Chapter 6
Gemma batted open her eyes. A yellow glow hit her, and she covered her face with her hand. She lay on a thin mattress, and the blanket beneath her was rough and gritty. The scent of musty, unwashed bedding hit her nose, and the need to get away from the grossness made her roll into a sitting position.
“Hey, hold still.” Dallas breezed in through the front door of what she determined was a motel room, two plastic bags dangling in his grip.
Her leg throbbed, and she brought her hand to the outside of her thigh. He squatted next to her. “You passed out. I didn’t have anything to clean the wound with so I ran to the twenty-four-hour drugstore next door.”
She rubbed her face and scooted back against the headboard. “I really don’t feel like messing with my leg right now.”
Dallas’s hooded gaze met hers. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s how you get an infection.” He set one of the bags on the nightstand and stood. “Let me wash my hands and we’ll get you sewn up.”
“Oh no,” she shouted to his retreating back. “You’re not giving me stitches.” Nausea pooled in her stomach. He didn’t so much as glance at her, and the exclamation had taken half her energy.
She heard water running in the bathroom, and he came out with towels. Sweat dampened the back of her neck, but not because she needed to cool down. This sweat was thick and composed of pure dread.
He sat on the edge of the bed and she shifted away a few inches. “I don’t do needles.”
His warm palm covered her calf, and he tilted his head. “Look. If you don’t do this needle, you’re going to end up in the hospital with an infection. Then you’ll get a kickload of needles.”
She narrowed her eyes.
He dragged her leg closer, forcing her to turn so he could view the outside of her right thigh.
“Get comfy,” he said, as his fingers went to the knotted, bloodstained towel. He had to lift her knee and pass the material between her legs. A thrill raced over her flesh as his fingers got a little too close—or not close enough—to the pulsing heat at her center.
What bullshit. She was finally stuck in a motel with Dallas, nowhere to run, and she couldn’t even get naked with him because she was too injured. He peeled off the towel, and she yelped as the coarse material pulled at her flesh.
Dallas tsked, and his face crinkled with sympathy. She was tempted to pull away and clean the wound herself, but she might just puke if she moved.
A flashlight clicked, and she watched Dallas study the bullet hole.
“You know,” she said, staring at his long, dark eyelashes, “I’m a little bit offended that you expect me to be sober while you stitch me up.”
His gaze lifted to hers, and a smile crept into his usually sour expression. He reached into the bag on the floor and straightened holding a bottle of vodka. “I’m not that heartless.”
She made a face. “Ew. Who drinks that stuff?”
He lifted a shoulder. “You do today.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong there. She didn’t usually drink, but there was a time and place...
He unscrewed the cap and slammed a shot back then passed her the bottle. Oh, great. They’d skipped cups. This oughtta be a fun night.
She tipped the bottle to her lips and the cooling sting of alcohol filled her mouth, sterilizing her throat on the way down. She coughed and sputtered. Her body shuddered, and she gagged. “That’s disgusting.”
“Couple more if you don’t want to feel anything.”
“I’m going to feel this come up, and it’s not going to be pleasant.”
Dallas chuckled and reached for the bottle. “Have it your way.”
She pulled it closer to her chest. “No, no. I’m not that stupid.” She sucked back a good two more shots then shoved the bottle in his direction and pressed the back of her hand to her lips. “Dear god.”
He set down the bottle and grimaced. “Ready?”
“For what? Is the bullet in there?”
His palm was warm and steady on her thigh. “No. It’s a graze. I’m sure it hurts like hell, but you’re lucky. We need to clean and stitch it though.”
“I guess I’m glad you don’t have to dig through my flesh.”
He opened a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and she pressed her face into the pillow. Warmth filled her gut, spreading through her body. Her limbs tingled, and she waited for another wave of fog to carry her to la-la land.
Dallas’s fingers gripped her just above her knee. “Sorry,” he croaked.
Cold liquid hit her flesh, and then the fiery zing of alcohol swarmed through the wound. She jerked, her muscles spasmed, and pain shot up her side. She let out a stream of curses and tried to tear away her leg, but Dallas’s hold kept her in place.
“One more.”
“No way.” She shoved at his shoulder, but he dumped the bottle again. Another vicious bite of agony hit her. “Asshole,” she hissed.
Dallas mumbled an apology and rubbed his hand up and down her thigh. She melted back onto the pillow, her body drenched in sweat.
The crinkling of plastic came next. She closed her eyes. The angry throb of her leg matched her elevated heart rate. Her stomach closed in around the liquor in her system, heightening her nausea. Oh, crap. She might really get sick after all.
“It’s not too bad. With all the blood you lost I thought for sure it’d be worse.”
She didn’t dare turn her head to watch what he was doing. His hand was on her skin again, this time less forcefully. “Just some numbing cream.” His fingers moved over her with a featherlight touch, and the cold cream cooled her flaming skin.
“That’s nice,” she said. Her words came out garbled.
“I’ll give that a minute to take effect. Do you need some water?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to move yet.”
“Are you sick?”
She groaned.
A light laugh permeated the soft clouds that now carried her. She frowned and, without looking, swatted him. Her knuckles connected with his abdomen. “Are you laughing at my expense?”
Her fingers slid down his stomach to rest on his lap. Gosh, he was warm. She turned her hand over so her palm rested on his jeans.
“Considering I’ve never seen this side of you... yeah, a little.”
“Mmm. Well, you won’t see it again.”
Pressure poked around her wound. “Feel that?” he asked.
“Kind of. But it doesn’t hurt.”
“Good.” Plastic crinkled again. “Hold still.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled through her nose. More pressure on the wound, and a little stinging, but nothing she couldn’t breathe through. She exhaled and took a few more deep breaths.
“Doing good.”
“Please don’t make it ugly,” she said softly.
“Nothing could look ugly on you.” His tone didn’t carry a note of flirtation, just distraction. Another minute passed. “All done.”
She lifted her head and turned to survey the damage. The wound wasn’t nearly as big as she’d expected. Rather than a grotesque chunk missing from her leg, there was an inch-long gash, and the skin had been neatly pulled together over it.
“Thanks. Why do I have the feeling you’ve done that before?” She rolled onto her back, keeping her knee bent.
“More times than I care to count.”
She studied his dark profile. The chiseled line of his jaw, thick with stubble, made her want to pull his face to hers and kiss him like they had in the closet. His lips had a Cupid’s bow shape, and of all her lovers, he had the most gifted mouth.
Dallas packaged up the items and picked up a white bottle from the nightstand. He shook two pills into his palm and held them out. “Here.”
She made a face. Not a chance she was going to put anything else in her stomach. She might be able to get through stitches with him thinking nothing could make her look ugly, but he hadn’t seen her puke yet.
He lifted a shoulder and popped them back in the bottle. “They’re there if you want ’em.” He got up and rounded the bed. Her gaze stuck to him like glue.
Watching him had a calming effect on her. And being around him gave her a fuzzy feeling. Which was ridiculous. They weren’t a couple and nor could they be. He stopped at his side of the bed, and, with his back to her, balled his fist into the material at the back of his neck and pulled his shirt off.
Her insides quivered with need.
So much masculinity. So much muscle. A large tattoo took up the landscape of his back—big waves that stretched from the bottom of his ribcage to the base of his neck. Some of the white-capped swirls reached the backs of his biceps. She’d noticed the markings before but had never mentioned them. It wasn’t as if she spent a whole lot of time viewing his back when they were together. Frontal anatomy was where it was at.
She gave a low whistle. “That’s an incredible tattoo.”
He touched the nape of his neck and glanced over his shoulder. His lips twitched. “Thanks.”
He kicked off his pants, peeled back the blanket, and slid beneath the covers. His arm bumped hers and her body ached to shimmy closer.
He gave the comforter a shake and inhaled a sharp breath. “Ugh. This stinks.”
She settled her head further into the pillow and pulled her side of the blanket over her body. “So gross.”
He leaned over her and clicked off the lamp. “We’ve got two hours, by the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“The plane leaves at 9:00a.m. Since you’ve now made me an international criminal”—he flipped to his side so he faced her, but she couldn’t make out his features—“We need to get out of the country ASAP.”
Her mind blurred in a violent storm of questions. “I told you. I can’t—”
“Sleep,” he said grumpily.
She rolled her lips together and stared at the ceiling. She needed a plan and she needed one quickly. The buzz of the damn liquor would make that impossible.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she’d figure something out. But there was absolutely no way she was getting on a plane with Dallas.
No way.
***
Dallas folded hisarms in front of his chest as he watched the plane taxi down the runway. Even though he stood a good couple hundred feet away, the air around him stirred. He glanced at his watch: 9:03a.m., and it was already hotter than a motherfucker.
The sun peeked over the mountains, lighting the dewy Amazon jungle in a steamy glow.
“Are you always this functional on two hours’ sleep?” Gemma grumbled.
He smirked.
She’d been adamant she wasn’t going to accompany him on his flight to Ecuador, but common sense prevailed.
He pulled his sunglasses over his eyes and took advantage of the extra shielding, letting his gaze linger on Gemma a little longer. She wore khaki shorts and a navy-blue tank top. Her dark locks were pulled back into a ponytail and her face was free of makeup.
“Two hours is plenty.”
She shuddered. “That’s so messed up.”
A green tinge had taken over her usually tanned complexion, and her shoulders were turned forward an inch, as if just standing took too much effort. Part of him wanted to ask if she was feeling okay and to insist she take some ibuprofen because, to his knowledge, she hadn’t touched the bottle.
He’d gotten too sucked in by Gemma, and the fact of the matter was, she didn’t trust him and didn’t want to be near him. She was only here for practical reasons. It almost seemed as if she’d rather have stayed behind in the dumpy motel waiting for the guys from last night to find her and finish the job.
If that wasn’t a stab at his pride, nothing was.
At the end of the day, though, she had every right to have reservations. While she might have royally fucked up his job, he’d royally fuck up her life if she didn’t keep her distance.
A man stepped out of the plane and waved. Dallas bent and slung his bag over his shoulder then picked up Gemma’s. “Let’s go.”
She fell into step beside him, her gait a little labored. She crossed her arms around her middle. “That plane is tiny. How well do you know this guy?”
He smirked again. “I never said I knew him.”
She stopped in her tracks. “You can’t be serious.”
He resisted an eye roll. “Do you know every pilot who flies you around?”
Her body was as tight as a wire. “That’s different.”
The guy approached, his smile bright white in his dark complexion. “Hey, you must be Dallas... and? I didn’t know there was another passenger.”
Shit. Dallas held out his hand. “Sorry about that. I picked up a stray.”
Gemma smacked him in the side and glowered. Then she shoved him out of the way and held out her hand. “Gemma. And you are?”
“Eli.” He motioned for them to follow. “We’d better get going. Lorenzo said this was a pressing flight.”
Dallas followed, and Gemma’s reluctance seemed to lessen. The air inside the plane was several degrees warmer, and the four seats, not including the pilot’s, were smooshed close like sardines in a can.
The plane was tiny. One point for Gemma.
Eli shoved two backpacks into Dallas’s arms. “Just in case. Have you ever used a parachute?”
“Oh my god.” Gemma’s eyes bugged out of her head, and her skin turned sallow. “Are you joking?”
Eli’s laugh boomed through the aircraft. “It’s just a precaution, ma’am.”
Her face turned red, and she breathed heavily.
Dallas held out a backpack to her. “No, can’t say I have,” he said to Eli.
“It’s pretty basic.” Eli fit his arms through the straps of the backpack then clipped the buckle in front of his chest. “Put it on like so, jump, and pull the cord—of course, wait until you’re far enough from the plane.”
“What are the odds we’d need to use these?”
Eli waved away Gemma’s question with his hand. “I’ve only needed to once in my nine years of flying.” He shrugged. “It’s a couple hours to Ibarra. We’ll be fine.”
Gemma blew out a breath. “Okay.” She nodded, as if convincing herself the odds were in her favor.
“Sit and relax and we’ll take off in a few.”
Dallas slid into one of the window seats, tucking his parachute behind his feet. All four chairs were spaced, not in rows of two. She took the seat directly across from him, and her fingers pulled at her shirt.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’ll be better when we get to Ecuador.”
That he couldn’t argue with. Gemma buckled her seatbelt and rubbed her hands on the tops of her thighs. He fit his seatbelt over his lap then reached across the aisle that was about as thin as a fucking sliver and swiped his knuckle over her forearm because, goddamn him, he couldn’t resist. “Did you hear back from Charlene?”
She pursed her lips, and her eyes turned stormy with worry. The plane’s engine gunned to life, and the propellers spun wildly outside their windows. Eli told them to buckle up, and the pilot’s jovial voice eased a little of the tension in Dallas’s chest.
Gemma shook her head. “I haven’t checked the phone since we left though. It’s in my bag.”
A person probably didn’t quit their job as a CIA informant via text, but something had to be done. Once they left Colombia it’d look highly suspicious if Gemma took off without notice and didn’t wait for the transportation the CIA were to provide.
The plane surged forward, and Dallas’s stomach flip-flopped. He cleared his throat and tightened his seatbelt then looked out the window as they taxied quicker and quicker down the runway. He’d flown a million times in rickety planes over oceans and jungles, but something about this trip made him feel more... vulnerable.
Probably Gemma.
He didn’t need to worry about his own life. Once he was called to go, sayonara. But Gemma? He shoved that thought from his mind.
The plane lifted off the ground and the g-force pulled his stomach to his spine. He swung his gaze to Gemma.
“Look, you can see the ocean,” she said, gesturing to the hazy water far into the distance. She leaned forward, and he straightened in his seat to give her room.
“Um—” Her voice rose an octave. “Are those people supposed to be there?”
He unbuckled his seatbelt and moved next to her. She pointed out the window, her finger shaking.
Two large military Hummers raced below them. Men stood in the back with machine guns pointed at the plane.
He grabbed Gemma’s head and shoved it to her legs. “Stay down!” He dove for the front of the plane. “Eli! We’re being shot at!”
Rap! Rap! Rap!
Bullets sliced through the sky.