"And split up? Make it easier for them to pick us off one at a time?" She turns from the window. "We're safer together."
She's probably right. Doesn't make this any less complicated.
I set my bag down, pull out my phone. Three missed calls from Colt, two from my sister Kenna. I should call them back. Tell them I'm fine. Tell them not to worry.
Instead, I text Kenna:
All good. Talk soon.
She responds immediately:
You're lying. Call me.
I will. Tomorrow. Tonight, I don't have the energy to explain what I'm doing or why I'm doing it to someone who'll just try to talk me out of it.
Rainey's in the bathroom, water running. When she comes out, her face is scrubbed clean and her hair's down from the messy bun she always wears. Longer than I expected, falling past her shoulders in waves.
"There's only one towel," she says.
"I'll get more from the front desk."
"Don't bother. We'll manage."
We.Like this is normal. Like sharing a motel room with someone I barely know is something we do all the time.
I sit on the edge of the bed, pull off my boots. My ribs are aching from that last ride, the bruises blooming purple across my side. I lift my shirt to check the damage and hear Rainey's sharp intake of breath.
"That looks painful," she says.
"I've had worse."
"That doesn't make it better." She moves closer, and before I can stop her, she's running fingers along the edge of the bruising. Gentle. Clinical. "You should ice this."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're hurt and angry and throwing yourself at bulls like you're trying to join Tyler instead of avenge him."
Her words hit harder than any bull ever has. I grab her wrist, not rough but firm, and she freezes.
"Don't," I say quietly. "Don't psychoanalyze me. Don't tell me what I'm doing or why."
"Then tell me yourself." She doesn't pull away. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're on a suicide mission and taking me along for the ride."
"Nobody's making you stay."
"I know." Her eyes search mine. "But I am staying. So I need to know if you're in this to win or in this to die."
I should let go of her wrist. Should put space between us. Should remember that she's here because of Tyler, because of what we're trying to uncover, not because of whatever this is that's building between us.
But I don't let go. And neither does she.
"I don't know," I admit. "Maybe both."
"That's not good enough."
"It's all I've got."
We're too close. I can see the freckles across her nose, the amber flecks in her eyes, the way her pulse jumps at her throat. She smells like coffee and photo chemicals and something underneath that's just her.
