“I need help.”
Everything in me hated those words.
I said them anyway.
The voice changed immediately. “Location.”
“Santa Monica. Third Street area. Outside Mariposa Tacos. Four men—no, three men, two women. Santa Fe connection. I don’t want Dylan.”
A pause.
Then Nate’s voice, clearer now, lower.
“Too late, sweetheart.”
My heart slammed once.
The call ended.
Brett yanked my wrist. “Who’d you call?”
I looked at him.
And maybe something in my face finally told him he had miscalculated.
Because his grip loosened.
Not enough.
But enough for me to breathe.
“You should leave,” I said.
He laughed, but it sounded thinner now. “You think I’m scared of some biker trash?”
“No,” Lily said, snatching her tote back from the other guy. “But I’m scared for you, and I don’t even like you.”
“Lily,” I whispered.
“I’m just saying. They have a brand. He has a face that bruises easily. This feels bad for him.”
Brett shoved my wrist away like it had burned him.
“There,” he said. “Happy?”
My skin crawled where he had touched me.
I tucked my hand against my stomach and forced myself not to rub the spot. I would not give him the satisfaction.
But Lily saw.
Of course Lily saw.
She stepped in front of me, small and furious. “You’re done.”
He looked down at her. “Move.”
“No.”
