Cruze’s lips curved up into a big smile. “I thought you’d never ask. Pull over on the shoulder.”
“No, that’s dangerous. Wait until we get off the highway, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever makes you comfortable, baby.” Grinning and rubbing his hands together gleefully, he leaned back in his seat.
Out of nowhere, a dark car with tinted windows swerved from the lane on the right, nearly colliding into the Aston Martin.
Cruze bolted upright as the car weaved back into its lane.
“Ohmygod, what the fuck—is that driver drunk or something?!” Arabia shouted.
Cruze glared out the window at the reckless driver. “I don’t know what his problem is, but let’s get away from this fool. Get all the way over to the far left.”
“Okay,” Arabia said, her voice trembling from nervousness. Slowly and carefully, she merged into the left lane. “What’s that car doing, now?” she asked, gripping the steering wheel, her eyes darting from the side mirrors to the rearview mirror.
Peering out of the passenger’s window, Cruze shook his head. “I don’t know where that muhfucka went; I don’t even see the car now.”
“Good. As long as his drunk ass is nowhere near us, I’m good.” Visibly relaxing, Arabia loosened her grip on the steering wheel. “And where the hell are the damn police when you need them?”
“I know, right? That muhfucka skidded out of his lane and damn near sideswiped us.”
“Oh, God, perish the thought! I would have died if that car would have scraped the paint off my pretty baby.” She patted the steering wheel as if comforting her car, then lovingly ran her hand over the gleaming dashboard.
Cruze chuckled at Arabia and in the next instant, a bullet pierced the back window and lodged into the hood of the car. Arabia let out a shriek.
“Oh shit! Them muhfuckas shooting! Duck, bae,” Cruze implored her.
“How the hell can I duck and drive at the same time?!” she screamed frantically. “Why are they shooting at us? What the hell’s going on, Cruze?”
“Step on it, Arabia. You gotta drive this thing. No time for bull-shitting now,” Cruze bellowed, reaching under his seat and pulling out a gun.
Shocked by what she saw, Arabia gawked at the gun in Cruze’s hand. “Ohmygod! You have a gun? Have you lost your mind!” she shrieked incredulously. “What the hell is going on here? Why the hell is there a gun in my car, huh, Cruze? Ohmygod!”
“Baby, now is not the time for a buncha damn questions,” he snapped irritated. He couldn’t believe these crazy muhfuckas were trying to get at him in broad daylight. But fuck that. It was either kill or be killed. And he’d be goddamned if he was going for the latter. These niggas gotta get got! He shot a look over at Arabia. “I need you to drive this muhfucka, baby! I promise I’ll explain everything later. Right now. DRIVE!”
The black car pulled up beside them again, and this time the driver lowered his window, revealing himself; another man was up front, and two in the back. Cruze recognized all four of them. They were Crockett’s men.
“DRIVE!” Cruze yelled again, sliding down his window, pointing his weapon, and firing rapidly. “Press down on the muthafuckin’ pedal, Arabia, and gas these niggas!”
“I c-c-can’t,” she stammered, her teeth chattering from fear.
“You can. You can do this, baby,” Cruze urged forcibly as the driver in the dark sedan pulled back from his direct firing range. Then they quickly proceeded to return fire, riddling the back of the Aston Martin with bullets.
Arabia screamed. And then she felt it—something warm puddling inside her lacy La Perlas. Dear God—no. She pissed herself. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening to her. This had to be some horrible nightmare she’d soon wake up from.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
More shots rang out. Hysterically, Arabia sideswiped another car, then repeatedly lost and regained control of her vehicle while screaming at the top of her lungs. “Cruze! Cruze! Crrrrrrruuuuuuze!!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?! OHMYFUCKING GOD!” She was zigzagging all over the road and running into the metal pavement dividers. “I’m gonna die! Ohmygod, I don’t wanna die! Please, God!”
Other motorists were slamming on their brakes, screeching tires, and honking their horns, as they tried to get out of harm’s way by pulling onto the shoulder of the highway, all at the same time.
Cruze couldn’t think straight with all of Arabia’s histrionics. He knew she wasn’t built for this life. But shit. He needed her to get focused and drive. “Arabia, I need you to shut the fuck up, baby!” he yelled over his shoulder, still firing his weapon at the wannabe henchmen. “And hit the fuckin’ gas!” He hadn’t meant to snap on her, but he’d smooth things over with her once they got to safety. But right now, he needed her to focus. And get them the hell to safety.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Arabia screamed again, glass shattering in back of her, shards flying over her head. Her foot accidentally going down on the pedal caused her Aston Martin’s twelve-cylinder engine to kick into high speed in a matter of seconds, unexpectedly surprising and shocking her.
Her vision blurred from tears, a burst of adrenaline surged through her veins causing her body to overheat. And before she knew what was happening, she gripped the steering wheel and accelerated.
Now unencumbered, Cruze was able to retaliate with gusto. No longer content to engage in the shootout by merely extending his arm, he lifted off the seat and stuck his entire torso out the window.
Arabia swerved, causing his body to swing, and he cursed, “Fuck!” Aiming his weapon at the assailants, he pulled the trigger, blasting out the sedan’s windshield. Arabia swerved again and his body almost went out the window. “Hold the wheel steady,” he yelled at her, then continued firing until the car behind him went into a tailspin and flipped over, then suddenly went up in flames.
“I got all them muhfuckas!” He flopped back into his seat, then gazed at Arabia with concern. “You a’ight?”
“Am I all right?” she asked incredulously. “Do I look fucking all right to you, huh, Cruze? Do I? I’ve just been fucking shot at! My so-called man had a fucking gun under his seat in my car! And you’re asking me if I’m all right? Are you fucking kidding me? No. I’m not all right! I’ll never be all right, ever again,” she sobbed, her bottom lip trembling. Everything in her body shook.
“I’ma make it up to you, baby,” Cruze promised, reaching over and placing a reassuring hand on her knee. “Pull over anywhere, so I can drive.”
Arabia swung her vehicle off the next exit and ran up on a curb, her brakes screeching to a violent halt. Shaking and crying, she swung open her door, and jumped out. She gasped and heaved, noticing how her once beautiful car was now perforated with bullet holes and marred with scraped-off paint.
She leaned over and vomited, her stomach churning in knots. The sounds of police sirens and fire trucks could be heard in the near distance. And the only thing Arabia could think was, I’m going to jail. I’m going to have to wear one of those God-awful jumpers. And some crazy butch bitch is going to try to fuck me with a plunger.
She wailed. The sight of her exotic car all mangled made her knees buckle. The front bumper hung to the ground. The driver’s side headlight was smashed out. The side-view mirror hung off the door. The passenger door was dented in so badly, Cruze could barely open it, and the back window was completely shattered. Arabia let out a piercing noise that sounded like a wounded animal howling.
The smell of burning rubber assaulted her nostrils and when she looked down at the tires, heavy smoke wafted from one of the rear tires that apparently had been shot out. Arabia had unknowingly been driving on a dinged-up rim.
Arabia cried out, her heart aching for her coveted vehicle. “Ohmygod! My car! My fucking car! You son of a bitch! It . . . it’s deeeeeesttttttroyed!” She couldn’t catch her breath; her lungs seemed to constrict a
s she fought for air.
Cruze winced as he pulled Arabia into his arms and held her tight, his heart still racing from his own adrenaline rush. He gently caressed her head, trying to calm her, his hand stroking over shards of glass that somehow tangled in her hair.
“Baby, we gotta get out of here,” he said softly, feeling even worse about dragging her into his violent lifestyle. “The police are probably all over the place.”
Seemingly stunned by shock, it was at that moment Arabia went eerily silent.
Cruze didn’t know what he would have done if anything had happened to her . . . if he’d lost her to gunfire. He reached for his cell, pushed in a number, then spoke into the receiver. “I need a cleanup.”
“Cool,” the voice on the other end said. “Where?”
Cruze gave the location of Arabia’s mangled car, then disconnected the call.
“I swear on my last breath, baby, I’ma fix this shit,” he said, feeling her trembling in his arms. “Let me get you home.”
He held her close and tight and one by one, tears escaped her eyes. Everything else became a haze.
• • •
“Arabia, baby . . .”
She heard his voice. Calling her. But he sounded far off. Sounded like he was calling her from another part of the world. Because the world she was in, was on fire, pierced with bullets. Gunfire rang out in her ears. She was moving through rooms of her loft aimlessly.
Dazed.
“Baby, I gotta get you outta these clothes . . .”
They were shooting at him, at me. He was shooting back . . .
Pop, pop, pop!
“Arabia, please, baby . . . can you hear me . . .?”
I was in a shootout . . .
She wasn’t dead. She hadn’t been shot. But her whole body burned. She couldn’t wrap her mind around what she’d witnessed. Out of nowhere. Bullets flying. Glass shattering. Her life flashing before her eyes. Her head was spinning. How did this happen? Why did it happen? What kind of monster had she gotten herself involved with?
“Baby, please . . . say something . . .”
Cruze’s voice faded in and out.
She smelled fire. A car. Their car.
Something was burning. Tires. Her tires.
Oh, God—her car. Gone.
She heard the screaming in her head.
More gunfire. Pop, pop, pop . . .
“Arabia, baby . . . c’mon, let me help you out of these . . .”
Unease crawled over Cruze’s skin and coiled around his neck in what felt like a chokehold as he called Arabia’s name. She had a blank look on her face, and her eyes were vacant. She was unresponsive. If only he would have kept his ass in Philly, none of this shit would have happened. It was all so goddamn fucked up now. And he hadn’t wanted Arabia to know, see, this side of who he was trying to get away from. He tried to bury that part of him along with his demons, but he just couldn’t catch a break. In the end, something or someone was always trying to pull him right back into that same dark place he’d fought so hard getting out of.
He had no one to blame for the fucked-up predicament he was now in, except himself. He was kicking himself for getting all wrapped up in Arabia, and letting his guard down. Now look what happened. He could have been killed, or worse . . .her.
“Arabia . . .”
Some of the numbness had worn off, but she was still in shock.
“Arabia, c’mon . . . you’re scaring me, baby. Talk to me . . .”
She blinked. Confusion clouded her beautiful brown eyes as Cruze came into view. She blinked again.
Cruze’s hand stroked her chin. “Baby, you had me worried for a minute . . .”
She stared. Then tears welled and a sob crept out of her throat.
Cruze tried to comfort her, but she pushed his arm away. Her nostrils flared and her eyes blazed. Then came the rage, like a wildfire, its heat and flames engulfing Cruze, catching him completely off guard as she leapt up and attacked him; her fists swinging wildly as she punched and clawed at him.
“You motherfucker! You almost had me killed! You no-good piece of shit! You low-life thug! I should have never fucked you! I wish I had never met you!”
Cruze blinked. Oh shit. Her words pierced through him. “C’mon, baby. You don’t mean any of that.”
“Yes, the fuck I do!” she snarled as she launched herself at Cruze, her long nails aimed directly at his face. “I hate you for what you put me through!”
Cruze wasn’t in the habit of putting his hands on females, but he couldn’t let her fuck him up, either, so he curled his arm around her waist and tried to restrain her. But she let out a shriek of outrage and began kicking and thrashing like a wild woman.
“Get your fucking hands off me!” she demanded. And when he wouldn’t let go, she bit his arm hard, her teeth sinking deep into his skin.
“Ow, fuck,” he yelped, letting her go. He put his hands up in surrender. “Calm down, baby. Let me explain . . .”
“Let you explain?” she scoffed, her chest heaving in and out. The metallic taste of blood was now on her tongue, his blood. She’d broken the skin on his arm. “Calm down hell! You can’t explain shit to me! Don’t ever want to see your murderous face again! You murderer!”
He cringed. “C’mon, baby. You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t call me that, you killer!” she yelled. “I’m not your baby. I’m not anything to your hoodlum-ass! Now get the fuck out of my home! Now!”
He blinked, stunned by her venomous words. He’d never seen this vicious side of her, and he didn’t like it. He’d rather had taken two bullets to the chest than to endure her fury. And, still, he tried desperately to talk, to reason, to hold out from tossing in the towel.
But Arabia had become blinded by shock and rage. She cursed and screamed until her throat ached. “Fuck you, Cruze!” she spat. “I hate you!”
In her wild fit, she reached for a crystal ashtray, and slung it at him. He ducked out of the way, the sharp object missing him by mere inches.
“I want you out of my home! And out of my fucking life!”
Stunned at her aggressive behavior, he hung his head, somehow feeling as if he deserved everything she dished out. She’d hurt his pride, stabbed his ego, and crushed his spirit with her words. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he reached for the door.
Tears streaming down her face, she snatched off her heel, and hurled it at him. “Get out! Get out!” She snatched off her other heel, and threw it. “Get out! You fucking killer!”
Nothing more needed to be said. He opened the door, and walked out, shutting her world out from his. The last thing he heard as the door closed behind him was, “I fucking hate you, Cruze Fontaine!”
Arabia grabbed a crystal decanter. And then there was a smash against the door, the sound of glass crashing against the floor, cognac splattering everywhere.
And then she sank to the floor on her knees, the gurgling sound of gut-wrenching sobs clawing their way up her throat and out of her mouth, the sound of a broken heart.
Thirty-Seven
Three weeks. That’s how long Arabia hadn’t seen or spoken to Cruze. Three weeks, six days, and approximately thirteen hours and forty-three seconds.
This thing between them had never meant to be a love story, she kept reminding herself. It wasn’t supposed to last. Ever. She knew this. And, still, she ached for him. Missed him. Everything in her burned raw. Her heart, her soul, the pit of her cunt, throbbed from the longing and emptiness. And she hated him for that.
She sat up in bed with a strangled cry just short of a scream. 3:35 a.m. How could that no-good son-of-a-bitch do this to her?!
Hurt her like this?
Haunt her in her dreams like this?
She’d never trusted a man before. And she shouldn’t have trusted him. Against the war
nings that had flashed in her head like floodlights, she’d allowed him to come into her life—in spite of, and, somehow, he managed to rob her of her senses. She’d known from the beginning not to get involved with the likes of him, that he’d be trouble. He was only supposed to be a fuck ‘n’ go.
Not this—a lover she couldn’t stop missing or thinking of.
He’d captured her heart. And that wasn’t her.
No. She only loved one thing, herself. Men came and went. She’d proven that every time she’d dismissed one, and moved on to the next without a second thought. She’d always been in control, orchestrating her own life, compartmentalizing her feelings.
Now this.
She wasn’t this woman.
Out of control.
Lost.
Lonely.
Confused.
Still wanting him, still missing him.
In the blink of an eye, she’d become a walking contradiction of emotions. Everything about not being with Cruze nauseated her, made her physically ill.
She’d given up her control, and handed it over to him. And he’d abandoned her. Walked away without another word. Okay, maybe she’d cursed him out horribly. Still, why hadn’t he come back to her?
Arabia hated herself—more than she hated him—for that.
Nobody was perfect.
But Cruze—that big-dicked bastard!—had been perfect for her, so she’d sadly thought. Oh, how wrong she’d been.
Still, for the first time in her life, someone had come into her world and had opened her heart and mind to new possibilities. Cruze had done that. He’d pushed her, unknowingly, to dream of finally having a love of her own.
A killer! A thug!
Before the lies, before the gunshots, before the stray bullets . . .
She jammed the back of her fist into her mouth, and bit back a scream, her life flashing before her eyes.
Yes. She’d been the one to end it. She attacked him. Told him to never fucking call her again. Told him how badly she hated him. In that moment, she’d meant it. Oh how she meant it, every last word. Now those words burned the back of her throat like acid.
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