought they could date me.
Jackson grits his teeth and jerks his head toward the bed. I turn and go to the window, peeking out of the curtains. We’re on the second floor, which would suck if I had to jump. A shiver races up my spine. Our room overlooks a fenced-in pool and concrete courtyard.
“Delia.”
I try to push all of my emotions away from my face. Down, down, down. Head, throat, stomach, knees, feet, into the carpet beneath my shoes. That trick used to work when I was seven, mourning my mother and not being allowed to show it.
“Jackson,” I answer, desperate to get rid of my thoughts. I want to be numb. I walk forward. We had a moment in the parking lot, one that I suddenly need to rekindle.
My gaze flickers down his body. He swallows, his throat moving silently.
I assess him. It could be the adrenaline, because desire flickers like a sparkler set off in my blood. He licks his lips as I get close enough to touch him.
I pull him to me and half expect him to resist.
He doesn’t.
He leans down and slams his lips to mine. Sparks rush through me, chased by unfathomable heat. I gasp when he bites my lower lip. His hands come around me, squeezing my ass. He lifts me, groaning into my mouth, and I wrap my legs around his waist. A small part of me remembers his injured arm, but that thought flees. He walks us toward the bed.
I bite him back, and he growls It isn’t pretty. There’s a war between our lips. His erection digs into my thigh, igniting my lust. He lays me down and follows, hovering over me. I run my hands over his ribs, slipping my hands under the hem of his shirt. His skin is hot to the touch.
He removes his lips from mine, kissing down my jaw. He bites my throat, eliciting a loud moan. I feel it directly in my core.
“I need to feel you,” I pant.
He yanks my shirt up, above my breasts. His breath catches.
I look down at the top of his head which is slowly working down my body. He pulls down the cup of my bra and licks around my nipple. I gasp and squirm beneath him, suddenly unable to wait any longer. Fuck, it’s been too long since I’ve done this. I’ve forgotten the steps. Every ounce of me wants him inside me.
My hands move to the button of his jeans, pushing the fabric off his hips. I just want to feel him. I want the closeness. For the past fifteen days, I’ve been utterly alone. And now? I have Jackson, if only for a moment. His erection is free, and I stroke him as he switches to my other nipple, grazing it with his teeth before his tongue swirls around it.
“Oh god,” I whimper.
He thrusts into my hand. When I open my eyes, his face is right over mine. He tugs down my pants, slipping one finger inside me. I tremble, rolling my hips against his palm to get more friction.
“Greedy,” he mutters, nipping my ea
rlobe.
One finger is replaced by two.
I’m almost not prepared when he shifts his weight slightly, positioning above me. He slams into me, filling me so completely that white spots flash in my vision. A whimper slips out of me. This is the closeness I’ve been craving. I’m deliciously stretched, his cock hitting a spot that sends tingles shooting down my legs.
He kisses me fiercely, our tongues warring each other. He thrusts into me over and over, the bed frame banging the wall. I moan into his mouth, unashamed of how loud I am. Half the hotel can hear me.
His pace quickens, and he leans to one side, his finger going straight to my clit as he moves in and out of me. It’s too much. I rise to meet each brutal thrust, arching my back, and white lights dance behind my eyelids, building to an orgasm that has me screaming his name.
As it fades, he comes hard, biting my shoulder and groaning into my skin.
“Ah, fuck,” he mutters. Almost immediately, he pulls out of me and rolls away.
I pretend not to miss the weight of him when he’s gone. It only takes a second to realize that he’s angry. Pissed.
“Fucking hell, Delia.”
“What?” I scowl, my own annoyance flaring to life. “This wasn’t just me.”
He slams his fist into the wall. “You mess with my fucking mind. I just need answers.”
I stare at him. We’re both naked from the waist down.
“Answers? You want answers?”
Jackson growls at me. Even though I’m pissed, my pussy pulses. His angry face is seriously hot. I picture hate sex—more biting, more delicious pounding—and I have to tense my muscles to keep from lunging at him again. God, I’m fucked up.
“I need to know who’s trying to kill you.”
“You think I know?”
He scoffs. “I think there’s a lot you know that you haven’t told me.”
I roll my eyes and step around him, moving toward the bathroom to buy time. I stare at myself in the mirror, grimacing at the awful dye job. My beautiful blonde hair will probably never be the same thanks to that box of red dye I picked up on a whim in Laramie.