When Hunter had stepped out of the bathroom he’d been wearingnothing, not even a towel. The scars on his muscled chest seemed to have grown deeper in his absence. That tenderness in his eyes—so close to pain, or the fear of pain—hadn’t left him. It still churned there, right under the surface, almost like the man was about to weep. As if Hunter could ever weep.
The man had crossed the room, naked, with a wary care, arched up on the balls of his feet, as if he was worried Ethan would send him away if he made too much noise. Hunter settled at the edge of the bed. Gently, he’d turned Ethan onto his side and climbed onto the coverlet and pressed himself against the boy and said, “I’m sorry.”
Again, Ethan was almost too stunned for words. Hunter, sorry? “For what?”
“For getting you into this shit.”
“What are we going to do when that Frank guy comes looking for us? Or the police?”
“We’ll figure it out. We have so far.”
“What was it you wanted to ask me?”
Hunter had wrapped an arm around Ethan’s chest. “Can I hold you for a minute? Just like this?”
Now, in the motel’s cafe, Ethan was watching Thomas mix his drink—something about the bottles along the back wall had caught Ethan’s eye, but he couldn’t say quite why—when a bell chimed over the door. Kyla stepped inside, joined by a teenage girl Ethan had seen in the back seat of the gray minivan earlier this afternoon.
The younger girl hardly seemed to notice him now. She shot one look at Ethan, risked a rapid glance at Hunter, and then settled herself alone in the booth closest to the silver buffet. She flinched at something, frowning, shaking her head, as if she was engaged in a deeply unpleasant conversation here in the silent bar. Ethan couldn’t help but stare.
The girl had a round scar on her forehead that gave him all sorts of willies.
He said to the girl, “Are you all right?”
“My grandfather abducted me from Mexico City. He’s taking me back to Fort Stockton against my will. Does that sound all right to you?”
“Abducted you?” Ethan said, stiffening.
The girl twitched again, seemed to shrug off some comment he hadn’t heard. “I’m fine. I’m just angry. Aren’t teenagers always angry?”
“I don’t know many teenagers who call themselves teenagers.”
Thomas said, “Your drink, sir,” and pushed a frosty glass across the bar atop a thick paper napkin. Kyla joined Ethan at the bar, gave him a gentle bump with her elbow. She murmured, “Just leave her be.”
To Thomas, Kyla said, “I’ll have what he’s having. How long until food is ready?”
Thomas plucked up a fresh glass. “Any minute.”
Ethan looked from Kyla to the teenage girl to Hunter. The man was too distracted looking from the hall to the doors and back again. He was back to his usual self: watching all his angles.
Kyla was watching the front door. Ethan said, “Where’s your friend?”
“The restroom, apparently.” As if making up her mind about something, Kyla turned to catch Ethan’s eye. To hold it. “I need to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Are y’all part of the outfit?”
“What outfit?”
“Frank O’Shea’s crew.”
Ethan shook his head. “I keep hearing that name today. Who even is this guy?”
“That’s a good enough answer for me.” Kyla turned back to Thomas. “Are we talking five minutes on the food? Ten?”
Thomas said, “Not long. It’s been some time since my sister had to cook for so many people.”
“You could go help her,” Kyla said.
