Bridger shifts uncomfortably and places his coffee down a little too hard on the coffee table.Oh, that’s very interesting. I wonder if anything happened between them.
Cody’s eyes sharpen on Damian’s. “We should just stay and kill him before he kills us.”
The room freezes. Even the air feels colder.
Bridger exhales through his nose, slowly, and then leans closer to the coffee table. He taps one of the IDs. “It’s just for a few days. How about that place we used as a safehouse in Arizona—it’s in the middle of nowhere.”
Damian grunts beside me. “You think it’s still standing?”
“It’s built into a canyon wall. If a nuke hit it, it’d probably be the last thing left,” Bridger says. I can’t picture it. I don’t even want to. Hiding in a cave while Clay creeps around looking for us.
“We should take the fight to him,” Cody says again, louder this time. There’s something wild in his voice. “He deserves it. He used to beat the shit out of me just for breathing too loud.”
Damian’s jaw clenches. Bridger won’t look up.
“I’m not running,” Cody snaps. “I want to see his face when he realizes I’m not scared of him anymore.”
“Good,” Damian says, voice low, sharp. “Then help me get her away from here first. We’ll deal with him. ButafterI know Marlowe is safe.”
Cody throws up his hands. “So you want us to just sit on a beach or in some dusty-ass safehouse with our thumbs up our asses?”
“No,” Bridger says dryly. “No one said you had to stick your thumb up your ass, Cody. That’s a you choice. Feel free to explore whatever self-soothing method gets you through the day—as long as you don’t do it near me.” He grabs one of the fake IDs and waves it. “We’re not bailing. We’re regrouping. Off-grid. Couple days to breathe, reload, have Damian stop bleeding from various holes. Then we come back and end this the way it should’ve ended years ago.”
Damian’s hand tightens on my shoulder.
And just like that, whatever hope was floating in the room evaporates, replaced by the low thrum of the Cross brothers’ fury. Everyone’s on edge. Wound tight. Teetering on the edge of snapping.
So I do the only thing I can think of to cut through it. I clear my throat. “Okay, but like… not to bethatgirl, but I wouldn’tsay no to a little beach getaway. You know, somewhere with umbrella drinks. Sunshine. Maybe some sex on the beach.”
Damian raises a brow.
“I meant the cocktail,” I add, deadpan.
Neve snorts. “Sure you did.”
“I’m just saying,” I shrug, “if you want to take me someplace safe, I’d rather do it getting tanned and mildly buzzed, with Damian inside me instead of in a cave in the middle of a desert. That sounds too much like the grave Joel threw me in.”
Bridger grimaces. “Right, sorry. Beach it is.” He gets up with a grunt and pulls his laptop from where it’s plugged in on the counter in his tiny kitchenette. The cord knocks over a half-empty bottle of hot sauce on the way down, and the sound it makes as it hits the counter startles me. It zigs a sharp jolt of heat across my collarbone. I guess I’m not as calm as I thought I was.
Bridger settles into the armchair, balancing the computer on his lap. “I’m just going to see what the next available flights are and where they’re heading. Might as well give ourselves some options.” His fingers tap the keys, low and methodical, as he mumbles destination names under his breath. “Barbados... St. Lucia... Antigua… damn, they’ve got one to Curaçao leaving tomorrow night…but we need something today.”
Damian shifts beside me, his muscles tensing. He rubs a slow, absentminded circle into the small of my back, and when I look up at him, he’s already watching me. He smiles, but it’s the kind that doesn’t travel anywhere near his eyes.
The gash on his cheek is a little cleaner now—I did what I could with the first aid kit and my shaky hands—but the split is deep and angry, edged in red. The bruise under his eye is worse, a dark bloom spreading into the corner and making the white of his eye pure red. I lift my fingers and trace the bruise, featherlight, careful not to press.
His stare doesn’t break.
I whisper, “Does it still hurt?”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing.
So I kiss it. Just below the swollen skin. And when I pull back, his hand tightens against my hip like he’s ready to flip meon my back here in front of everyone. My pulse races with the thought of it.
“Turks and Caicos,” Bridger announces to no one in particular, his eyes glued to the screen. “Round trip’s a no. But there’s a one-way out of Atlantic City International. Five p.m. And get this—it’s cheap as hell. Which probably means it crashes into the ocean, but hey, maybe that’s a win-win.”
Neve flicks a glance at him. “Morbid much?”
He doesn’t look up. “Just being realistic. Are you upset that you won’t end up screwing some local with a man bun and a guitar who swears he’s ‘between surf gigs?’”
