“So, what was your plan just now?” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Run all the way to the airport? Hitch a ride? And how exactly were you planning on buying a ticket when all your shit is still in the car?”
“I don’t know, okay?” She scrubs her hands down the front of her pants, frustrated. “I just . . . I can’t drive all the way there. I have to be back before Saturday.”
I arch a brow. “I was driving to the airport.”
Her head snaps up, blue eyes gleaming like a blade catching light.
Andfuck, that look sends my brain straight to last night—her nails sinking into my back, the way she tasted sprawled across that hotel table, her breathy moans in my ear. I drag a hand over my face and force the thoughts down.Not now. Not fucking now.I can’t let my dick screw up this situation any more than it already is.
“But Joel said?—”
“I have to get back just as fast as you do,” I cut in, forcing the words out before I can second-guess them. I step back,putting space between us before I do something stupid. Ican’tget personal with her. Ican’ttrust her. She’s Vick’s daughter. “Look . . . This will all work out.” One way or another, it always does. Either the money will be there, or everyone dies. Simple as that.
She lets out a humorless breath, testing her weight on the foot that was stuck. “Yeah. I’ve heard that a few times before.”
“Well, okay then, you just have to believe it.”
Her laughter is sharp, bitter. “Right. Sure. It’ll allwork out.Vick is thekingof ‘It’ll All Work Out Land.’” Her lips curl into something that’s not quite a smile. “Like when he blew the grocery money on instant lottery tickets, and I had to beg for extra lunches at school just so I’d have something to eat at night. Yeah,thatworked out great.”
A simmering heat burns low in my gut, but I keep my face blank. She’s playing me.There’s no way that happened.
“Or when he made me pickpocket tourists becausethey didn’t need it as much as he did.” Her voice wavers, but she covers it up by throwing her hands in the air, letting out a laugh so hollow it sounds closer to a cry. “But don’t you worry, Lucky. It’s all going to work out just fine.You just get caught a few times, talk your pretty little self out of it. Or maybe you just have to pick up a couple of part-time jobs after school to keep the lights on.” She kicks at a loose rock, sending it skittering into the darkness. It vanishes instantly, swallowed by the night. She keeps going. “You’re mylucky charm,” she mocks, voice dripping venom. “And even when you move out,Lucky, my girl,you’ll work yourself to the bone at three jobs just to make sure dear old Vick always has enoughto get his hands on. Because any day now, any fucking day now, he’s gonna get thatone big score.Because goddammit,Vick is due for a win.” She stops, her breath ragged.
I stare at her.
Well, damn. That sounded almostbelievable.
“And you really had no idea about the money?” My voice is steady, but the skepticism bleeds through.
It’s hard to believe. Some bartender working in a run-down, hole-in-the-wall inn somehow scrapes together enough to open a state-of-the-art bakery all by herself? Yeah. Right.
She knows about the money. Hell, she probably helped spend it.
The real question is, what happens when we get to Vegas and she has to fess up? What’s her plan? Is she just going to play dumb until she’s backed into a corner? Because if she thinks she can talk her way out of this, she’s going to get herself killed.
“No, I swear,” she breathes, her voice thin, like the weight of the accusation is pressing down on her. “I had no idea about any money.”
Liar.
I hold her gaze, letting the silence stretch, watching for the tell, the flicker of unease, the twitch of guilt. But she doesn’t flinch. She’s good. Too good.
“I guess we’ll find out when we get to Vegas.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. Then, steady as ever, she lifts her chin. “I guess we will,” she says.
Chapter Eight
MARLOWE
On a normal day, I hate airplanes. No, that’s not quite right. Hate is too mild. What I feel is complete, unequivocal terror. The kind of terror that coils deep in my gut and sinks its claws into my spine. And this thing I’m flying in? It’s not even a real airplane. It’s a toy. A miniature model someone decided was capable of catapulting into the sky.
It barely seats six people, and to even get to it, we have to trudge through what looks like an abandoned hangar, the kind where horror movie survivors find a blood-streaked warning on the wall. Branches and brown shrubbery hang off its wings. The whole thing feels like the opening scene of a low-budget disaster flick.
By the time I step inside, my anxiety is already rising. Swollen like a balloon stretched too thin. There’s no flight attendant delivering a cheerful safety spiel, no reassuring hum of a commercial airliner. Just a cramped, coffin-like cabin and a single broom-closet-sized compartment in which to shove a bag. I suck in a breath, but it comes back out shallow and shaky. I’m low-key hyperventilating.
Damian gestures for me to sit, and I barely get my seatbelt across my lap before the plane jolts forward, groaning like an oldman. The walls rattle. The floor vibrates beneath my feet. Then, without warning, we’re hurtling into the sky. A drunk pigeon in a hurricane.
I double over, pressing my forehead to my knees, gripping the seat so hard my knuckles ache. My breaths are fast, labored, each one scraping against my ribs. The plane wheezes and moans, every creak and metallic groan amplifying the chaos in my head. I can’t tell if it’s the aircraft protesting its own existence or if my anxiety has given it a voice, an audible, rattling manifestation of my impending doom.
