High Card: A Billionaire Shifter Novel (Lions of Las Vegas Book 1) (11 page)

I swallow hard. Shit.
 

What the hell, Summer?

The cabbie’s staring at me in the rear-view.

Okay, I tell myself, thinking as rationally as possible. Landon’s hot. No big thing. Totally normal to be thinking of him. Especially with all the drama, and before the cabbie pulled up I was about to storm into Landon’s office and demand to know where Jay is.
 

So I was already thinking about the rich asshole.
 

And now we’re apparently driving into the desert. Which is where lifelong grifters get shot twice in the head and buried under a foot of sand so when the cops find your body it’s been partially consumed—

I reach my hand inside my bag and brush my fingers across Layla.
 

The motherfucker.

He must’ve had Blake let me go in the alley so he could deal with me later, without the potential witnesses. But why the phone message and the pictures? Why not do what they usually do, which is send a beater van and four meatheads—

Then something really freaky happens.
 

I start to tremble all over, not violently but enough to get me worried. I snatch my hand out of the bag, afraid of what I might do with Layla. The tremors ripple over me and then the world right in front of my eyes starts to fade. I’m moving through dense brush, deep into the coolness of a mountain canyon, searching for water and prey. Smells of sage and juniper. I scent where a cougar crossed the wash earlier that morning. There’s a group of bighorns resting beneath a cliff on the ridge ahead. I sniff the air, unsettled by the close scent of humans. Then I’m moving, soundless through the red-blue canyons, thirsty for blood—

***

“Miss? Miss?”

My eyes sliver open.

I’m laid out flat on the already-baking sidewalk. My head’s pounding. There’s a bitter coppery taste in my mouth.

Blood. The lion fed.

What? I shake my head, close my eyes against the blinding light. Who fed? What blood? I had some kind of seizure. A stress-related panic attack that knocked me on my ass. Maybe I bit my tongue during the fall. That would explain the taste of blood—

“Miss you gotta get up. C’mon now. Get up and outta the sun.”

I let the cabbie slide his hands under my shoulders. He’s muttering about something being worth the money. I get my legs under me and allow the cabbie to drag me into the back seat. A woman yells that he needs to take me to the hospital.
 

She’s probably right. Something’s not right in my head.
 

I manage to sit up and swallow hard, trying to get rid of the blood taste fouling my mouth. “You got any water?” I ask the cabbie.

He tips his Panama hat back and hands me a bottle. “It’s tap water.”

“Look like I care?”

I drink thirstily, polishing off the bottle.
 

“Sorry,” I say, meaning it.

The cabbie shrugs. “You an epileptic?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Huh. My nephew is. What you had…it looked a bit like that.”

“I think I fainted is all.”

He fires me a yeah-right glance. “From the heat? It’s hot for this early.”

“From hunger.”

He stiffens. Digs in a bag beside him. Hands me an orange. “That’s all I got.”

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
 

There’s a long silence as I peel the orange. The citrus smell seems really…strong in my nose. Layered. Almost like I’m smelling it for the first time. Popping a piece in my mouth, I try and remember what happened. But all I’m left with is that strange feeling of attraction. Okay, fuck it. Lets call it what it is. It was
arousal
. I was suddenly, overpoweringly horny—

“Let’s get going,” I say.

“Where?”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Into the desert,” the cabbie says, a note of worry creeping into his voice. I decide he’s an all right guy.

“Into the desert? Huh. That doesn’t sound good.”

The cabbie takes off his hat, spins it in hands nervously.

“All right,” I say, texting Alfie. “Let’s drive.”

***

The cab comes to a halt at a sandy wash that’s too rutted to cross.

“End of the line, miss,” the cabbie says.

“There’s no one here.”

“Instructions said to go as far as I could then have you walk the rest.”

“What do you do when I get out?”

“I leave.”

“You can’t do that,” I say, real quiet, holding up my busted pinky finger. “You see this? It happened early this morning. There’s a good chance the guy who sent me the message is the same one who did this. You want to leave me out here alone with the kind of person who would snap a girl’s finger without a second thought?”

“I been paid.”
 

The cabbie starts doing a ten-point turn to get the car flipped around in the wash. The car nearly gets stuck in the sandy ruts. The cabbie’s sweating now, cursing under his breath, hitting the gas hard, spinning the front tires. I’m getting tossed around in back, feeling like I’m about to puke.
 

“How much he pay you?” I say, rummaging through my backpack. “I have…twenty…no…twenty-
four
bucks…”

“I guess I could take your money, tell you I’m going to stay, and when you get out take off.”

“But you won’t do that.”

“Nah. All I’m gunna say is: you don’t have enough.”

“Shocker.”

The cabbie almost smiles.

I kick open the door.
 

“Can I say something?” the cabbie asks. “It’s none of my business. But if I were you, I’d tuck that firearm you got hidden in my belt and keep my hand on it.”

“Thanks,” I say, stepping into the blazing late-morning sun. The cab rolls slowly down the dirt road, leaving me alone with the wind and the falcons screeching overhead. There are a few Joshua trees scattered about, and we’re close enough to the highway for there to be bits of plastic garbage impaled on their spiked limbs. The garbage flutters in the wind, making a sound that feels lonely. I can’t say I’ve even been a real fan of the outdoors. Too much shit that can sting and bite and scratch.

Then a thought hits me. It’s Wednesday. I have a shift beginning at two. It must be almost eleven now. I’m at least an hour out of town. So I’m going to be late for my shitty job. I can’t afford to miss another shift.
 

I take my phone out. No reception.
 

Hold it up in air and spin slowly. Nothing.
 

But my calendar does kick on and beep—
 

“Fuck. Tomorrow’s my monthly parole meeting.”

The thought makes my gut churn.
 

South, I can see the Vegas smog rising above a line of sandy, barren hills. The hills are carved with roads and pits. Some kind of mine. But here I think we’re in the Bureau of Land Management Land. No development allowed. There’s nothing but empty desert clear to the huge sandstone mountains rising behind me. I stare into the shadowed canyons as the wind picks up, driving sand into my face, then shoulder my backpack and get moving.

That’s where I’m going.
 

Whoever called me out here is somewhere in those canyons.
 

Waiting.

***

I walk about a mile before I spot the orange Range Rover. It’s an odd color. Too hipster for its own good. There’s a logo on the driver door, a blue line with a circle resting over it, like some kind of hieroglyph. I set my hand on the butt of my gun and pause, listening, scanning the truck and the nearby desert.
 

The truck seems deserted. Weird.
 

Wind whips around my hair. Black clouds are building over the red rock cliffs and canyons. Thundershowers. I’m gunna get soaked pretty quick.
 

My mouth’s so dry, from fear and thirst, that I can barely swallow.
 

What the fuck am I doing out here?

Then I hear something. The wind? No. I strain to listen.
 

Sounds like…moaning.
 

I slip Layla from my belt. Click the safety off.
 

At least she’s ready to party.

Take a step forward. Then another.
 

I’m about ten yards from the Rover. The moaning’s coming from behind the truck. It’s a trap. It’s gotta be. A furious gust of wind whips my hair into my eyes, momentarily blinding me. I reach up and pull the errant strands down so I can see, then glance out into the desert.
 

Something’s moving out there. Maybe a mile off.
 

Coming down from the hills—

Quickly.

A bolt of blind, irrational fear grips me, similar to the terror I felt when looking into Blake Stone’s murderous eyes. I glance at the Rover. The keys are inside. I could hop in. Fire the truck up—

“…help…”
 

From behind the Rover.
 

Then a thought hits me.
 

Shit sakes. It’s
Jay
.
 

It has to be.
 

They sent me out here to find Jay all beat up, his fingers cut off and stuffed in his mouth—
 

I clamp my jaw closed. No way I should have come out here. What the fuck, Summer? I’m no good at this cowboy bullshit. Fucking desert. Fucking outdoors. Fucking wind and sand and—

A long, piercing howl arrives on the wind.
 

Wild animals.
 

Wildblood.

Blake’s fangs—

My mouth drops open. A slow, terrified moan escapes my lips. My hands are slick with sweat. I’m holding Layla in both hands, elbows slightly bent, trying to stay relaxed but the gun’s shaking—

“Fucking hell, Summer,” I scold myself. “Get your shit together. It’s a coyote is all. Lots of coyotes in the desert—”

Then the howl starts again. But not from the same animal.
 

This one’s from further west.
 

Like they’re surrounding us.

“You
really
need to chill the fuck out,” I whisper, resisting the suddenly overpowering urge to fling myself into the Rover, crank the fucker on and tear ass outta here—

“…please…help…”

I’m only five yards away from the truck.
 

I look out into the desert.
 

Whatever I saw up in the hills is gone. Hidden in the washes and canyons now. Invisible until they’re only yards away—

The thundershowers have opened up over the mountains, a shimmering blue-white sheet of water. It’s really coming down. I can smell it. There’s an energy in the air. Something…primal. The wind’s grown chill; goosebumps spread across my arms, and I can’t seem to shake that feeling of terror in my blood and bones.
 

Furious with myself for letting absolutely nothing give me the creeps, I take four long strides and whirl around the Rover, bracing for the worst, expecting Jay to be beaten to all kinds of hell. My finger’s hovering on Layla’s trigger—

At first I don’t see a thing.
 

Then motion at my boots catches my eye and I glance down, nearly pressing the trigger out of shock, and when I realize how close I came to shooting someone by accident I drop the gun.

There’s a half-naked man at my feet. Lying with his back up against the Rover’s tire. He’s wearing dirt-stained khaki slacks and nothing else. No shoes. No shirt. He’s covered in sweat. Shaking. He has bright, almost strangely bright golden eyes. And there’s—oh god is that—blood?

The man’s chest is splattered in blood.
 

Drying to black on his hands and forearms.

Even matted in his shaggy blonde hair—
 

My fucking gun.
 

Quick as a flash I bend down, snatch Layla from the sand and point it at him. The dude winces. We stare at one another for a moment, a horrible sensation creeping over me.
 

I almost recognize—

Something tickles against my shoulders.

It’s beginning to rain.

“…in the truck…” the guy says.

“Who are you?” I ask, trying to sound like I got my shit together waaay more than I do.
 

“…need to drive…run…they’re coming…”

I spread my legs about shoulder-width apart, push my shoulders back and settle onto my heels. It’s my don’t-fuck-with-me stance. It’s a lot more convincing with the Ruger gleaming in my hands.

“Who are you?”

The guy licks his lips. Glances into the desert. Then at me. A slight, almost apologetic smile flashes across his face.

“Shit in hell,” I breathe.

“Landon—”

“You’re Landon fucking Stone,” I interrupt, nearly dropping the gun again.
 

He flashes me that same broad smile, but it seems to pain him; he winces, draws a shaking breath, spits a mouthful of blood. I remember how Landon looked outside his casino. Dressed to the nines in a cobalt three-piece suit. His rich-boy meets hipster hair absolutely perfect. A billionaire businessman in total control.
 

And now this sorry sack-of-shit?
 

Half dead out in the middle of nowhere? Looking like a metal baseball bat and three of Luca’s thugs got the better of him?

“It can’t be,” I whisper. “What the hell
happened
to you?”

Landon gives me a little shrug. He’s too weak to talk. But he looks out in the desert again, and when he meets my eyes there’s something in his expression I don’t like at all.
 

Fear.
 

“…drive…” Landon says, real quiet.

He reaches his hand out.
 

“…help…coming…”

I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff. Take the leap. Make the call. I could leave the fucker here. He’s clearly in some sort of danger. Pretty-boy out-of-towner pissed off the wrong people. I’d heard rumors about a beef between Landon Stone and the Abatelli mafia family. Maybe the guys who did this to him are out there, burying someone else and about to come back for him.