Blood to Dust (25 page)

“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?