“You thought you were gonna call your biker king to save you?” he asks.
I lift my head as much as I can, cheek pressed to the couch, hair stuck to sweat on my face.
“He’s not my anything,” I say, hoarse.
Rico laughs, too loud. “Sure. That’s why you smell like him.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate that the smoke from Vice Ink still clings to me like an imprint.
Rico crouches in front of me, grabs my chin, and forces my face up.
His eyes are wild now, paranoia thick in them like he hasn’t slept in days.
“You put me in front of him,” he says. “You let him touch me.”
I flinch.
“He should’ve killed me,” Rico mutters, then smiles like he’s proud of the thought. “But he didn’t.”
My throat tightens.
I force a swallow and make myself speak like someone who survives.
“Why do you think that is?” I ask, and my voice shakes but it doesn’t break.
Rico’s eyes narrow, suspicious.
“I think,” I say, breathing hard, “it’s because he doesn’t let people control him. Not you. Not me. Not Carmen.”
Rico’s hand snaps back.
Pain blooms across my face, hot and immediate. My vision blurs. I taste blood.
“Don’t say her name,” he snarls. “Don’t say his name like you know him.”
I breathe through it. I stare at him anyway because looking away is surrender and I’m done surrendering.
Rico paces, running his hands through his hair like his skin doesn’t fit right.
“This is what you’re gonna do,” he says, voice rushing. “You’re gonna call him. You’re gonna tell him you want him. You’re gonna bring him here.”
My heart drops.
“No.”
He whips around.
“Yes.”
“You’re insane,” I spit, and it splits my lip again.
Rico crouches close, face right in mine. “Maybe,” he whispers. “But I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”
He pulls a small gun from his pocket.
My stomach turns to ice.
He taps it against my cheek lightly, like he’s petting me with it, like my skin belongs to him.
