****
Alex’s need to find the one person who’d stood by him his entire life turned into a dangerous obsession. Hitting the gas pedal full force, he raced down the interstate.
“Slow down,” I ordered.
He ignored me.
Gazing out the window, I focused on Kylie Minogue’s voice on the radio. She sang that creepy song about wild roses. The one that had always given me the chills.
“We have to hurry,” Alex muttered under his breath.
“I know.” Trees and fields faded into oblivion as the Mustang flew over the deserted interstate. I’m a sucker for speed, but we were moving too damn fast. “Please slow down, Alex. You’re gonna get us killed.”
“We have to hurry,” he repeated as the radio decomposed into static.
A chilly draft caressed my cheek. Raw emotion flooded my chest, and a piercing pain stabbed through my heart. Something wasn’t right.
“We have to hurry.” Alex’s voice was hoarse and distant.
My gaze went to the driver’s seat, and an unspeakable fear pulsated through my carotid artery. Alex was gone. The driver’s seat was empty. What the fuck? I turned around, looking for Alex, but he was nowhere to be seen. Driven by an invisible hand, the needle on the Mustang’s speedometer pointed at 140mph.
“Alex?” I screamed, terrified.
There was no answer. Just white noise blaring from the radio speakers.
“Alex, where the hell are you?”
“You have to hurry,” a soft voice whispered like distant wind chimes. “Find the wild roses, Amanda.”
I saw the imprint of a small hand on a breath-clouded window. It looked less Titanic and more Insidious, which amplified my fear. “Who are you?” I yelled, but panic weakened my voice.
I felt a cold touch on my thigh. The hair on my neck stood higher than the Empire State Building, and for a split second I refused to face whatever was with me in the car.
“Help me.”
Swallowing fear, I turned to the driver’s seat. Raven hair covered the scarred face of a little girl. She crawled toward me, body twitching and jerking in an unnatural way. “Help us,” she whispered, reaching for my face.
“Don’t,” I begged. The girl’s pain was hard enough to endure from a distance. I wasn’t sure I could handle it up close.
“You have to understand,” she said and ran her chilly fingers over my temple.
Excruciating pain rushed through me as the worst feeling of all paralyzed me—helplessness.
****
“Manda!” A pair of strong hands chases away the cold. “Wake up.”
Yanking my eyes open, I find Alex leaning over me with his fingers folded over my shoulders. “You okay?”
I don’t know. Am I?
“Yeah,” I groan and pull back. “Just get off me.” I didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but Alex’s touch is dangerous, and after a dream like that, I don’t feel like playing with fire.
Alex retreats to his seat, but watches me suspiciously. “Bad dream?”
More like the worst nightmare ever. Stretching my numb muscles, I roll my eyes. “Dude, if I need a shrink, I’ll call Dr. Phil.”
“Whatever.” He shakes his head and throws a brown doggy bag in my lap. “Here, thought you might be hungry.”
The smell of spicy vegetarian chili fries crawls in my nose as I open the bag. “Is it poisoned?” I ask, not trusting the fact that, all of a sudden, he’s treating me like a human being.
He unwraps a burrito. “I wish,” he mutters under his breath.
I shove a few fries in my mouth. “I always liked that about you.”
He cocks a brow, and something close to shock fills those beautiful eyes. “What, that I want to poison you?”
I laugh. “That you’re not afraid to speak your mind, Alex.”
“Stop sweet talkin’ me, Manda,” he says and takes a bite.
I frown. “Will do. If you stop callin’ me Manda, that is.” I hate nicknames. Granted, Manda is much better than Mandy, but when Alex accused me of slaughtering Mister Sinister, he had lost the right to call me that.
He shoots me a dirty look. “You are—”
“Awesome?” I shrug. “I know.”
Chin low and jaw hard, he doesn’t look happy. I anticipate a retort or one of his famous you’re-an-arrogant-bitch speeches. Instead, he takes a large bite of his burrito and keeps quiet.
Gazing out the window, I realize we’re in a remote area, surrounded by trees and fields. “Where are we?”
“Near Joplin,” he murmurs, mouth full.
“Missouri?”
He gives me the are-you-serious look. “No, Arizona.”
I frown. “You’re so funny, honey.”
Alex’s lips curl into a half smile. “Stupid questions require snarky answers.”
Arrogant asshole. “There ain’t no stupid questions, dude. There are only stupid answers.” After that, we eat in silence, not looking at each other. The whole road-trip-with-the-ex-lover-who-hates-you shit is more than just uncomfortable, and I bet the next Oxford dictionary features “Amanda and Alex in the car” as a new definition of awkward.
Twenty minutes and two sodas later, we hit the road. Trees and landscapes flit past us when the scent of incense pricks my nostrils.
“You smell that?” I ask, scanning the car for the source.
“Smell what?” he asks, fiddling with the radio.
“Incense,” I reply.
He casts me a look that is a cross between delighted and concerned. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I assure him as “Where the Wild Roses Grow” blasts through the car. Déjà vu and not a good one. I switch it off.
“Hey,” Alex barks. “What did I say about the radio?”
“Don’t care.” Haunted by the image of the little girl from my dream, chills ripple through me. “I hate that song.”
Chapter 4
Crossing the border to Texas, half our trip is behind us with another twenty hours ahead. As the twilight’s last gleaming fades into blackness, I feel limp. We’ve been in this car way too long, and I could really use a break from the Mustang and Alex.
Jerk-face is barely able to keep his eyes open. But even if I suggested a pit stop, he wouldn’t listen. I guess some things never change. His inability to listen got us into this weird relationship—friends-with-benefits, you’re-a-freaking-witch, and I-want-to-kill-you mess—in the first place.
****
A flickering street lamp provided the only light in a starless night. Knowing I was being followed, I zipped my faux-leather jacket, and picked up the pace.
My last client’s heavy footsteps resonated through the desolate alley, and his fury pierced my back like a butcher knife. He probably wanted his money back, but the jerk could kiss my peachy little ass. I read cards. There is no money back guarantee in my business. Besides, it wasn’t my fault he couldn’t deal with the truth. Sure, it had to suck when your girlfriend cheated on you with your best friend, but he should have known a former beauty queen wouldn’t waste her sweet chunk on a guy like him.
The stomping behind me grew louder. The dude was beyond pissed. His raw hate flooded the night like a bloody tsunami. I knew right then and there I had to make a choice; I could either run or show some lady-balls and face the bastard.
Every fiber in my body urged me to flee. Running was for chickens, though, and I was anything but. Forcing myself to pause, I turned around quickly. “What do you want?” I asked, keeping my voice casual. Because the first survival rule on the streets was show no fear.
Mister Sinister stopped dead in his tracks. He clearly hadn’t expected a face-off. His surprise quickly converted to anger, though. “You’re a fucking liar, bitch! My girlfriend would never cheat one me.”
My lips curled into a wicked grin. “Am I?” Hands on my hips, I took a step toward him. “Then why the hell are you so fuckin’ mad?”
“Because you lied,” he yelled, fisting his stubby
fingers.
I should have kept my mouth shut, but a rush of excitement and a human’s biological bodyguard, adrenalin, poisoned my system. “Wanna know what I think?” I asked, voice even.
He looked amused. “Go ahead, bitch. Hit me with your best shot.”
“The reason behind your psycho act is that gut-wrenching feeling in the pit of your stomach which tells you I didn’t lie.”
His expression darkened. Muddy red and dark green swirled around him like a mad swarm of bees. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, and hauled me closer. “Taking people’s money and feeding them lies that ruin their lives? How do you live with yourself?”
I thought about gouging his eyes out, but decided to stay calm a little longer. “Look, you’re wasted, man. Why don’t you go home, sober up, get yourself a new girlfriend, and while you’re at it, find yourself a best friend who lives by the bro code instead of the ho code?” His eyes widened, and he let go off my hair. I turned, ready to walk away from the mess telling the truth had created, but his bulky hands yanked me back violently.
“Admit it! Admit you lied!”
Mister Sinister was about to wake the whole neighborhood. Although his lack of self-control entertained me, I’d had enough. Straightening, I grinned at him. “All right, I lied. Satisfied?”
He inched closer. His repulsive hands crushed my shoulder blade in a vicious manner. “No.” He shook me hard. “Say it as if you mean it.”
The guy was about to lose it, so I held my hands up in defeat and suppressed the blazing fire inside me. “Okay, buddy, calm down. Your girlfriend loves you more than any pleasure she could get from mind-blowing sex, and she’d never ever cheat on you.” I put on my best fake smile. “Happy? Can I go now? ’Cause I really need to wash your disgusting touch off my skin.”
The lie appeared to infuriate him even more. He leaned closer, and I felt his whiskey breath on my face. “You’re a bitch! A fucking bitch!” A spark of crazy gleamed in his blue eyes. “And do you know what we do with lying bitches like you around here?”
My arms dropped to my sides. “Worship the ground they walk on?”
His grip tightened. “We screw the lies out of ’em.”
My shoulder hurt like hell, and the firestorm inside me had turned into a live grenade about to blow him into bits and pieces. “Dude, I’ll only say this once. Take your creepy hands off me. Now.”
“Or what?” His voice was razor-sharp.
I ran my forefinger over his temple and down to his jawline. “I know they say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” I closed the little gap still between us. “But, unlike you, most people never pissed of a witch.”
The bastard’s laughter echoed off the walls. “Cheeky. Think you can keep that attitude up once I’m done with you?”
Just when I decided Mister Sinister would become my guinea pig for the castration curse I had always wanted to try, a shadowy figure stepped out of the darkness. “Let her go,” a deep voice demanded.
Black biker boots, ripped jeans, a worn-out leather jacket, and from what I could see, the body of a Greek god. Long story short, he was freaking hot.
I appreciated his concern, but he had this “I’m a super soldier who’s going to save the world” thing going for him, and I certainly wasn’t a damsel in distress. “Stay out of this,” I said matter-of-factly.
Mister Sinister’s mouth snapped shut. Confusion washed over his face, but he quickly pulled it together and faced the god-like creature. “You heard the bitch. Get lost.”
My self-appointed savior moved nearer. The flickering streetlamp shed light on his striking face. Christ, even Damon Salvatore of The Vampire Diaries would have envied this guy. “Hands off her. Now.”
Mister Sinister’s cheeks flushed with fury. “Mind your own fucking business, pal.”
That was just great. I was caught in the middle of a freaking testosterone battle and couldn’t even use magic. My day had gone from bad to hell.
Stalking toward us, the hottie cocked a brow. “I’m not going to say it again. Let her go, asshole.”
Anxiety blossomed in my stomach as I got a glimpse of Captain Righteous’s golden aura. That, and the heroic attitude, turned all my alarm bells on, and I felt the overwhelming urge to run.
I was so mesmerized by the feeling something wasn’t right about this guy, I didn’t even realize Mister Sinister lay on the street with a bleeding nose until a husky voice brought me back to reality. “Are you okay?”
I didn’t answer, and not because his malachite eyes took my breath away, and he had the most handsome face I’d ever seen. I knew why my alarm bells had gone off. Captain Righteous was no superhero. He was a freaking hunter, and I was his favorite kind of prey.
****
The little trip down memory lane ends when Alex’s irritating yelling snaps me out of it. “Manda!”
“What?” I hiss.
“We have to take a break. I’m tired, and it’s irresponsible to drive like this.”
I laugh my ass off. Irresponsible? Jesus, who talks like this? “Of course,” I say, swallowing the laughter. “We wouldn’t want to run down a cactus, right?”
He frowns. “Quit being a smartass and shut up. Will ya?”
I’m too tired to put up much of a fight. “Whatever, Alex.”
He parks the Mustang in front of a shitty motel.
“A fucked-up motel,” I bark. “That’s such a cliché.”
Unimpressed, he shrugs. “You can always stay in the car. Maybe the coyotes will keep you company. Or better, do me a favor and tear you into pieces.”
I open the door and stretch my battered legs. “Animals love me.”
He slams the car door shut behind him. “At least someone does,” he mutters before heading inside.
Leaning against the Mustang, I wait for him to book our rooms. Seriously, the guy is a first-class jerk. Why in God’s name did I screw him in the first place? Because he’s a hot, first-class jerk.
Ten minutes later, Alex returns. The problem is he only has one keycard. Chasing after him, my six-inch knee-high boots leave an angry impression on the dry ground. This isn’t happening. God would have to fucking hate me to do that. “What do you mean they only have one room left?”
Checking the room number on the keycard, he stops in front of a red door. “Exactly what I said.”
I put my hands on my hips and shake my head. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”
A mischievous grin on his full lips, he cocks a brow. “Guess we’re finally on the same page.”
I roll my eyes. “Shut up. You know exactly what I mean.”
Alex unlocks the scarlet door with the number thirteen on it and lets out a frustrated sigh. “We can share this room, or you can spend the night in the car.” Running his hand over the wall, searching for the light switch, he looks over his shoulder at me. “Your call, Manda. Do whatever you want. I. Don’t. Care.”
I glare at the squiggly, black thirteen on the door. I don’t believe in bad luck, but it might be time to reconsider.
The light from the fixture overhead glides over two dirty beds with ill-favored flower sheets, a 1950s TV, and curtains from the 70s that give the room its fucked-up flair. This might be Norman Bates’s cup of tea, but it sure as hell ain’t mine. I shoot Alex a death glare. “Did the room come with complementary kitchen knife, shower curtain, and a How to Become a Psycho Killer for Dummies handbook?”
Alex throws his bag on the left bed. “I told the guy at the desk you carry that stuff in your vanity case.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “You’re such an ass.”
“Says the stab-worthy bitch,” he murmurs, heading to the tiny bathroom. “I’ll shower and catch some sleep. We’ll hit the road in a couple of hours.”
A hot shower sounds tempting, but one look at the monstrosity of a bathroom destroys all my fantasies. I am used to beat-up motels, but the crimson stains on the white tiles make me want to puke. Either someone got killed in here, or the l
ast resident used her sanitary pads to paint the freaking walls. Gross.
“Hey.” I seize hold of Alex’s shirt. “Sure you want to take a shower in there?”
Alex pulls away, shoots me one last evil glare, and slams the door in my face.
Guess that means yes.
The water turns on. Moments later, hot steam wafts through the brittle door. Holding my breath to block the foul smell, I scan the room and spot a cockroach on the nightstand. Gosh, I need a drink. Or ten.
Chapter 5
Sitting on a barstool inside the Titty Twister—yes, someone actually named a bar in the middle of nowhere after the one in Tarantino’s cult vampire flick, and no, no one bit me or did a snake dance—I gulp down my third tequila shot.
Alex was still in the shower when I hauled butt to the bar across the street. I even left him a note that said something like, “Gone to drink you pretty.” Not that he deserved one, but I figured he might go all Sigourney Weaver aka Ellen Ripley on my ass if he thought I ran.
In need of more booze, I wave the cute, inked bartender over. “So,” I say, leaning on my elbows. “What’s a girl gotta do to get another drink around here?”
He places his hands against the counter and cocks a brow. “I guess you just have to be nice to the hot bartender.”
“Oh, really?” I lift my brows to my hairline and scan the bar. “You better call him then. ’Cause I’m dying for another drink.”
I’m-sexy-and-I-know-it flinches. “Ouch, that hurt.”
I shrug. “You’ll get over it.”
He grabs the brown tequila from the shelf behind him and pours two shots. Shoving one toward me, he keeps the other for himself. “To you, sweetheart,” he says, raising the short glass.
I down the tasty poison and wipe my mouth. “Do you always drink with your customers?”
His lips curl into a cocky grin. “Only if they’re as pretty as you.”
I make a face. “Seriously? That’s like the second worst pick-up line I’ve heard in years.”
“Yeah? What’s the worst?”
“I’m Wolverine, and my boner is adamantium-laced,” I reply.
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