Chapter 33
Brody
After spending a full day together on the train, I can only explain this weird sense of peace fuzzing up my mind as “marital bliss,” or whatever our equivalent might be. I’m not sure when the switch flipped or what caused the change, but I don’t ever want to give up this natural high.
Twenty-four hours ago, we sprinted for our lives through the streets of Austin, dodging college kids, dogs, bullets, and strobe lights. Fighting off mercenaries and my apparent mortal enemy.
Now we’re sharing breakfast in the dining car after I managed to secure us a room for the night by paying the attendant off. Trinity sits across from me, finishing off the latte that came with our feast of eggs over medium, bacon and sausage, country hash browns, and cinnamon French toast.
Apparently, Trinity has a sweet tooth like my sister. I can’t help but wonder what else they have in common. They’re both outgoing, intelligent women, and if circumstances were different and the two could meet, I think they’d hit it off.
Maybe someday.
We acquired new outfits, courtesy of the luggage car.
My t-shirt didn’t survive the chase, and the rest of our clothes were trashed from both running and the rave.
Every article stank, saturated in the body odor of two hundred-plus dancers.
I sure as shit wasn’t about to continue bathing in the combined stench of that and Kruschev’s blood with a near-bottomless supply of clothes at our disposal.
Hard as I tried, I couldn’t find a black shirt that fit me, so I settled for a baby blue one and some fresh pants. I’m lucky I found a pair of jeans to accommodate my quads that didn’t fall right off my waist.
In her new duds, Trinity could pass for a young soccer mom.
She looks good in a matching set of joggers and a jacket, with a white tank underneath.
At her nudging, I left our generous donors a nice tip.
Whatever items they miss from their wardrobe, they can replenish and then some once they arrive at their destination.
“Take it easy.” I raise a brow at my dining partner, who’s shoveling food down her throat as if she hasn’t eaten for the past week. “This isn’t the Last Supper.”
She folds a piece of bacon into quarters and crams the whole thing in her mouth. “I’m fueling up. Because you never know.”
Sipping my coffee, I watch her demolish a slice of French toast next. She narrows those green eyes at me.
“What are you staring at?” she asks, though around that mouthful of eggy, syrup-drenched bread, the sentence sounds more like, “Wuh-ah-oo-arin-a?”
I adjust my weight in my seat. For some reason, her lack of manners revs my engine. Pretty much everything about her does. “Nothing.” I grin. “Well, you are kind of glowing.”
Holding up a finger, she chews and swallows. “Endorphins. Specifically, oxytocin and estrogen, which can give you a pink-hued complexion. Not to mention the reduced cortisol and uptick in blood and oxygen circulating through my system.” She winks. “You know, from all the fucking.”
I nearly spit out my coffee.
The couple next to us turn to not-so-subtly gawk. The man glares at me while the woman flushes, though I doubt endorphins triggered her reaction. Her perma-scowl suggests she’s never been fucked properly.
“You’re glowing too.” She stabs another hunk of French toast with her fork. “Are you going to split this with me or what?”
“All yours. I’m more of a carnivore.” I shove sausage in my mouth.
Am I glowing? Weird. Because even though I’m enjoying this little escape, I know our fantasy can’t last.
That knowledge weighs heavy in my chest, shadowing my heart like a giant willow tree.
She hasn’t asked about the hard drive since I swapped my pants in the luggage car, but we both understand the clock is ticking.
Our rolling safe house, cruising at one hundred and fifty miles per hour, will eventually pull into a station, at which point we’ll need to bolt and continue to check over our shoulders.
And eventually, I’ll need to return to where this all began.
I still plan to hand over the drive to Declan.
It’s my job. My duty.
But now the drive represents leverage I can use for Trinity’s safety.
In exchange for all the intel she’s accumulated—the top secret dealings of our East Coast rivals, our dirty dealings—I want Declan to spare her.
Surely all of that’s at least worth her life.
After that, maybe we can be together.
Though I dread the confrontation with Declan almost as much as I dread the impending conversation with Trinity.
I can’t blindside her. Not after all we’ve been through.
The safe house.
The storm.
The luggage car.
Andrei, Andrei, Andrei, and dozens of his mercenaries.
My lying days are over.
She won’t be happy, but she’ll forgive me. She’s got a good heart like that. Just like Maeve.
I’ll negotiate our freedom—her from her family’s mafia business, me from Declan’s bitter hatred—so that we can build a life together.
The details will take time and might not be pretty, but I’ll convince her to understand.
For now, only the woman who’s practically licking the syrup off her plate matters.
With anyone else, I’d consider the actions childish.
With her, there’s only gratitude for being alive and enjoying a meal.
When I reach across the table, she twists her fingers with mine and sparks buzz along my skin.
Above our heads, the PA system crackles to life, intruding on my fantasy of swiping all the dishware to the floor and fucking her right here.
“We’re pulling into our final destination, folks,” the conductor announces. “Welcome to New Orleans.”
While the hard drive burns a hole in my pocket, Trinity and I share a resigned sort of frown.
Our time’s up.