Nate

Don’t judge a book by its cover. Remember The Catcher in The Rye cover? Ugly as the darkest sin committed on earth, but once you jump inside, something beautiful and raw awaits.

Prescott.

On the outside, she’s a generic, attractive shell. Busty and blonde, not unlike that chick from Legally Blonde. Flippant and wrapped up in an expensive dress. Then you dig deep, and you discover a scarred, scared, bold, frightened warrior. A survivor who will not let her enemies get away with what they did to her. A caring sister, a loving woman who’s been betrayed. Angry but still cute, like a fucking Pink song. She’s so much. She’s too much. But I understand why she wants them dead.

Godfrey.

Sebastian.

Camden.

I’d happily assist with the first two, because I have beef with them that runs just as deep. Camden, on the other hand, is not my problem. I’ll help however I can, but that one’s on her.

I follow Prescott up the stairs to her apartment, watching her calves swelling as she climbs. We didn’t take the elevator to make sure the stairway is clear. She reaches a black wooden door, one of a few in the clean, casually lit hallway, and takes out my dagger from the waist of her underwear. She fucking kept the dagger she stabbed me with. And she’s about to use it to break into her own apartment. I watch in awe and ignore my twitching dick. This girl has managed to get me hard the way no one else could for a reason.

Prescott is a storm, and she’s sweeping up my ass faster than a tornado, ripping apart shit in her wake without even giving me the opportunity to take a step back and examine the mess she leaves behind.

I’m not going to give a name to what I feel toward her, but there’s one narrative that’s always hanging above my head like a guillotine when she’s around.

Crashing.

Not falling. Falling takes time. I’m thrown into whatever this is, crashing fast, hitting every goddamn branch of the Feelings Tree on my way down before hitting rock bottom with a chilling sound. Landing so hard, I leave a fucking dent in the shape of my heart.

She pops the door by crushing the dagger against the handle at a perfect angle, pushing it open and signaling me with a head tilt to follow her.

Shorty got moves.

Pea ambles into her bedroom and opens her drawers as I take in her apartment. It’s a simple one bedroom, beige carpets, black couch, flat screen TV, zero pictures, zero furniture, zero personality. She didn’t get comfortable here—she got by. Pea zips open a backpack on her naked mattress and throws a thick batch of credit cards tied together with a rubber band into it. Then she proceeds to throw in some underwear, a bra, approximately five hundred stress balls, cash she’d apparently been hiding under her bed and a fossil tin covered with pictures of Paris and London.

“What’s in the box?” I enquire behind her back, feeling like a tool. I’m just standing here doing nothing, helpful as a fucking doormat.

“Heroine, crack, rat poison,” she answers flatly, still packing. “We might need to get creative when we strike them. It’s nice to have a few tricks up our sleeves. I’m going into the shower.” Her drawer snaps shut with a bang. I want to come with her. Hell, I want to come in her. But rationally, I know that in order for her to trust me, I need to keep my dick in my pants until she’s ready for more. She’s been sexually abused, and I’m not going to pretend like it never happened. We’re chasing down the motherfuckers who did this to her and won’t rest until our fingers are smeared with their blood. Besides, this journey is not about pussy. It’s about wonderful, twisted, dark paths, all of them leading to one destination: Freedom.

On a more practical note, somebody needs to watch out in case Godfrey and his lap dogs show up downstairs with enough ammo to wipe out North America.

“Make it count. I’ll watch.” I finger a slit in her black Venetian blinds and peek through it.

She hesitates for a moment before touching her cheek, like she’s just been offered a compliment. Which makes me feel like even more of a douchebag. She’s touched because I don’t force myself into both her bathroom and her pussy.

“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

Prescott likes me, but she still doesn’t trust me. She locks her bathroom door twice and I know my dagger is still tucked inside her delicious underwear. She asked me for my full name but probably lied to me about having a kid when I asked her about it. I need to remember that she’s keeping some secrets from me. She’s not to be trusted, in any way or form.

When Pea comes out, looking fresh and prettier than I’ve ever seen her before, the scent of heaven drifting from her body, she joins me near the window. I haven’t left it since we walked in. I’m staring down her sleepy Danville street, counting cars, joggers and dogs on fancy leashes. This place, it doesn’t suit her. She was born for something less restrained. More. . .chaotic.

She puts on a blood red dress, which looks like a huge shirt but somehow hugs her body like it’s a fucking condom, and a tailored leather jacket.

“Are we good to go?” I ask. She nods and throws her backpack over her shoulder. “Yeah, I texted Hussein. He’s waiting for us.”

I nod to the door.

“Let’s wrap this shit up.”

“Don’t you want to have a quick shower first?” She’s still rooted in place. I walk straight for the door and mumble a definite “No” before I stop dead in my tracks.

“Why, do I need one?”

“Well,” she says with a shrug. “You reek of sex.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” I test, cocking a brow.

“It’s a distracting thing.” There’s a private grin on her lips. I haven’t seen it before and immediately decide that it belongs to me. Glancing at the door and back to her, I’m trying to figure out if she’s buying time before getting down to the dirty stuff. To say I ain’t happy about leaving her to watch for Godfrey and Seb on her own is an understatement, but if I smell like a stale fart, I wanna get it out of the way. Especially seeing as I’m waiting for her to make the next move, and it’d be in my favor if I didn’t smell like a five-day-old rotten fish.

“Watch the street and holler at me if something’s wrong. I’ll be quick.”

“You always are.” She wiggles her brows, resting one shoulder against the wall by her window.

“Fuck you.” I smack her ass hard enough for it to be considered a warning before I disappear through her bathroom door, throwing my clothes off on my way to my point of destination.

“Been there, done that,” she shouts from the living room. “Five times tonight, actually.”

My cock twitches, but I keep my cool. I can mess around, smack her here and there. She loves that shit, but full-blown sex? That’s for her to decide the ifs and whens.

I shower with her fancy coconut-vanilla products, and by the time I saunter into the living room, I smell so good I have to check if I still got my balls intact. Pea is squeezing on a stress ball, her hazels never leaving the window.

“You ready? Hussein is probably wondering where we are. We need to make a move.”

“Yeah.” I yank the backpack from her hand and swing it over my shoulder. “Where to?” I ask, already out the door. Prescott stops, her hand on the doorknob as she inspects her darkened apartment one last time. Sorrow pings through me. I didn’t look back when I left Irv, because I never cared for that house, or for the little shit I lived with.

But this was the place where she learned it was okay to be broken.

Grief is thick in the air, making it harder to draw a deep breath, and I find myself wrapping a hand over her shoulder, planting a cautious kiss on top of her head. “They’re just walls.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” her voice is hollow. “So many walls to break, so little time.”

Our first stop is the ATM across the street. I wait in the car. Prescott borrows my black hoodie and pulls it all the way down her face. Jogging to the machine, I watch as the deep black sky swallows her figure whole. The white light pouring from the ATM screen highlights the arcs of her face. I see the outline of the dagger—my fucking dagger—under her dress. She doesn’t trust me.

And the worst part? I don’t trust her, either.

As she punches the screen, looking left and right, fiddling with an old cell phone she jammed a SIM card into and texting an unknown number, it dawns on me that I really don’t know what her next move is, and whether it involves compromising me.

In other words, I put my trust, life and what’s left of my soul in a girl I don’t trust enough to pour me a glass of water without suspecting she poisoned it.

She jumps back into the car with a pile of one hundred dollar bills in her fist, counting the money by licking her thumb and flipping through it.

“I can only withdraw one thousand at a time, but it’ll get us through today and tomorrow.” She punches an address into my GPS app and places it in its stand. “What? You’re looking at me funny.”

I didn’t even realize I was staring. But I am.

I shake my head, and my weird mood, then throw Stella into drive.

“Just make sure my fifty grand is ready by next week. I’m planning around it.” My tone lashes against her face.

We spend our journey to Hussein, her Iranian car dealer, in unwinding silence. It gives me time to think about what I’ve done. The parole officer will be knocking on my door sooner or later, and Irv is going to tell him the truth. That I ran away. By then, I’ll need to be at least out of the state, if not the country.

But no one promises me that I will be.

I break the silence. “How long will it take your guy to produce the passports?” Prescott’s face twitches, her eyes still trained on the road.

“I’m hoping we’ll have them by tomorrow morning. It depends on when we get to Los Angeles today. We still need to take passport pictures and give them to him. Why? Jumping ship already?”

She’s trying to disguise her anxiety with a chuckle. She’s nervous, as she should be. It’s going to be hard to take down three grown, pissed-off, powerful men by herself. Prescott tried once, and we all know where that brought her.

“I have a week tops to fuck around before the authorities hunt my ass down. Camden’s not in the states yet. And frankly?” I shoot her a look, partly to gauge a reaction from her, but mostly to linger on those lips. “He’s not my fucking problem. I’m not gonna wait around for him. But we’ll take Godfrey and Seb together before I leave. That, I guarantee.”

Okay, asshole, now let’s try and figure out what made you say that.

Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that I’m not so pussy-whipped that I’ll kill someone I haven’t even met just for a girl.

We all have vices, and I’m starting to believe Pea’s mine.

Prescott (I still can’t believe I caved in and called her that. I also find it difficult to stomach the fact that this stupid name’s growing on me.) narrows her eyes into slits and takes out a stress ball, clasping it like it killed her puppy.

“Don’t worry. I want Camden all to myself. You were never a part of the plan.”

Touché.

I kill the engine in front of a one-story bungalow in Concord, and a tan guy in a blue robe holding a cup of coffee saunters casually through the door.

Now that the sun is almost up, the clean morning air sweeps through my nostrils and the reality of what we’re doing sinks in. I drink Hussein in. He’s got a week’s worth of stubble on his face and a head full of black hair. When he opens his mouth, a thick accent accompanies his words.

“Prescott, you little troublemaker, how’ve you been?”

Pea unbuckles and jumps out of the truck, slamming the door in my face. On purpose, of course. She walks to his spot on the yellow grass and shoves her hands into her leather jacket.

Man, she’s got a great ass.

Focus, idiot.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” she says a little louder than necessary, making sure I’m within earshot. “Hey, Huss, I need a favor.”

“You mean, another favor,” he enunciates, taking a slow sip from his coffee. “I’m listening.”

“I need to trade this Tacoma for another car. Preferably something with an out-of-state license plate. Something fast, but not flashy.”

I jump out of Stella and shut the door behind me, walking toward her. She doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge my presence, let alone introduce me to the guy.

“Why don’t we change the license plate? We don’t need to replace the whole fucking vehicle.” I rage. “I can’t part ways with Stella yet.”

She spins slowly, her face still blank.

“Stella?” she repeats, tilting her chin down as she inspects me. “Think again. Your truck looks more like a Gladys. Stella is a hot girl’s name.”

I stare her down through a hooded gaze, but this time, she doesn’t budge. “And to answer your question—do you really want to run away from the baddies with your signature tinted-windowed, red Tacoma? I mean, it’s a good idea, but you might want to just walk straight into Godfrey’s office, unzip, place your balls on his desk and give him the hammer to smash them with.”

I offer her a long, middle finger, but she’s got a point. Hussein behind her chuckles into his mug.

“You guys are cute.”

“Shut up,” we both say in unison, still staring each other down. I really want to kill her, and really, really want to hit that shit. I’m not going to lie, though, part of her charm is the fact that she’s fearless, no matter my size and track record, even though she’s been burned by men before.

Tough cookie, but delicious all the same.

“This truck’s in good condition,” I grit. “Whatever’s left from the trade ends up in my pocket.”

“Fine,” she shrugs, turning her attention back to Hussein, who is grinning from ear to ear, still planted on his front lawn. His unkempt grass is the opposite of Mrs. Hathaway’s lush, green one. It reminds me that on a normal day, I would’ve hit the road by now on my way to her house to avoid traffic. It’s not like me to not show up. I’ve never taken a sick day in my life. But I won’t risk my neck in the name of etiquette. After all—Godfrey hooked me up with the job. I’ve no idea how tight he is with Stan Hathaway and how far his accountant is willing to go for him.

Prescott and Hussein exchange words while I continue staring at the back of her head, wondering how the hell I got here and why I am placing my future in the manicured hands of a twenty-five-year-old blonde from suburbia. We’re going to trade Stella for a beat-down, black Corvette. Tinted windows. Nevada license plate. Rough state. When Hussein leaves for the back of his lot and rolls around the corner with it, I snort out a laugh. I’m not sure what year the car is, but suffice to say we’re about the same age.

Hussein slaps cash into Pea’s hand and she gives me the difference without counting the bills, before awarding the middle-aged man with a hug and a tap on the shoulder.

“Take care of yourself, Prescott,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously. I nod a goodbye at him and climb into the driver’s seat. I can barely fit into this low, small car with my height and width. My knees touch the steering wheel and I need to bend my neck if I don’t want my head to hit the roof. Shit, my nose is almost touching the windshield.

“Good choice, Prescott. Next time, why don’t you fix us up with a fucking unicycle? That’d be fun.”

“Hey!” She throws her bag to the backseat. “It’s not my fault you’re the size of a Costco warehouse. This is a great car. Looks like the Batmobile.”

“It’s beat-down and old,” I retort.

“Beatmobile,” she concludes. “We shall call it the Beatmobile.”

“I liked you better when you were blindfolded and locked in my basement,” I murmur, starting the car, the rumble of its engine roaring to life.

“And I liked you better when you were locked in a cell in San Dimas, watching your youth waste away.”

Yeah. I fucked up bad by telling her I would ditch her after this week. The worst part about it? I didn’t even mean it.

Shit, I didn’t even think it.

Planning ahead requires attention, and right now, the only thing I’m focusing on is staying alive and killing Godfrey and Sebastian before they kill us.

Where am I going after this murder crusade? Canada? Mexico? What am I going to do in Mexico? My Spanish isn’t good enough to live there. Unless I plan on sticking to ordering food and swearing at soccer teams for the rest of my life. Then, I’m good.

No. I’ll move to Canada, which will give me the language advantage. But fuck, the weather. It can get real cold. Although, I’d be one state away from Iowa. Prescott could visit me all the time. . . Wait, what the fuck am I thinking? Visiting me in. . .whoa. Slow down there, stud. She’s just a brat who’s using you to get ahead in the game. You should be doing the same. Get your head out of your ass, Nate.

Thankfully, Miss Fucking-off-to-Iowa smacks me out of my reverie. She throws the stress ball at my forehead and it bounces back into her hand.

“Earth to Nate. This is the direction we’re heading. And it’s jammed as hell.” She points at the GPS with the hand that clasps the ball. “We won’t get to Los Angeles for another six to seven hours, if we’re lucky.”

“We’re good. We’ll just have to stop at the first L.A. mall we get to, take photos for our fake IDs and get some more money. We’ll hit downtown L.A. before dinnertime, give your guy everything he needs, check into a motel and wait it out.” I signal the blinkers and swerve onto the highway, rolling down the windows and letting the hot, dense summer air breeze into our car. The noise of the outside swallows Prescott’s delicate voice, but I can still hear her yelling through the wind.

“You’re a shithead for not sticking around for Camden, Nate.”

Is that right? The girl’s still keeping a fucking dagger in her panties. My dagger, by the way, and she’s pissed off about me not throwing myself under the bus for her?

“Let me ask you something,” I start. My nostrils flare, and I slide the shades I retrieved from Stella up the bridge of my nose to cover my eyes, because I can’t chance her seeing what’s behind them. “If your sensitive soul is so crushed about me not sticking around, why don’t you come with me to Canada when we’re done? Didn’t we say something about a blood oath?”

“You might want to rethink that incident, because, if I remember correctly, that’s around the same time you fucked me and bailed on me for oh, four days or so?”

“I came to my senses.” I crush my teeth together. I wanted to fight it. Us. Whatever this fucked-up thing was, I didn’t want to be a part of it.

The Beatmobile slows down to a stop, and we’re stuck in traffic, moving south from Concord to Los Angeles. I check on Prescott through my darkened sunglasses and know that she’s just as uneasy about this as I am.

Standing still is not an option in our situation. There’s a police car five vehicles away, and if they decide to stop us, my life is over.

“I’m not coming with you to Canada, or Cabo, or wherever the hell you’re going after this is all over,” Pea whispers hotly, licking her lips. “I’m going to Iowa, just like I said. You held me hostage, for crying out loud.”

“Give me my dagger,” I fire at her.

“No. You still haven’t convinced me you’re trustworthy enough not to stab me in the middle of the night.”

I wrench my eyes back to the road, shaking my head. We spend the next four hours in silence. I use the time to mull over the whole Mexico versus Canada debate. I’m leaning toward Mexico. Closer and less chance of me being handed back into the open arms of the US authorities.

When the afternoon rolls around and I hear Prescott’s stomach complaining loudly, I pull in at a gas station. I need to stretch my limbs. This car is fucking killing me.

“Would you like to hear our specials for today? We’ve got Twix for a starter and glazed-BBQ Lays for an entrée,” I stick my head into her window. The blonde spitfire bounces the soft stress ball off my nose a couple of times as she speaks.

“Two Red Bulls and a sandwich. And chips. Oh, and something sweet. Chocolate. I’d like a Diet Pepsi, too.”

I come back with approximately sixty percent of the convenient mart’s goods and switch on the ignition. Prescott pumped gas while I was inside. I groan when my knees hit the steering wheel again. I shouldn’t have let her shake hands on this car. By the time we’re done, I’ll shrink to half my size in this thing.

“I miss Stella. The Beatmobile sucks ass,” I say, pulling back onto the main road. Prescott throws her hands up in despair.

“Would you stop moping? I hate to break it to you, but there’s probably another guy deep inside Stella right now, riding her like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Bitch,” I drone, creamy clouds move away to make room for the blues and pinks of the sun. This day is turning out to be fucking stunning. Maybe it’s the weather.

And maybe it’s the girl.

“I’m joking, Nate. Would it help if I gave you head?”

My neck heats and my eyes water with the possibility. Okay, it’s definitely the girl.

“A little. Let me lick your crack when we get to the motel. That’d put a smile back on my face.”

She rolls her eyes on a smirk. “Fine. In the meantime, I’m unzipping you.”

I don’t dare move my gaze from the road. My blood is pumping so hard in my veins, I’m surprised I’m not bursting like an overcooked wrapped meal in a microwave. I’m not even sure I’d like her to give me head. I’m liable to throw us right into the ocean with those lips on my junk. After all, we’re passing beach towns. It’s damn likely I would.

“Here?” I ask coolly.

“Why not?” She pushes her hair up off of her face, angling closer. “Tinted windows, and I’ve been meaning to see how much of you I can take. I have a suspicion it’ll be just the tip.”

I suck in my cheeks so that my mouth won’t break into a shit-eating grin of the douchebag variety. My left hand is still on the wheel, while I use my right one to grab the back of her head roughly and pull it into my lap. She unzips me and I help her by lifting my ass from the seat to give her better access. My dick is swollen, stiff and ready to get to know those pinks up-close. She reaches for my boxers and strokes my cock in her hand. It jerks its appreciation in response. I’m still not sure why she’s doing this. We weren’t on good terms when we left Hussein’s house, and I was under the impression she’d let me sweat before letting me into her pussy or mouth again.

Prescott leans farther down, her hot breath on my cock. I roll my head back and fight to keep my eyes open. Crashing into a traffic light would slow us down, but it would be fucking worth it with her mouth on my dick.

Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of blow jobs. Girls usually suck (no pun intended) at knowing the pace and rhythm that works for me. And Pea’s right, most chicks can’t even get half my cock down their throats, anyway. But this is fucking Prescott Burlington-Smyth. I’d take anything she offered me. Herpes included.

I feel her tongue swirling around my tip, painful desire tensing every muscle in my body. Her mouth is sweltering and her silky locks pale, but dirty like her soul, are all over my lap like a sheet of gold. She hasn’t even sucked me yet, but my balls are already tightening, ready to burst.

“Oh, fuck, Baby-Cakes.” I fist her hair and drag her mouth deeper into my groin, lurching myself up from the seat as far as this fucking car allows me, begging for more contact. My head lolls against the headrest and I’m struggling to draw a steady breath. What is it about this girl that makes me forget how to breathe?

She opens her mouth and takes some of me in a leisured suck, then comes up for air. Then she does it again. And again.

After a few minutes of her licking and nibbling through my length, even I have to admit—she gives terrible head. The California highway is potholed, scarred with the impact of earthquakes and the blistering sun, and the car hits bump after bump. Every time it does and my dick meets the back of her throat, she gags with a ghastly sound. She sometimes moves her jaw from one side to the other. I can feel her teeth. It’s like a getting a BJ from a shark. But even though she’s exceptionally untalented at sucking cock, I don’t want her to stop. Her mouth’s on me and that’s enough to make me want to say crazy things to her. Things I’m sure I’m incapable of feeling, anyway.

Ten minutes into the blowjob, Prescott throws in the towel and straightens her posture, eyebrows pinched together. Rage lights up her face.

“You’re not going to come, are you?” Her lips are puffy and bright pink. Just thinking about the fact that they’re swollen because they were wrapped around my cock puts a dark, sinister smile on my face.

“Nope.”

“I thought you said you’re always hot for me.”

“I am.” Is it a good time to tell her she shouldn’t quit her day job as a drug dealer because she sucks like a garbage disposal? “I’m saving my spunk for marriage,” I joke. But she doesn’t laugh. She stares at me seriously, tears pulling at the edge of her eyes. I move my gaze quickly from the road to her face, back to the road. We can’t stop. It’s too dangerous. . .

Fuck it.

I swing onto the shoulder of the freeway, inches from the concrete divider, and lift the handbrake quickly.

“Yo, Pea, what’s up?”

I know she cries. A lot. Over the past few weeks, I saw her pink eyes, the puffy skin beneath her lashes. She cries, but never in front of men. Always alone and in the dark. So why now?

“This is stupid.” She shakes her head, wiping away a tear using the sleeve of my hoodie. Even now, she looks sad, but not helpless. “We need to move. We still have to take pictures for the new IDs.”

“Why are you crying?” I insist. Fuck the fucking pictures.

“It’s stupid, just start the car. We’re running out of time.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

She looks out her window, tapping it with her fingertips, obviously embarrassed.

“I’mscadyo mighsto likee me,” she mumbles.

“What?” I move closer, which rewards me with another hit from her stress ball, right into my groin this time.

“I’m worried you might not like me anymore!” She yells, throwing her arms in the air. “What if you decide to ditch me before we get to Godfrey and Seb, or the minute you get your new passport?”

I take her face in my hands without thinking much of it. The need to touch this girl is overwhelming in a way that fucks up every single working cell in my brain. Carefully, I bring my nose to hers, my lips hovering over her pinks, staring right back at her.

“If you think I’d ever bail on you, you’re out of your beautiful, twisted mind. And if you think just because I didn’t come, I don’t find you attractive anymore, you’re a psycho. Because there’s nowhere I’d rather be than between your legs. And if you think that you’re damaged goods because of what those lowlifes did to you, then you’re an idiot. It’s just the opposite, Pea. They built a woman who’s untouchable. So many people have tried, me included. But you’re stronger than anything, which is why we’re sitting in this stupid car right now, chasing freedom. You think I don’t like you?” I breathe into her mouth.

I’m fucking crazy about you.

It’s a depressing realization, not one that I’m willing to admit out loud. But the thing about the truth is, sometimes you don’t need to look for it. Sometimes it finds you.

I wouldn’t have killed Godfrey and Sebastian. But she asked for it, and, well, what she asks for, she’ll get. At least from me.

“I do like you,” I finish quietly, not stupid enough to entertain myself with the possibility of giving her the whole truth. “I like you, all right.”

“I like you too.” Her nose brushes back and forth against mine in an Eskimo kiss.

Breathe, assclown. Fucking breathe.

I pull away and look back at the highway while I rev up the engine.

“But I didn’t say I was damaged goods.”

“You think it. Which is even worse. Now, repeat after me: I’m not a victim, I’m a goddamned survivor.”

“I’m not a victim, I’m a goddamn survivor.” She rolls her eyes. I hit the accelerator and speed south, determined to get to our destination before night falls.

“Lift your head up, Baby-Cakes. Don’t let your crown fall. And just for the record, I didn’t come because you were using your teeth like my dick was dental floss. Trust me, I’m so hard for you, the thought of checking into a motel tonight makes my mind work overtime.”

“Who said we’re sharing a room?” she asks with a sly smile.

That’s my Prescott.

“We’re sharing a room. And I’m licking your crack. You owe me one for the Beatmobile and the loss of Stella.”

“Nate Vela, you’re a vile man.”

“And I’m going to violate every hole in your body tonight.”