Prescott

Great. I cried in front of him.

I’m a crybaby. During my captivity, I made sure I cried when no one saw, because I remember what Camden told me all those years ago. Never let your enemies see you break. Your indifference disables their victory. So by the time Beat came for me, my eyes were always dry.

Nate is wrong. I’m not untouchable. I’ve been touched too many times. Each handprint left a scar. It would take years to scrub off the marks and dig out my true self again.

I fall asleep curled into myself, next to him, while he eats up the rest of the journey to Los Angeles at an absurd speed. The minute we hit La La Land, we walk into the first mall we hit, take the passport pictures and get out with our fingers laced together. I’m not sure who makes the first move, it kind of feels like our hands just magnetically connected. The silence between us is comfortable and accepting, and most of all—content. But I’m keeping secrets from him, at least two that’d make him walk away from this arrangement, and I hope to God he doesn’t find out before we split.

Nate has his hoodie over his head to hide the tattoos—although it’s hard to go unnoticed when you’re a six-foot-five pile of muscles and hotness—and I wear my best innocent expression.

It’s time to get down to business.

Is actually a hot shot in the Department of State. Fortyish years old. Neat hairstyle. A real life Walter White, only less relatable. You’d never guess what this suited, respectable man does to make an extra buck. But the extra cash is needed in order to pay for his dark little cocaine addiction.

No one knows.

Not even his wife and three picture-perfect kids.

But me? I sold him two pounds of cocaine when he was on a business trip to San Francisco and cut his price by sixty percent under the condition that he would owe me. Big time. It’s time to cash in on his debt.

It’s time for everyone to cash in on their debts.

We meet Bryan behind a kosher bakery on Fairfax Avenue. I’m wolfing down a chocolate babka, taking long sips from my Americano and watching Bryan and Nate through my big dark shades. I hand Bryan our pictures with chocolate-covered fingertips and he tells us that by tomorrow at noon, we will both have passports under different names.

Nate Vela will die, and from the ashes of his cursed name, a phoenix named Christopher Delaware will rise.

As for Prescott Burlington-Smyth—If you thought my parents burdened me with an unfortunate last name, you’d be surprised, because the only name Bryan managed to snag that fits my physical profile is Tanaka Cockburn. And while Tanaka is a beautiful name. . .

Cockburn.

Nate sprays his coffee all over Bryan’s white dress shirt when he hears my new name, then proceeds to turn away, walk to the corner of the alleyway, and rest his hands on his knees as his massive back shakes with wild, unrestrained laughter.

“I shouldn’t have to pay for a name like that,” I mutter into my foam cup.

But what Nate doesn’t know is that I’m barely paying for this service. I’m only footing the bill for the actual production of the passports, which sums up to a few hundred bucks.

He doesn’t need to find out that I’m flat broke and won’t be able to help him in any way to cross the border. Fifty grand? I don’t even have five thousand. Hey, don’t judge me. You’d do the same in order to save your life too. Lying to your captor included. And his question about me being a mother? Well, that’s none of his business, either.

Seeing as we have 24 hours to burn in Los Angeles, Nate suggests that we check into a motel and use the time to plan our next move on Godfrey and Sebastian.

I still want him to lust after me, even though I shouldn’t. Seducing him should no longer be part of the plan—I’m already free. But the truth is, I crave him.

Trying to remind myself that he’s a criminal, a killer and a guy who—up until a few hours ago—had every intention of handing me back to my ruthless enemy to be skinned alive and fed to his twisted son, I disconnect our hands and keep to myself until we arrive at our next stop.

We check into a rundown motel in a rough neighborhood downtown. The one-story complex is unevenly painted in baby blue, with pink lettering announcing Palm Spring Apartments. A Mexican pop station greets us when we walk in, its tunes swallowed by a loud portable fan directed at a heavy lady wearing taffy lipstick at the reception desk. Her curly hair has been violently straightened, a flowery dress barely covers her huge cleavage and a coat of sweat mists 100% of her flesh.

“No AC,” I cough into my fist when Nate and I walk in.

“Hey, Dorothy, I don’t think we’re in Blackhawk anymore. Unless you want to waste your money on the fucking Chateau Marmont. Your call.”

I grimace. At this point, he probably has more in his bank account than I do.

The woman ignores us, despite me punching the bell on her counter several times. When she finally looks up from an erotic paperback, it’s because she sees Nate approaching from behind me. When he rests his elbows on her reception desk, she puffs a cloud of cigarette smoke into his face. Her blue mascara is so clumpy, blinking must be an exercise for her.

She lets out a primal growl. “Well, you’re a treat, aren’t you, gorgeous?”

Am I see-through? Nate and I are clearly together. I’m not sure why I care. He is not my boyfriend and it’s not like he’s going to run away with this middle-aged woman. Besides, the bastard is probably used to it. I haven’t seen him interacting with the outside world yet. I know the man in the darkened basement, the captor who will hurt me if I disobey, but something tells me this isn’t the first time a woman has blurted out something embarrassing in real-life Nate’s direction.

He looks like the reason women buy Pocket Rockets. This probably happens to him all the time.

Nate leans his waist on the counter and flips through a wrinkled travel magazine, chewing his peachy gum, the signature flavor of his mouth. Completely unfazed by the attention he’s drawing.

“We need a room,” he says, ignoring her compliment. “One night. One bed. Paying in cash.”

“No problem, sweetie. Name?” Her pen floats over a page listing the rooms. Almost none of them are highlighted in yellow as occupied. Jesus. This place doesn’t even use computers. I hope there’ll be a lock on the door.

“Baby-Cakes”—he drapes his arm over my shoulder, his mouth invading my cheek with a charged groan—“should we put it under your name? What do you say? Yeah, let’s just put it under your name.” He angles forward and pronounces slowly, “Tanaka C-o-c-k-b-u-r-n. That’s her last name. Cockburn.”

“Shut up.” I swat his arm, barely biting down my laughter.

“Do you need me to spell that for you again?” Nate points at the form the receptionist fills out, and she licks her lips when her gaze moves up to his tattooed fingers. Stone-faced and perfectly composed, he continues, “Cockburn. Like a cock that burns. You know, like an STD side effect.”

He is so not going to get backdoor access tonight if he continues this.

Who am I kidding? Him being funny just kills every attempt to dislike him even more.

Five minutes later, Nate is dangling a small key with a pink hoop and we both stroll to room number 13. The receptionist directed us (well, directed Nate, he was the only person she was looking at throughout our short encounter with her) to a bar down the road that serves all-you-can-drink beer beginning at five p.m.

Even poor people need one happy hour.

As it happens, I desperately need a drink. This could be a good way to clear my mind and think about our next step. If everything goes to plan, we should be back in Northern California by tomorrow evening.

Are we starting with Seb?

Are we starting with Godfrey?

The possibility of hurting those two sends a hot rush down my back.

“Let’s go have drinks down the road,” I suggest as Nate pushes the squeaking door to our room open. We walk into a small, stuffy space, the scent of stale smoke rubbed into every sheet and piece of furniture. Cigarette holes in the comforter and yellow, indiscernible stains sprayed on the walls. I say a little prayer before walking into the bathroom, only to find a peeling tub. The vent is hanging out of the ceiling and the toilet is filthy with other people’s waste. Swiveling my head to Nate, I see him giving me a casual headshake.

“Can’t risk it. We gotta lay low. Godfrey’s got people everywhere, Cockburn. You know that as well as I do.”

“Stop calling me Cockburn.” I kick my ankle boots and collect my wild, wavy hair into a high ponytail. “I need a drink.”

“I’ll go get you something from the K-Mart downtown.” He walks to the window overlooking the street, peeking outside and searching for something Godfrey-related. Should I be as alarmed as he is? Somehow, I find it difficult to believe Godfrey is already on to us. He has no idea we’re in Los Angeles. Technically, there’s nothing for us to do here. Also, Archer had spent years and years in prison not too far away from me and none of his men ever got to me. Not even once.

But I know better than to think that it’s because he couldn’t have. He just wanted to keep me alive so he could kill me himself.

Maybe Nate is not only worried about Godfrey, but also about the Aryan Brotherhood. This guy is practically a dead man walking in the state of California. He has many reasons to watch his back.

All the same, I’m not going to sit and rot in this room until our IDs are ready. Going down the road for a few drinks is not going to kill me. The chances of being spotted and recognized are non-existant. It’s just an old, poor neighborhood in the middle of Los Angeles, where Godfrey has never set foot. Besides, Nate has had the outside world for a while now. I’ve spent over two weeks stuck in his basement, trying to dig my way out with nothing but broken nails.

“I’m going.”

He turns around and jerks me into his body by the arm, his face murderous. “Like hell you are. I’m gonna have a shower now. When I come out, you better still be here, and have pulled out a number for a good place that delivers greasy food.”

I open my mouth, about to sass, but he’s already shut the bathroom door behind him.

The faucet running on behind the door. I clutch my stress ball in a death grip. He thinks I need his permission to go to the bar? Well, he’s in for an unpleasant surprise.

I throw my backpack over my shoulder and charge out, storming past the reception area. I don’t stop until I reach a corner bar called Three Bullets, the one the receptionist recommended.

I push the door wide as I walk through and slide onto one of the barstools, adorned with clouds of foam growing from its torn black leather. Tapping the bar twice with my knuckles, I ask the bartender for whatever it is that’s on their all-you-can-drink menu.

Three Bullets.

Godfrey.

Camden.

Sebastian.

Nate would appreciate the irony. I need to stop thinking about what Nate likes and dislikes. Scanning the room while the old, bald barman hands me my glass of lukewarm beer, I decide that I like this place. It’s got this old-school, Barfly vibe. Either the blue-collar, bearded old men in here haven’t heard of the no-smoking law enforced in California, or they simply disobey it. A bunch of retired men are playing poker at a round table behind me while a few greased-up younger men just back from their manual labor jobs are seated at the bar, peering into their drinks in hopes of finding the answers to how they ended up here.

Cheap, broken décor. Everything is peeling, everything stinks and everything is dirty. Just like my soul.

I gulp my first drink in one go, studying my surroundings, and tap the rim of my glass, asking for more. A few of the men notice me. They look at me. They stare. And even though it makes me feel slightly uncomfortable, I’m not scared.

I’m way past scared. Everything I’ve been through sharpened me into someone who’s not easy to intimidate. A guy around my age, maybe slightly older, swivels the stool next to me, his ass landing on it. I focus on my drink, knowing that I’ll have to brush him off.

“Passing through?” he cuts straight to the chase. I offer him half a shrug and take a sip of beer. People are watching us intently. I’m the only woman in the bar, and I bet that other than an occasional visit from the receptionist at my motel, this place hasn’t seen a woman within its four walls for a lifetime.

“I would have remembered if I saw you before. You’re pretty.”

I turn to face him, smiling sweetly. I want to drink and think about my plans. Not have a quickie in the filthy bathroom.

“Can I just enjoy my drink, please? It’s been a long day.”

“I can make it a long night, too, if you want.” The guy scans me over. He is not ugly, but not attractive either. I wrinkle my nose.

“Doubt it.”

He doesn’t take the hint and instead moves closer, his chest almost bumping into mine. I’m ready with the dagger. Ready to show yet another man that I’m not to be messed with, but I’m hoping not to have to go there. Drawing more attention is the last thing that I need.

All eyes are on me now, and the thought that Godfrey may have moles here after all creeps into my mind. Oh, shit. What if Nate was right? What if I screwed our whole plan in the name of cheap beer?

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Jesus. The guy is still here?

“Yeah, she’s got a boyfriend.” I hear the nonchalant, curt tone that makes my heart quake and overflow behind me. Nate. “He’s a real fucking asshole, too. You’re better off trying to shove your dick into a food processor than hitting that ass. Come on, Cockburn.” I feel his huge hand scoop me into his midsection, his fingers digging into my skin angrily—telling me I fucked up—as he pulls me into him, planting a possessive kiss on my temple. “Let’s get back to our room. Wednesday is anal night.”

I giggle as Nate slaps a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and yanks me back to meet even more of his body, guiding me back out into the humid, scorching night.

I know I need to break free from his touch.

But I don’t.

In fact, as he blankets me with his frame, my back brushing his flexed chest as we awkwardly wobble across the road back to the motel, my guard is down.

So down there’s nothing separating me from my raw emotions toward him.

“What did I tell you about going to the bar?” he whispers into my skull, making my skin crawl in a delicious way.

“You’re not my boss,” I reply, trying to sound indifferent. We enter the crumbling motel, walk past the receptionist and I shake him away, picking up speed. “And now you’re not my captor, either. So I can do whatever I want without giving a damn what you think.”

“Oh, Cockburn,” he says, throwing that stupid nickname in my face again. “When are you going to get over the little fact that I held you hostage in my basement? Stop holding grudges. It’s bad karma.”

When we get into the room, he locks the door behind us and shoves the key in his back pocket. I stand with my knees against the edge of the bed and lift my head.

“I was doing some thinking at the bar. Who are we going to take out first, Godfrey or Sebastian?”

“Sebastian,” he shoots back, unblinking. Now that we’re alone, he doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t seek the warmth of my skin. Is it bad that I constantly crave his? Of course it’s bad. He told me he is ditching me in a week. I need to shake off this stupid crush and realize he won’t be here by next Thursday.

“Explain.” I open my backpack, sifting through my stuff and making sure it’s all there. I haven’t left it once since we started this journey, but doing inventory when I feel stressed or cornered soothes me. Stupid, I know, but I have to keep my hands busy.

“Makes more sense.” Nate arches one eyebrow. “He goes to a gay club in San Francisco every Friday. Irvin’s ex-cell mate sees him there regularly. Perfect opportunity to find out where he lives.” Nate walks back to the window and peeks out. “We’ll be able to follow him back to his place and do it quietly. Also, if we off Godfrey first, Seb would get word and run away. He’s got no ties to NorCal. Godfrey, on the other hand, can’t simply fuck off and hide. He’s got business here. No. He’ll stay, and even wait for us.”

Clearly, he’s thought this out.

“We don’t have a weapon.” I chew on my lower lip, dragging papery skin through my teeth as I mull this over. I used to have a Glock, but Godfrey took it. It’s not going to be easy to get my hands on another one so soon. Archer supervises and knows of each and every unregistered gun that’s on the market in NorCal, and I don’t know anyone who sells here in L.A.

“We’ve got plenty. We don’t have a gun. But guns are for pussies, anyway.”

When he sees the doubt pouring from my face, he snarls with conviction. “I’ve got your back, Baby-Cakes. I can kill him with one arm tied to my back, on fucking roller-skates. Clear?”

I swallow hard, looking away, my eyes burning with impending tears of emotions I don’t fully understand. Him being around me is both the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m losing focus. I’m losing control. I’m losing it.

“Revenge is better served cold, and personal, Prescott. Hands. Marks. Fingerprints. Mess. Sharp objects. Pounding hearts. Guns are for those you show mercy to. And what do we lack, my dear prodigy?”

His shoves his face into mine, his devilish eyebrows knotted together.

“Mercy,” I answer. He brushes his thumb on my cheek, diving down to my mouth, dragging the soft coat of dead skin from my lips and pulling it leisurely. It hurts, and I love it.

“That, we do. They didn’t show us any mercy, and we’re not bigger people.”

Good God, this man is ruthless, yet so soft when he handles me. I can’t even begin to read him.

I clear my throat. “Go get us something to eat.” I bark out the order to disguise the storm that’s swirling inside me, but I’m sure he can see through me. My cheeks are cherry red, my pulse is so fast you can see it pounding in my neck and I constantly lick my lips. He nods curtly and leaves without even asking me what I want, locking me inside.

But he doesn’t need to ask, he knows what I want.

I want him.

I wake up to faint red flickers of the clock on the nightstand. It’s 3:30 a.m.

Time.

It’s my only fortune nowadays. Other people, people who took and used and abused me, are running out of it.

Stretching my arms and spreading my legs over the cool sheets, I notice I’m alone. My throat bobs and I blink away the sleep.

Where is he?

Looking around, I take in the empty room through glassy eyes. I remember falling asleep minutes after he’d left to get us food, but he never woke me up.

Christ. I should have never trusted this man.

Scrambling up to my feet, I throw the bathroom door wide. Empty. I’m consumed by the darkened room, all by myself, and instead of launching for my backpack, making sure he hadn’t stolen anything, I fight the tears that are quietly flowing down my cheeks. The thought that he left me makes me want to throw myself off a building.

He wouldn’t leave without getting his passport and 50k first—would he?

Maybe one of Godfrey’s guys got to him. Shit, maybe I’m next.

After checking my backpack and making sure that everything I brought along is still with me, I pace the room back and forth. We’re only using one burner phone, and it’s on me, so I can’t call him. I check the window overlooking the street. Nothing. Slipping into a pair of flip flops I’m not even sure belong to me, I get out of the room with my backpack in tow, cursing him for taking the key because I can’t lock the door behind me.

I’m sweating buckets as I get close to the lobby, fearing I’ll come face to face with my English enemies. With every step, my prayers become louder. At first they’re just in my head. Then, they come out as whispered chants. Launching into the empty reception area, scanning, searching, hyperventilating, I pass by the small pool the place offers and a blue shadow dances in my periphery. I twist my head in surprise and stop with a screech.

Nate.

He’s swimming to and fro, slowly, gracefully. Taking his time. I stare at him, allow my pulse to slow down and wipe the cold sweat from my brow before I snap out of my stupor and walk to the pool, not making a sound. The motel is practically deserted, the only noises that can be heard include the surprised swooshes of a pool that’s probably never been used before, and the whimpering of a faraway coyote.

I’m still wearing my red number and a small leather jacket when I walk over to him. He has his back to me but when a twig snaps under my flip-flops, he turns around sharply. His expression relaxes from tight back to peaceful when our eyes lock.

“What in the actual hell, Nate?” I disguise the panic that swirled within me moments ago by burying my hands in my jacket’s pockets, even though it’s hot outside. I always dress up in cute clothes. It reminds me of my previous life as a Blackhawk princess. But I always wear something on top to hide my body. That, however, is all thanks to the second part of my life, the one after the Archers bulldozed into it. “I thought you said you were bringing food!” It’s supposed to be a question, but it comes out as an accusation.

“And I did. You were snoring. What was I supposed to do?” his eyes narrow into dangerous slits. I can see it from here. Even in the blackness of the night. He’s only wearing his boxers, and looks delicious bare-chested.

“You were supposed to not get out and swim in the open, where everybody can frigging see you. Should I remind you that you’re violating your parole, and that we’re running away from kingpins with blood on their hands?”

Hysteria consumes me. I’d be shaking if it wasn’t for the fact it’s 300 degrees outside and I’m wearing a goddamned leather jacket. Nate shrugs inside the pool, disregarding me completely. I shake my head, exhaling.

“You’re so stupid, Nate. You act like it’s the first time you’ve even been to a pool,” I turn on my heel, about to walk away.

“It is,” he says. I freeze, spinning slowly. His eyes follow the hand he uses to splash the water around.

“Huh?” I ask, dropping my backpack on the floor. My face pinks but the night blankets my skin, keeping this our secret.

“Yeah,” he repeats louder. “I’ve never been inside a pool, even though I clean one regularly where I work in Blackhawk. Grew up in California, twenty-seven years old, and this is my first time.” He barks out a laugh, but it’s not bitter. He doesn’t give a damn about what people think, me included. Nate seems like he’s always been keenly aware of his circumstances. “Anyway, thought I’d check it out. See what all the fuss is about. Just in case. . .”

Just in case they kill us. I nod, offering him a small, knowing smile.

“Why is it that you only tattooed one side of your body?” I stand at the edge of the pool. I want to change the subject, but am also genuinely interested in the answer.

“The bare side represents my virtue. My ambitions. My good intentions. And the other side. . .that’s the dirty side of me. Violent and primal. It’s the side that kills without blinking.”

“You’re good,” I whisper.

“And bad,” he argues. “I’m the guy who took you as a prisoner, to be murdered by sacks of shit, remember?”

“But also the guy who ushered me out, and promised to help me seek revenge,” I maintain.

“And that, gorgeous, is why I have a clean part. Even on my skin.”

Even in your heart.

I shake my head. He may enjoy my words. . .but I’m mad about his.

Bending down, my knees touching the damp floor, our eyes level silently. His lashes are dark wet curtains and his mouth is even more perfect dripping with water, bathed in the moonlight. He breathes heavily. I don’t dare breathe at all. Complete opposites, with so much to give to each other. A storm and calm waters, we can create a natural disaster, but it would be beautiful and broken and ours.

Kiss me, my heart sings as my stare falls to his lips. Please, want me.

“I got scared when I saw you weren’t in the room,” I admit. He rests his head against mine, our bodies inches from one another. Pull me in.

“You ain’t listening when I talk, are you, Baby-Cakes? I told you to trust me.”

“I can’t trust a guy who wants to sleep with me. But I can trust a guy even less when he doesn’t,” I half-joke. But I’m scared. So scared. Because the odds are against us. Hell, everything and everyone is against us.

His lips laugh into mine, and the rumble of his wet chest dampens my dress. My underwear too, despite the fact he’s nowhere near them.

“You know, Pea, even though it’s been years since you and Camden broke up, I know that on some level, I’m still the goddamn rebound. This is the first time you’ve allowed yourself to get sucked into something that even vaguely resembles companionship. I need to tread carefully, figure out what you’re willing to give me on this short journey of ours. You wanna know the truth? I don’t know how. No one’s ever been careful about my feelings, about my trust. You’ve been sexually abused. I can go and spit some ‘I understand’ bullshit, but you’re too smart and I’m too honest. I don’t understand. So I’m letting you make the first move. If I touch you, I need permission, but make no mistake,” he says then catches my lower lip between his teeth and pulls, at first softly, and then hard enough to suck me into the pool with him. I willingly let my body drop forward but he catches me at the last minute. “I want you. I want your words and your body and your brain and your little stress ball bouncing against my face, even though it’s annoying as fuck. I want more than you could ever give me, so don’t worry about that part, Cockburn.”

Our chests are so close now, I feel his heartbeat in my own ribcage. And his words. I feel them, too. Everywhere. I’ve gone and done it again. Only this time, it’s ten times worse.

I fell in love.

I fell in lust.

I fell in stupid.

I nod, my forehead bobbing against his, feeling pleasantly yet sickly light-headed. “Thank you.” My voice croaks. “For asking for what they demanded. For what they took. But it’s unnecessary with you.”

Silently, I plead for his touch by beginning to peel off my clothing. He takes a step back in the blue pool, watching me through eyes heavy with desire. The jacket falls to the ground first, my armor against men. My red dress and flip-flops follow and are discarded near a stripy yellow and white lounge chair. I slide into the pool, clad only in my bra and panties, and straight into Nate’s arms.

The water is cold, but all I feel is his heat.

He takes my mouth with his and kisses me desperately, my legs wrapped around his waist. I feel his want for me, and again, am surprised by my reaction. It doesn’t feel sleazy or scary. It doesn’t hold a promise of something devastating.

I drag my tongue along his neck, sucking his pulse and his life into me, my back still pressed to the edge of the pool as his erection moves up and down my stomach. A muffled groan disappears into my hair every time our groins touch. He tastes salty and male and like my own, personal heaven.

“Cockburn. . .” He bites my earlobe, his shaft digging between my legs. Our lips find each other and our tongues move together erotically. I don’t even care if people can see us from the dozens of windows overlooking the pool. Let them look and eat their hearts out. Life’s too short to care about what other people think.

Time.

I want to use it wisely as long as he’s around.

“Delaware,” I tease back into his mouth, panting with what’s beginning to feel like an orgasm building between my legs like a hot Saharan sandstorm.

“Tell me something beautiful, Cockburn,” he whispers behind my ear, stroking my lower back, igniting something sinful. “Tell me something pretty like you.”

I sift through my thoughts, even though it’s damn hard with his hands roaming all over me.

“’A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.’ Robert Frost.”

Hot lips land on my collarbone.

“How rough do you want me tonight, Little Poem?”

“Rough,” I pant.

“Turn.”

I spin around and he lifts my upper body so that I’m lying flat on the concrete next to the pool, my cheek resting against the surface. I feel his fingers peeling down my underwear, my ass facing him. I grin into the cold tiles under the hot night.

“What are you doing, Delaware?”

“I don’t have a condom here,” he says, dodging my question, spreading my ass cheeks with his firm fingers. Embarrassment tickles at the pit of my stomach. I’ve never done this before. Not willingly, anyway. Godfrey sodomized me, but I wasn’t there when it happened. I blanked out. Now, I’m here completely, ready to feel it.

I get over my doubts and worries by reminding myself that it’s Nate Vela. Or Christopher Delaware. I’d let both versions of him do anything they wanted to me. Hell, I’d even let Beat tap it any time of the day.

“That could be a problem.” I feign innocence, my teeth crushing gritty, salty sand from the floor. Nate digs one finger into my pussy, borrowing my wetness and rubbing it against my anal rim in circles.

“I’m clean,” he continues. “Checked myself when I got out of prison, and haven’t been with anyone on the outside.”

That’s a surprise, unless you really know Nate. Women don’t interest him.

Storms do.

“And on the inside?”

He smacks my ass hard, a slap that lands on my left ass cheek and makes my face crash against the floor. The boom of his palm on my skin ricochets between the palm trees, and a red sting follows.

“Watch it, Cockburn.”

I chuckle, knowing that this guy is way too intelligent to be a homophobe. I love when he hurts me. Pain feels different under his touch.

With him, we’re sharing, not distributing.

With him, pain is just another way to feel.

He spreads my ass again and places his hot tongue on the flesh between my ass and sex, giving me a thorough, warm lick. I shiver, feeling my erect nipples grinding against the concrete, and lift my ass to his face, asking for more.

Sinking his head into the pool, he comes up with his mouth to my pussy and starts fucking me with his tongue. Thrusting his hotness between my folds hard and fast from behind, his nose buried in my ass. I whine in need, my hips bucking, rocking, circling, searching. His square jaw scratches my thighs, the stubble burning my skin in a way that’s almost too painful if it weren’t for the cold water splashing over them with every move of his head. After a few minutes, his mouth moves north to my ass crack. His tongue swirls around my hole, and I’m quaking all over, jerking into his face every time he presses his tongue hard against my skin, applying pressure on my sensitive spot.

I’m soaked. So soaked.

“I’m clean too,” I cry into the ground. Before Nate, I hadn’t had sex in a long time, and had visited a clinic since. I feel his hands ghosting my waist as he drags me back down into the water, his mouth on my shoulder.

“You’re a delicate flower I’d like to smash to pieces, Pea. But only with permission.” He pushes his boxers down and off. I see them floating beside us.

“Smash me,” I groan.

And he does.

He smashes me.

The first thing I notice is not that he slams into my ass—not starting with the tip—going all the way in, but the fact that my face hits the edge of the pool and my lip splits open. The exact same place Seb left me bleeding. But the experience is anything but similar. I suck on my own blood and shriek in a mix of pain and pleasure as he guides my face up, his palm on my neck, so my head is flush against his chest.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Not in this way.”

Slam.

“Fuck, Prescott, fuck.”

Slam.

“You’re killing me.”

Slam.

“And I’m loving it.”

Slam.

Words so beautiful, spoken in such an ugly place, under the same stars that are watching the people who want us dead. He drives into me like he’s trying to mold us into one, and with every thrust, I’m beginning to believe that it can actually happen. My heart cracks open a little more with every push.

I’m falling in love with this guy.

I’m going to kill two people with this guy.

Soon, this guy will hate me when he figures out that I have no way to pay him and fulfill my commitment to him. That I lied to him about the money, and kept the truth from him when he asked me about other things, too.

Slam.

Slam.

Slam.

We need to hurry up and go our separate ways before it backfires on us both. Nate Vela is not an easy guy to read, but our ending is still written in the sky. It reads heartbreak and death.

Slam.

“I’m coming,” he says, and I arch my back in response. I would have probably come too, had I not been so occupied with my stupid feelings for him.

“Are you close?” he produces a guttural hiss through his teeth. I shake my head, no.

“Come inside me, Nate.”

He slams into me a few more times before stilling, and I feel his warm release pouring into me. We stay like this for a few moments—him standing on the pool’s floor, holding my ass against his groin, his favorite position, before he spins me to face him and nails my back to the wall. My ass is sore and I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to sit down for at least a couple of months.

“Did I hurt you, Cockburn?” His full eyes cut to my split lip, and I’m filled with horror, because I can actually feel the tears stinging the backs of my eyeballs again.

I’m taking this partnership way too far.

“No. Well, yeah, it hurt, but I still enjoyed it.”

“Then why are you crying?” He pushes his hair back, furrowing his brows. “Tell me.”

I shake my head no. It’s starting to get a little chilly in the pool, but I don’t budge.

“Hey, Nate, can I ask you something? And don’t get offended.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me too. What am I not getting offended about?”

“When exactly are we parting ways? I need to have a real date in my head, so we can. . .you know, plan everything and make sure we’re ahead of the game.”

Nate moves his hand over his beautiful wet hair, drops of water decorating his thick eyebrows, eyelashes and strong jaw. God, his face. It’s only been twenty-four hours and I’m already addicted. How will I live without seeing it every day?

“How about next Wednesday I take off to Mexico? It leaves us plenty of time to take out those two clowns. Camden will have to come to the States once he hears his father dropped dead, so maybe I can even help you out with him. A whole week is enough. Trust me.”

I nod silently. There I have it. A date. A deadline. A defined, obvious end to whatever it is I’ve built with this guy.

“Thanks.”

“You’re shivering,” he says, rubbing my arms up and down, splashing water around us. “Let’s get back to the presidential suite. Order some room service,” he jokes. I laugh a little on the outside and die a lot on the inside.

Hell, I’m in love with three men.

Beat, the felon.

Nate, the poet.

And Christopher Delaware, who I don’t even know yet.