by Ruby Dixon
And nothing’s going to happen on his watch.
So I relax a little. I cram a few more fries into my mouth, and watch their body language as they whisper-slash-argue. There’s a weird vibe between them that I can’t make out. Tension of some kind, but most of it seems to be flowing from Locke’s end, which is weird. He’s the controlled one.
They whisper for a bit longer, and then both of them look at me.
I instinctively flinch.
Locke sighs and looks over at his partner.
“What? I didn’t touch her.” He looks offended at the thought. “I like my pussy willing. You think I value my dick so little? Gem’d snap it off if I went near her with it.”
Locke grunts and shoves a bag of food at Epic. “Eat. Rest up. You’re on first watch tonight.”
The fries suddenly taste bitter in my mouth. I force myself to swallow. “Watch? What are you watching for? Are we not safe?”
They both turn to look at me.
“Doesn’t concern you,” Locke says.
Epic’s brows draw together, and he looks at his partner, then at me. “You heard what your sister said. Eighty-Eight thinks they’ve been slighted, so they’re cleaning house. Until we’re able to disappear for a little while longer, we need to lie low.”
Locke scowls at Epic. “How much did you tell her?”
“She knows enough. This concerns her, too. No sense in keeping it from her.”
“She’s also been through hell. Why do you want to scare her over what might be nothing?” There’s that protective streak again. Even I can see it a mile away.
“I would rather know,” I tell them. “Even if it’s bad.” Especially if it’s bad. But now I’m worried. My burn starts to throb again, and I push on my cold compress. I need to re-wet it so I can soothe my neck again. After all that I’ve been through in the last week, it makes me realize I’ve been going through life with my head cheerfully stuck in the sand.
I’m different now.
And I appreciate that Epic, for all his brashness, isn’t keen on letting me sit in the dark. Whatever happens next, he wants me to be part of it…or at least be aware of what’s going on.
So I take a sip of my drink to shake free the knot in my throat and then speak. “Who’s coming after us?”
Locke’s eyes narrow as he looks at me, then his partner. After a moment, he says, “Eighty-Eight, most likely. It’s not going to take long for word to get out about who lifted that shipment. They’re going to start asking why, and it’ll lead back to you and to us. When it does, they’re going to be gunning for everyone in Butcher colors.”
“Who are the Eighty-Eight?”
“White supremacists. Skinheads. A rival club. Shitty people all around. You name it, that’s what they are.” Epic crosses his arms over his bare chest. “We’ve run in with them in the past. And I’m not afraid of ’em now. Let them come after us.”
I shiver. I don’t want them coming after us. He might not be scared, but he wasn’t the one being kept in a stable to be sold off for his virginity.
Locke just gives an irritated shake of his head and starts picking through the bags again. “We’re not doing that, because our goal is to keep Becka safe. We’re gonna leave the state. Hole up somewhere quiet for a while and wait for the all-clear. That’s the orders and that’s what we’re going to do.” He pulls something out of the bag and flings it in my direction.
I barely manage to catch it without spilling my drink, though I do drop my bag of food on the bed.
It’s hair dye. A bright, brassy red. I frown at it and then look up to see him tossing a box at Epic, who looks just as surprised. “Blond? What the fuck, dude?”
“You can get your Bieber on,” Locke tells him, and there’s a hint of amusement softening his hard mouth.
Epic’s lip curls. “Fuck that.”
“You want to be the redhead, then?” I say, offering him my box. For some reason, seeing his reluctance makes me feel comfortable voicing my own. Truth is, I can’t wear this. Not with my neck feeling like a raw wound. The last thing I want to do is risk dripping hair dye into it. I should tell them about the brand, but for some reason, I feel…ashamed. Like it’s my fault someone kidnapped me and marked me. But I don’t. I toss the box of hair dye on the bed. “I can’t do this. I’m allergic.”
Epic looks at Locke. “Guess you get to be the redhead.”
Locke just raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m half-Mexican. I’d stand out more trying to do shit with my hair than leaving it alone. And if either of you are riding in the car with me, you’re going to have a different hair color, feel me?”
“What if I lie down in the back?” I offer. “You can put a blanket over me.”
Locke watches me for a long moment, as if trying to understand me. It’s like he doesn’t buy that I’m allergic, which, okay, I’m not. But he slowly nods. “All right, then.”
“Aw, fuck,” Epic says, giving a shake of his head. “I can’t believe I’m the only shitbird that has to dye my hair.”
“You’ll be real pretty,” Locke drawls. “It’ll go good with that pretty mouth of yours.”
Epic elbows him, still staring down at the box of dye. “Fuck you, man.”
And Locke smiles. And I find that real interesting for some reason. It’s like it’s half bro-speak between them, and half…something else? Or is it just my imagination? I eat another French fry. “So where are we going?”
“East,” Locke says. “We’re too close to Vegas right now, and New Mexico is Butcher territory. Arizona is Hard Nine territory, so we’re going to skip all that shit and head East.”
“Where east? Nebraska?”
“Arkansas. Little place called Eureka Springs. Tourist town. Lots of wedding and elopement shit. We’re gonna rent a cabin, and the two of you are gonna pretend to be newlyweds.”
I wrinkle my nose. That’s a long drive…and I’m not sure I’m keen on pretending to be Epic’s wife. “And you are…?”
“Our dumbass third wheel?” Epic volunteers, a mock-innocent look on his face. “My slow cousin that we couldn’t leave at home?”
Locke shoots him a quelling look. “I am gonna hide out and do my best not to be seen.”
“We could pretend to be a threesome,” Epic says. “Pretend that all three of us are together.”
Locke stiffens, the tension vibrating through his body at that suggestion.
Weird. “Or I can pretend to be the slow one and you two can pretend to be getting married.”
Now they both scowl at me.
“Or not.” I pull another fry out of the bag. Okay, so we’re leaving town. Heading off to honeymoon-land in Arkansas. I have to admit, it does sound like a pretty random hiding place, and it makes me feel better. “So when do we leave?”
“Tonight?” Epic suggests.
Locke shakes his head and picks up his own drink. “Morning. Just like every other traveler.”
“Why in the morning?” Epic looks as if he doesn’t like that idea.
“Because if we sneak out in the middle of the night, it tells the front desk that we’re shady, and the front desk is always the first to blab when asked questions.” He takes a sip of his soda, grimaces, and hands it over to Epic. “That one’s yours.”
“Damn it.” Epic grabs a handful of napkins and exaggeratedly wipes his straw.
The vibe between these two is weird. I can’t figure it out. “So how’s this going to work? Are we all sleeping in here?” Because the motel room is tiny, and with three people, it feels awful cramped. “I wouldn’t mind some privacy.”
“Privacy ain’t on the docket,” Locke drawls, sitting down at the small table and picking up the last soda remaining. “You get the bed. Epic and I will take turns standing guard at the door. Just in case.”
“Just in case?” I echo.
“Nothing to worry about,” Locke says.
Yeah. Easy for him to say.
4
EPIC
It’s a l
ong fuckin’ night.
I’m pretty sure Becka doesn’t sleep. She looks at me and Locke like she’s not sure if we’re gonna bite or not, and just lies on the bed all quiet-like. Guess I can’t blame her for that, but company would be nice. Locke’s not chatty, either. The shit going down is hitting him hard, I guess. He takes his job seriously, and right now his job is protecting Becka. He sits at the motel window with the blinds down, his gun in his lap, one finger lightly nudging the blinds open a crack so he can see out. He glares at me every time I turn on the TV, too, so I leave it off. I end up sitting on the sofa, bored out of my mind and contemplating cracks on the ceiling. Occasionally, I’ll glance over at Becka, and she’s awake, looking over at me or watching Locke.
So yeah, it’s kinda stupid. If none of us is going to sleep, might as well travel, right? Except Locke’s right—we need to stay as low on the radar as possible in case someone comes in the area and asks questions.
Somewhere around dawn, I get restless and fling myself off the couch, heading for the restroom. Locke doesn’t even look up from his post. Reminds me of a cat I had when I was a kid. The moment she saw a bug land on a window, she’d watch that window for hours on end, waiting for it to return. It’s good that he’s watchful, but bro’s gonna need a nap sooner or later.
I take the box of dye—and goddamn, that shit stinks—and a short time later, I towel my hair dry and survey the damage.
Fuckin’ hell. I do look like Bieber. “This is bullshit,” I announce as I leave the bathroom to show them the damage.
A tired giggle escapes Becka, and for some reason, I feel better knowing she’s comfortable enough to laugh at me.
But I pretend to scowl and rub a hand through my wet, hay-like hair. “Seriously, why am I the only one that has to fucking dye my hair? I look ridiculous.”
“You do,” drawls Locke from his place at the window. “Which means no one’s going to mistake you for a Butcher.”
“A Backstreet Boy, maybe,” Becka quips, her voice oddly strained. It’s like she can’t resist saying it but doesn’t know how I’m going to react.
I wag a finger at her. “We’re going to find you a dye that you’re not allergic to, and then you get to share my hell.”
“Well, if we’re all at this, we could find something with some nice purple tones for his hair,” she says, inclining her head at Locke. “Won’t show up much, but just enough.”
“Liked you better when you were quiet,” Locke says, but there’s a twitch at his lips that indicates he finds her comment amusing.
“That’s what everyone says,” she agrees, and crawls out of bed. I can’t help but watch her, fascinated. One of the things Locke was smart enough to bring was a few changes of clothing he grabbed at a nearby store. Becka’s wearing a T-shirt and a pair of booty shorts that show off her ass nicely…not that I’d look at such things. She’s Prez’s sister, which means she’s off-limits. I’m just mostly happy she’s not cringing. She heads to the bathroom and looks at me. “Did you leave any washcloths? I’d like to take a few with me when we drive. Putting one on my neck helps my headaches.”
“There’re a few,” I tell her. “You want some aspirin?”
“Sure,” she says, but heads into the bathroom and starts to wet down towels anyhow. Huh.
“Let’s pack our shit,” Locke tells me. “Gonna be a long drive and we’re not stopping until we get there.”
I whistle at that, shoving crap into one of the bags. “How many hours is that?”
“Enough of ’em. You can catch up on your beauty sleep when we get to the cabin, though.”
“Beauty sleep? You got a thing for blonds?”
“Figure of speech, fuckhead.”
Becka comes out of the bathroom a moment later, a baggy full of towels in her hand, her fantastic ass now encased in yoga pants instead of the booty shorts. Jesus, did Locke pick out nothing but tight clothes for Gem’s hot little sister? Is he testing me? “Ready when you guys are,” Becka says, stifling a yawn. “Can we get something to eat?”
“There’s a donut place up the road. We’ll grab coffee and a bite to eat there.”
She brightens. “Thanks.”
For some reason, I’m jealous that she’s giving Locke such happy looks when all I get are wary stares. “Man, I’m hurt. You didn’t ask me if I liked donuts.”
Locke grabs a bag of supplies and shoots me a look. “Didn’t have to ask. I know what you like.”
He’s got a point. Locke knows me best out of the Butchers. But a weird, watchful expression crosses Becka’s face as she looks at me. And I realize that Locke’s words sound…well, they don’t sound right. And for some reason, I can feel my ears getting hot. I lean in toward Becka. “Told you he liked blonds.”
She chuckles, and the sound makes me feel warm inside. I’m gonna get her to like me. It’s just a matter of time before she looks forward to spending time with me, just like Locke.
He won’t admit it, but he’s got a soft spot for me. In time, maybe I can be a partner to him like his last one was.
No, better.
It’s more than twenty straight hours of driving to get to Arkansas. When we leave Nevada, we head north and cut through Utah and Colorado instead of Arizona and New Mexico, just to avoid familiar territory. It’s a fucking hell of a distance, and I spend the first round sleeping while Locke drives, and then we switch out somewhere in Kansas. I pick up sudoku books, crossword puzzles and more playing cards at gas stations as we roll through, because we’re going to have a shit ton of time to waste, and the burner phones we’re using don’t have the capability to play games. I try to snag other little things from the gas stations as we stop in, just to make Becka smile. She’s been napping under a blanket in the back seat, but I know lying down for a twenty-hour drive is getting to her, so if I can make it a little more tolerable with a few shitty fashion magazines, I figure it’s the least I can do.
Day fades to night, and watchfulness gives way to exhaustion. By the time it starts getting hilly and green instead of just flat, I’m practically seeing double. Locke insists on switching drivers again, and this time I’m too tired to argue. Becka gives me her pillow, and I tell myself I’m going to get just an hour of sleep or so before dawn. No more.
Next thing I know, it’s broad daylight, and Locke thumps me on the shoulder. “We’re here.”
I jerk upright, reaching for my gun. “Here where?” I rub my bleary eyes, but all I see is green and a row of buildings in the distance.
He points up ahead. “Go see if they have vacancies. You and Becka both.”
I stare at the girly sign up ahead. HONEYMOON COTTAGE SUITES. It’s hand-painted with lots of flowers and bumblebees. Fuckin’ bumblebees. The place itself looks like a pink barn with white window frames. Behind it, nesting into the trees, are several more pink cottages. It looks like Strawberry Shortcake barfed all over this place. “Me and Becka?”
“Yeah. Go rent a honeymoon cottage. Leave your piece here.”
“You could go,” I bicker, but I hand him my gun.
“They ain’t gonna buy it if I go with her. I’m too old.”
“Oh please.” That’s Becka. “You’re just as believable as me and Nick Carter here.”
“Who?”
Becka opens the car door and hops out. “The blond Backstreet Boy.”
“Goddamn it.” I get out, too, because it’s probably gonna look weird if I punch my driver at the Honeymoon Cottage Suites.
The moment I do, Becka’s arms go around me and she’s hugging my forearm to those fantastic tits of hers. I stare down at her, momentarily distracted, and she’s so tiny compared to my height that I get a great view of her cleavage down the vee of her shirt. Not that I’m supposed to be looking, because I like having my balls, but damn. No jury would convict me.
“We’re supposed to be newlyweds,” she says, nudging me. “Try to act like it?”
“Right.” I glance back at the car to see if Locke’s getting an eyeful
of this, but he’s slouching low in the seat, doing his best to make it look like it’s just me and Becka here together. Shit. All right then. I go back to ogling her tits, since I guess it’s allowed.
She steers me toward the pink barn. “Oooh, aren’t those pretty flowers? This place is so cute!” There’s a chirpy, girly note to her voice that makes me think she’s gone nuts, but then I remember we’re supposed to be pretending to be newlyweds. I guess this is her way of trying to be normal or something.
“Cute,” I agree when she pinches my arm. “Think they have hot tubs?”
“I’m not getting into a hot tub with you,” she says, teeth gritted.
If she’s going to be a vapid bride, I’m gonna be a pervert groom. “I’ll talk you into it.”
“Ugh.”
And then we’re inside, and an elderly couple is beaming at us from behind the counter. They look pleasant and, well, old. The woman’s got white curls, librarian glasses, and a cardigan with hearts and kittens on it. The old guy’s got a crazy-long comb-over swirled over his bald head, and the ugliest plaid shirt I’ve ever seen, but they somehow go together. And they beam at us as if they’re pleased as punch to see us. “Hello, you two,” the old woman coos.
“Hey,” I say awkwardly.
Becka’s hands tighten on my arm. “We’re looking to rent a cabin. Do you have any available?”
“We do.” The woman pulls out a doily-covered book and a feather pen, like this is some Barbie shit, and holds them out to us. “Cabin six was vacated two days ago and it’s all nice and cleaned up. You can sign into our guest log.”
Becka moves forward and takes the pen, smiling. “Great, thanks.”
“Newlyweds?” the old man asks.