by Jill Myles
“I can’t go,” Noah said gently.
“What do you mean?” I frowned up at him as he helped Remy over George’s sleeping body. “You just got here.” He’d just returned to me and now he was going to leave me again? “We’re still a day’s drive from New Orleans. I won’t last a day before the Itch kicks in again.” Panic threaded through me.
But Noah shook his head. He already had his cell phone out and was holding it up to his ear as he urged me toward the door. “I’ve got friends in a few high places that owe me a favor. I’m going to call them and see what I can do to spin the damage control. It’s best if you aren’t here at all. Either of you.” He gave me a stern look. “Understand?”
“But . . . but . . .” I wrung my hands, a stupidly girlish and weak thing to do. “What about my curse? And New Orleans?” I ignored Remy as she shoved me aside and began to toss her things hurriedly into her pink suitcase. “I need you.”
A hint of a smile touched Noah’s face and he pressed a quick kiss on my mouth. “You’ll be fine, sweetheart. I’ll catch up with you in New Orleans. You’re looking for Delilah, right?”
Before I could respond, he turned away, putting a finger to his ear, his mind on the phone call. “Hey, Steve. It’s Noah. Can you get the senator on the phone?
I hesitated for a moment, then reached up and gave Noah a quick peck on the cheek good-bye as he began to speak again. Remy was zipping her suitcase shut when I grabbed her by the hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”
I dragged her out of the hotel room and shut the door behind me. My suitcase and purse were discarded on the motel sidewalk where Noah had left them, and I bent over to pick them up.
“Holy shit,” Remy breathed behind me. I straightened to see what she was staring at.
The door to Drake’s hotel room was still open, and his blood-covered body was plainly visible on the bed. I grabbed the edge of my shirt and covered my hand with it, closing the door.
Remy’s wide eyes stared at me, haunted. “It wasn’t me, Jackie. I promise.”
I took her hand. “I know,” I lied. I didn’t know what to think, but no sense in upsetting her further. “We’ve got to get out of here, like Noah said.”
She nodded and we raced to the parking lot.
I tossed my suitcase in the backseat and climbed into the driver’s seat. We had three-quarters of a tank, good enough to get us some distance between here and the motel. I started the engine and buckled in. “Hurry up,” I yelled at Remy.
Remy slid into the front seat, and I could tell from the way her breath was catching that she was crying. I didn’t have time to comfort her, though—not if I was going to get our asses out of trouble.
Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I glanced back at the rooms. Noah’s face was visible between the heavy curtains of Remy’s room, watching me. He touched the window briefly, raising his hand to the glass, and then was gone, disappearing behind the drape again.
Yet another mess I’d left for Noah to clean up. The thought ate at me as I backed the Hummer out of the parking space, threw it into drive, and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving my white knight behind—again. It seemed to be a bad habit of mine.
I didn’t want to think about it. Or my curse. Or Remy, weeping quietly next to me, devastated that Drake was dead—and that she might have been the one to do it.
Instead, I thought about New Orleans. We just needed to get there in one piece, and I needed to trust that Noah would fix things. I just hoped that this time I hadn’t gotten him into a bigger mess than he could handle.
Silence filled in the car as we drove through Oklahoma and into Texas. The sun was high in the sky overhead, the summer heat baking us through the windshield. I cranked the A/C on high. Remy stared out the passenger-side window at the flat, scrubby scenery as it rolled past. She’d stopped crying a while back, but her mood was still somber and her pale eyes were red-rimmed.
It felt like a much different road trip from when we’d first started. Now it was just two solemn succubi in the front seat. The men were gone. I wondered if the curse had a part in that, as well.
“I’m hungry,” Remy said out of the blue, and looked over at me.
My heart fluttered at her words, thinking she meant for blood or the Itch.
Then she pointed at a billboard. “There’s a Stuckey’s at the next exit. Can we go there? I want a pecan log.”
“Sure,” I said, and pulled over to the right-hand lane. “But then we need to get right back on the road. Noah said he’d meet us in New Orleans, and I want to make sure we’re there when he gets there.”
“We’ll get there,” she assured me. “Don’t worry. A couple of Slurpees and pecan logs won’t delay us for long.”
She had a point, and I was hungry, too. A pecan log sounded pretty damn tasty, and my stomach growled. “And maybe a pretzel or two,” I added. “With nacho cheese.”
“And chocolate,” Remy said. “Chocolate always makes me feel better.”
Me too.
I parked the Hummer as close as I could to the store, taking up two parking spaces.
“Keys?” Remy said, holding her hand out. “I want to drive next.”
I handed them over. “Suit yourself. Just remember that we’re in Texas now, so watch the speed limit.” Because nothing caught the eye quite like a giant red Hummer going ninety down the highway.
She winked and gave me her usual saucy Remy smile. “I won’t forget.”
I was glad to see one of us was getting back to normal. Me? I was still pretty depressed over Drake dying and worried about Noah taking the fall for it.
The store was filled with all kinds of NASCAR memorabilia and the usual touristy crap, in addition to snacks.
After I grabbed a few bags of chips, some chocolate, and a few Dr. Peppers, I headed to the counter and put my stuff down.
The man at the register was older, fat, and wore a Stuckey’s cap. He must shop in his own store. He gave me a friendly smile. “Want a lottery ticket?”
“No thanks,” I said, trying to keep the smile on my face. With the luck I’d had lately, Lord only knew what would happen. I’d probably have to give money back.
He nodded and began to ring up my items, turning every once in a while to the TV that was on low volume behind the counter. I started to listen in to the news that was playing.
“A grisly attack in a Super 8 in Ponca City, Oklahoma, left one man dead and another in a coma,” the anchorwoman said in a serious voice. “Police came upon the scene—”
I froze.
“Seventeen thirty-two,” the man said.
I ripped my gaze away from the TV. “I’m sorry,” I said weakly. “How much?”
He repeated it and I held out my debit card carefully so that he wouldn’t touch my fingers by accident, trying to listen as the anchor wrapped up the story.
“One suspect is being held for questioning. Police say two others are at large, but they expect to bring them in shortly.”
Oh jeez. That was us.
“Here you go,” the store clerk said, handing me the receipt and my bag of junk food. I took it and nodded at him, scanning the store for Remy. I didn’t see her inside, so I headed out. Maybe she was already in the car waiting for me.
That would be good. The sooner we got on the road, the better. The sooner we got to New Orleans, the better.
But as I emerged from the store, I noticed an immediate problem: The cherry-red Hummer was gone.
Fear flared through me. Remy had left me behind?
“Over here, silly,” I heard her call from across the parking lot. Relief flooded me, and I turned to give her a real bitching out for scaring me like that.
And stopped.
Her hair pulled back into a long, sleek ponytail, Remy wore a new sundress (this one mint green) and waved from the door of a puke green El Camino, circa 1972. “Come on.”
I checked the parking lot again. Still no sign of the Hummer. “Uh, Remy? Where’s our car?”
; She patted the puke-green door. “Right here.”
“Last time I checked, we were driving around in a hundred-thousand-dollar car, not some five-dollar piece of crap.”
“I traded the Hummer with some college boys that passed through.” Remy smiled, refusing to take offense at my tone. She smoothed the door again, as if she could soothe it from my hurtful comments. “This ol’ girl will suit our needs. It’s perfect for . . .” She glanced around the parking lot to make sure no one heard. “Going undercover.”
Right. We’d just traded a Hummer for a rust bucket that probably wouldn’t go fifty miles, much less five hundred. I sighed and moved to the passenger side. “It’s a good thing you’re rich,” I muttered and jerked on the door handle.
It came off in my hand.
Remy cracked up. “This is so Dukes of Hazzard.”
Just kill me now.
I threw my purse and bag in her lap and slid through the window into the bucket seat. “I hate you, Remy.”
“Oh, you do not,” she said cheerfully. “Think of it. Who’d look for us in an El Camino?”
She did have a point. I glanced at the back end of the car. “It’s amazing that you were able to fit all of the luggage in the back of this car.” Funny how I didn’t see it anywhere.
Remy blinked. “Umm . . .”
The urge to cry grew stronger. “Let me guess. You forgot.”
She started the car, the engine roaring—no muffler, from the sound of it—as it came to life. “I forgot,” she called over the din. “We’ll get new stuff in New Orleans.”
“Better drive fast then, ’cause we’re wanted women.”
Remy gave me a thumbs-up. “We’ll be there before you know it.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The car began to smoke, and all the lights on the dashboard lit up as soon as we hit the eastern side of Dallas. We jerked over to the side of the road on Interstate 20 and skidded to a halt in the middle of construction.
I jumped out of the car, moving around to the front of the long hood.
“Is something wrong?” Remy said, sticking her head outside the window.
I fanned away the smoke, coughing. “Pop the hood.”
The hood gave a rusty creak and groan, and as I pried it open smoke flew into my face, singeing my eyelashes with the heat.
Remy trotted to my side, her high heels clacking on the asphalt. “What are we looking for?”
Heck, I didn’t know. The metal of the hood was so hot, it was burning my hands. I slammed it shut again. “I think we’re stranded.”
“Stranded?” Remy’s brows drew together as she stared at me. Behind us, cars whizzed past. “What do you mean, stranded?” She looked down at the El Camino as if it had betrayed her. “The boys that sold me this car told me it never broke down on them.”
“Gee, do you think they might have lied to get the free Hummer that you offered them?”
Her eyes widened. “Maybe.”
Sigh. My hands went to my hips and I glared at the car. “So what do we do now?”
“Flag down a tow truck? Call the police?” She pointed at the road sign that gave a number for roadside assistance.
I shook my head. “We can’t call the police. We’re wanted for questioning in Drake’s murder, remember?”
Her face fell, and she seemed to crumple from within. “I remember.”
Ah jeez. I didn’t need Remy falling to pieces on me. I forgot that Drake was her friend and sometime bed partner. I put my arm around her shoulders in a comforting half hug. “I’m sure it’s fine, Remy. If they really wanted us for murder, they would have said more on the news. Someone must have figured out that Drake checked into the hotel with us, and they just want to ask some questions. That’s all.”
I hoped that was all. I was dying to ask Noah how he was doing, but calling him would be a very bad idea right now. If he was in custody, they might be able to track down my location from my phone signal and swoop down on us with a SWAT team. I wasn’t sure if that was a realistic scenario or just something TV had fed to my brain, but either way, I wasn’t calling him.
Remy gave a watery sniffle. “So what do we do?”
She was taking this harder than I thought. Alarmed, I stepped to the side of the road, glancing around. There had to be something we could do. Cars zoomed past, going well above the speed limit. The midday sun made the air shimmer over the asphalt.
I certainly didn’t want to stay out here. On top of the heat, I was tired—tired of everything going wrong lately. The more I followed someone else’s lead, the more it seemed to send me down the wrong path.
I thought for a moment, then decided to follow my own instincts.
Taking my Assistant T-shirt—I’d changed back into it and a pair of shorts when we’d left the hotel, since they were the only clothes I had left—I pulled it tight, knotting it underneath my breasts and exposing my unnaturally perfect torso. Then I rolled up the hem on my already-short jeans shorts.
“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” Remy said behind me, her tears replaced with amusement.
“Yep,” I said, sticking my thumb out as I faced the highway, my other hand on my hip. I tilted my legs and torso so both my ass and my boobs jutted out, and pulled my hair out of its practical ponytail so the bright red curls would stream in the wind. “We’re going to hitch a ride to New Orleans.”
It was a picture-perfect pose, even if I did say so myself. I wouldn’t think about the bad things that came with hitchhiking, like scary murderers or rapists. Remy and I could handle ourselves, and I’d wipe the brain of any man who tried to touch me (even if I didn’t want to). Hitching seemed like the only way off the side of the road.
The first car to pass nearly got into an accident. Another car honked but didn’t stop.
The third one pulled over.
Remy began to bounce up and down with delight. “A ride! Good thinking, Jackie!”
I felt proud of myself, too. The car that pulled over was a nice black sedan, nothing too fancy but clean, and it looked like it could hold us comfortably in the backseat. There were two guys in the front seat, which made me a little nervous, but we could handle them. One stepped out of the car.
And then I realized he was wearing a cop uniform.
“Aw crap.” I looked over at Remy. “The curse strikes again.”
Her eyes were wide, and she took a step closer to me. “Boy, you and that curse are something else. You want to go to Plan B?” She gestured at her forehead, miming that we should blank out his mind.
“Can I help you ladies with something?” The cop drawled as he approached us, his shoes clomping heavily in rhythm with the thudding of my heart.
I had to choose fast. My brain raced through the possible scenarios—we could overpower the one cop, no problem. The second one wouldn’t be an issue, either, but then we’d have no way to get another driver to stop if we had an abandoned cop car next to us. And if we took their car, it’d be even worse news.
Our only other option was to go with them and hope for the best.
Remy gestured at her forehead again and I shook my head. We’d play this one straight.
“Hi, officer,” I said, pasting a bright smile on my face and pulling Remy closer to me so I could watch her. “We’re stuck on the side of the road.”
He stood directly in front of us and glanced back at his partner, giving him a long, slow nod. What that meant, I had no idea, but I bet that it wasn’t good. The cop put his thumbs in his belt and rocked backward a bit, eyeing the two of us. His gaze rested on my chest for a minute. “You ladies know that hitchhiking is dangerous? I wouldn’t recommend it.”
I hated the condescending tone in his voice. “We can handle ourselves.”
His smirk indicated that he didn’t think so. He thumbed a gesture at the car. “This yours?”
“Sort of,” Remy chimed in helpfully.
The cop grinned, a slow spreading smile across his face that I didn’t like at all. “That
’s real interesting,” he said. “You know this car was reported stolen earlier this morning?”
Uh oh.
“That is such a coincidence,” Remy said, giving him her best succubus smile. “Someone stole my car this morning and left me this rust bucket.”
The officer smiled behind his dark sunglasses. “Then you won’t mind coming with us to the station and answering a few questions.”
“Of course,” she chirped, grabbing me by the arm. When the officer turned away, she leaned in to me, offended. “Did you see how he treated me? He didn’t even check me out once. Count on us to get a gay cop.”
The officer turned, his face purpling with rage. “What did you say?”
I groaned.
A short time later, I found myself in a small Podunk jail in a Podunk county in East Texas. The police officers had moved Remy to a different cell. I could hear her arguing with the guard.
They’d decided to separate us after the excessive amount of whispering we were doing. My whispers consisted of demanding that Remy not mess with the guards’ minds (and thus get us into deeper trouble than we were already in), and Remy’s whispers consisted of arguing with me. Neither side was productive.
Officer Hawkins gave me a surly look as I thumped down on the bench in the small cell. I’d managed to avoid being touched by either of the police officers, but mostly due to luck—and the fact that they wore motorist’s gloves. My guess was that he thought they made him look cool, because it certainly wasn’t due to the steamy weather. He even wore one of those ridiculous beige hats and oversized mirror sunglasses, like the kind you only saw on Walker, Texas Ranger.
“You sit there,” he said, pointing at me, “and you be quiet. And if we find out that your story matches up with your friend’s, then we’ll decide what to do with you.”
Fat lot of good that was going to do me. I glared at the man. “You’re not being very fair about this. I told you we didn’t steal that car.”
“I’m supposed to believe that your friend there traded away a brand-new Hummer for that piece of shit I found you girls driving?”