My sweet sixteen was an underground poker tournament disguised as a party. The room was full of smoke, whiskey, and men twice my age, slamming down stacks of cash while I stood there in a thrift-store dress two sizes too tight.
There wasn’t even cake.
The only gift I was given that night was from a stranger, an old watch, delicate and worn, after my father picked it off him. The next morning, I had to slide it across the counter at a pawn shop to a man who barely looked up as he counted out a few crumpled bills. It wasn’t enough to make up for what Vick lost the night before but just enough to get us two bus tickets out of here.
The memory cuts deep, like a blade honed over years of disappointment. It sinks into me, carving out pieces I’ll never get back.
Stop, Lo. You’re not that kid anymore. But standing here, shoes in the dirt of a place that only ever took from me, I’m not so sure. I’m still paying for my father’s mistakes. And I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.
Chapter Eleven
MARLOWE
Ablack Escalade rumbles up the blacktop, kicking up a storm of dust in its wake, a rolling wall of dry earth swirling in the sun. The vehicle halts, the engine idling like a beast holding its breath. A warm breeze whispers across my face, carrying the scent of dust and gasoline.
The driver’s side door swings open, and a man steps out. He’s tall, broad like Damian and Bridger, but there’s something sharper about him. A little younger, maybe. The golden light catches the cut of his jaw, the hard set of his mouth, and the shadow of a scowl carved into his features. His eyes are dark, piercing, and filled with something volatile. He’s armed, and the way his hand hovers near the gun at his hip tells me he’s used to reaching for it.
His gaze locks onto me like a predator assessing unfamiliar prey. Then, without taking his eyes off me, he points. “Who the hell is that?” His voice is a sharp bite against the thick, sun-heavy air. “Did you pick up a stray?” His anger simmers just beneath the surface, controlled but only barely. Then, his head jerks toward Damian. “Did you find Vick?”
Damian exhales slowly, as if he already expected this reaction. His stance stays loose, stoic, but his tone is grim when he answers. “Yeah, we found Vick. But his pockets were empty.”
The man swears under his breath, shifting his weight like he’s about to put his fist through something. His fingers flex near his gun, then curl into a fist. “So what now?”
Damian’s gaze flicks to me. “He swears the money is here. Where he was staying.” Then, the words that tighten a vice around my ribs: “This is his daughter. Her name’scollateral.”
He doesn’t mention my half-sister. I’m collateral. Not Taylor. Just me.
Fear slides through me like ice water, pooling in my stomach. Did they do something to her already? Am I all the collateral left? My lungs ache, and I force my breathing to steady, my expression to stay blank. I can’t let them see me panic. Not yet. Not until I know what they’ve done.
The man beside the Escalade watches me a beat longer before making a low sound of frustration, shaking his head. “Fucking hell, Damian.”
Damian doesn’t reply. The sun burns overhead, the breeze doing nothing to chase away the heat pressing in on me. I try to ask about my sister, but before the words can leave my mouth, Damian cuts me off. "Shut up," he snaps, his voice cold and final. He jerks his head toward the car as Bridger opens the door. "Get in."
I hesitate for half a second before stepping forward and sliding into the back seat. The plush leather is cool against my skin, the contrast sharp against the heat still lingering in the air. The scent of fresh upholstery fills my nose. It smells brand new, untouched, like it doesn’t belong out here in the dust and heat of Nevada.
The man climbs into the driver’s seat, his movements fluid, practiced. Bridger follows, settling into the passenger seat, but not before giving Damian a look. "You sure?" he asks.
Damian snorts. "I’m sure I can sit next to her without killing her for a few minutes."
Bridger grumbles but doesn’t press the issue.
The driver starts the car, and the vehicle jerks forward, tires spinning against the loose dirt before finally gripping the road. He drives fast—way too fast. My hands fumble with the seatbelt, the metal buckle slipping through my fingers as I struggle to click it into place. Damian chuckles darkly beside me.
Bridger and the driver speak in hushed tones, their voices too low for me to catch more than fragments. But even without hearing them clearly, it’s obvious they understand each other in a way that doesn’t require full sentences. There’s an ease between them, an unspoken familiarity that suggests years of knowing each other.
Damian leans back, his massive arms folding over his broad chest, his expression guarded. His voice is low and commanding. "Cody, turn on the radio. Remember we have an audience."
So, the driver’s name is Cody.
Without hesitation, Cody reaches for the dial, and a blast of heavy metal erupts from the speakers, the pounding drums and distorted guitars swallowing their conversation. Their words are lost beneath the music, leaving me alone with my thoughts, the relentless noise hammering all around me.
I shift my gaze out the window as we pull away from the small aviation center. The hot sun glares off the pavement, turning the stretch of highway into a shimmering expanse of heat and light. A green highway sign looms ahead:I-15 North.Cody takes the turn, guiding us onto the three-lane highway. There’s barely any traffic, just the occasional 18-wheeler rumbling past, its tires kicking up heat waves that distort the air.Sparse billboards dot the landscape, advertising cheap motels, all-you-can-eat buffets, and wedding chapels that promise a lifetime of happiness in under fifteen minutes.
For miles, there’s nothing. Just open road and the relentless hammering of the music filling the car. Then, on the horizon, the sky shifts. Dark storm clouds roll in from the distance, thick and heavy, swallowing the bright blue sky. A jagged bolt of lightning splits the gloom, illuminating the clouds in a stark, white flash before vanishing.
The southern edge of Las Vegas emerges ahead, the buildings reflecting what little sunlight remains as shadows creep across the skyline. Traffic thickens, the once-empty highway now cluttered with rental cars and hurried drivers.
But instead of heading straight into the city’s chaos, Cody veers left, taking the exit onto 160 West. The city disappears in the rearview mirror, replaced by the storm-darkened road stretching toward what a sign says is Williams Ranch Road. Whatever waits for us there, it's straight ahead, right where the storm is gathering.
