“Carmen!”
I snap around, more taken aback by Carter’s perfect face than I am by the gun in his hand, pointed directly at me.
I freeze on the spot. This day was bound to come. He was always gonna turn on me. I just didn’t think it was gonna be today.
I’m inclined to raise my hands above my head. I don’t like to plead for mercy when it comes to men if I can help it. But I’m gonna have to if I want to make it out of the desert alive.
The other two chuckle behind him.
“Something funny?” I snap.
Carter lowers the gun and walks closer to me. The normal thing to do would be to run away, but I do the one thing I always seem to do when Carter Trescott walks toward me—I stay.
“You thought I was gonna kill you?” He looks at me with weariness.
“You had a gun pointed toward me.”
“Apologies. Hold out your hand.”
“Why? It’d be more entertaining if you watched me killmyself?”
“Just do as I say.”
Like he’s the king or something, I listen.
That’s when he lays the gun out in my palm.
“A leaving present? How nice of you.”
“You need to protect yourself. And your kid.” His face is strained when he says that last part of the sentence. “It’s a powerful weapon, but I trust you to be careful.”
I stuff the gun into the pocket of my pants and turn to face the desert, like I’m in a western. It’s gonna be a long ride home without one of them keeping me company.
“You need to call me if you see or hear anything suspicious,” Carter insists.
Is this still an excuse to get into my panties?
I flick my eyes between the three bikers and second-guess if this is the right decision. Last night felt like sexual liberation. If I didn’t have Otis, I’d probably pay rent to the clubhouse and stay for a few more nights.
But my days of fun ended the day I got pregnant.
It’s just a shame I finally discovered what true fun feels like, when it’s already too late.
I tear my eyes away from their heart-wrenching faces.
Vex disappears into the garage and returns moments later with a motorcycle.
“This one doesn’t look as deadly, but it can get up to a good speed.”
I watch his giant hands brush over the controls as he gives me a tutorial, not expecting to be hit with a wave of heat.
I blame the desert.
I climb on and start the engine, but this time the vibrations don’t fizz all the way to my bones. The electric current that normally surges through me is absent. It probably has something to do with the fact that I’m holding on to the handlebars this time around, not sexy, motorcyclist muscle.
Before driving off, I feel the need to turn around and say, “Thanks.”
And now, I regret doing so.
