Chapter Eleven
The next time my eyes flutter open, light is flooding into the motel room, coloring every inch of the space a majestic golden hue.
Both of us must have fallen asleep before thinking to draw the hideous paisley curtains.
I yawn, reaching over to the nightstand and feeling for my phone.
When I can’t find it, the truth dawns on me.
My phone is gone.
It was taken by Dumb and Dumber last night.
They’re probably halfway to Panama right now.
I cringe at the memory of the paper bag over my head, the sight of Nico tied to that chair…
Nico.
Everything he did for my brother. For my family. For me.
Misguided, to be sure. But brave.
I suddenly become aware that Nico is all over me, everywhere at once.
Somehow, in the middle of the night, we became entangled.
His arms are wrapped around my waist from behind, the scruff on his chin scraping the juncture where my neck meets my collarbone.
One calf is folded over my knees, his chest against the small of my back.
He’s breathing softly against my skin, eliciting involuntary shivers.
And I can feel the shape of something harder, something growing, digging into my backside.
Even weirder, the revelation does not repulse me. If anything, it makes my body react. I fight the temptation to arch my back, to squirm against him, not wanting to wake him up and ruin this rare moment of quiet.
“What time is it?” he whispers against the shell of my ear.
“No idea. No phone.”
He hums for a moment, and then his body freezes as he realizes where he is and who he is holding.
I wait for him to panic, just as we both did in the truck less than twenty-four hours ago.
But instead, after a second of uncertainty, I feel his tension melt away.
The muscles in his body relax once more, as if settling into the decision to not make this weird.
The memory of waking up in the middle of the night and seeing him hunched over my annotated, dog-eared copy of my favorite book comes rushing back, faded and blurry, like a dream within a dream.
I blink as a novel emotion invades my senses, causing the blood in my brain to thrash violently against my ears.
“We should get going,” I tell him, breaking the spell.
Begrudgingly, he untangles his limbs from mine. I feel his absence immediately, missing the heat of his body, his breath against the nape of my neck.
“To New York,” he says, a bite of bitterness in his innocuous words. “Your soul mate awaits. Right?”
I swallow, staring at the floral wallpaper, which distorts in front of my eyes like a kaleidoscope. “Right.”
What in the siren’s name is happening to me?
Ever since I mustered the courage to walk away from Kyle and serendipitously discovered A Tale of Salt Water & Secrets, Ryke has been my dream man.
Beautiful, attentive, supportive Ryke. Nico is the polar opposite of Ryke in every way.
Stubborn to a fault. Pessimistic like he’s paid to be.
For my entire adulthood, he has treated me like some na?ve, starry-eyed kid with no knowledge of what it’s like to survive in the real world.
He has tested my belief in happily ever afters, stolen away my childhood and its innocence.
Nico has always refused to take me seriously.
That’s one of the only facts of the universe I can count on.
So why am I sitting in the center of this heart-shaped waterbed with a fresh face of makeup, dressed in a coquettish baby doll dress and tights, actively trying not to think about the fact that Nico is currently in the shower, presumably very naked?
I really need help.
And to keep my eye on the prize.
Today, I get one step closer to Ryan Mare.
New York City.
The bathroom door opens, and Nico walks out, steam from the shower wafting into the room. There’s a faded towel hanging low on his hips and droplets of water weaving their way down his bare chest.
All coherent thought leaves my brain.
I can’t help it.
Like, I straight-up gawk.
Nico smirks. “Did you talk to the front desk lady?”
I dig my nails into the palm of my hand, attempting to snap out of it. “Yup. I paid the bill—you owe me twenty dollars, by the way—and asked her to call us a cab to the nearest Metro-North station. We need to be downstairs in ten.”
He nods. I don’t miss the way his eyes rake over my outfit. Quickly, as if he’s scared of looking too closely and burning his retinas.
“Can I have a minute?”
“Oh my God, of course,” I say, slapping a hand over my eyes. “I’ll go wait downstairs.”
Mortified, I get up and grab my duffel, then shuffle toward the door, all the while avoiding his gaze. I don’t exhale until I get downstairs, the color in my cheeks rosier than the motel walls. I need to get my shit together before this spirals out of hand.
The same concierge lady as last night is waiting at the entrance. She takes in my red face and throws me a wink. I wish, and not for the first time, that I could blow the Conch of Hippios and be spirited away.
Minutes later, a fully clothed Nico comes downstairs and joins me. “You look nice,” he says without looking at me.
“Go to hell,” I reply.
He bites his lip, fighting a grin. “I’m serious.”
“Me too.”
Holy Furnace, this is awkward. I don’t know how to act around him anymore.
Trading insults and smart quips? My bread and butter.
Chatting up unimpressive men? I’m practically licensed.
But talking to someone who launched a crusade for my family’s honor and inside my panties this morning? That’s uncharted territory for me.
And I’m learning that I’d actually rather go back to being held hostage.
A crush.
Is this what this is?
God, I haven’t had a legitimate crush on someone since…
“Remember when you had a crush on me in middle school?” Nico asks suddenly. As if our minds are in exactly the same place.
“Did not,” I retort halfheartedly.
“Did too,” he teases. “I remember catching you writing our names inside a heart in your notebook with one of those pink gel pens you loved so much. I thought it was so cute.”
“Must have been another Nico,” I insist.
Outside the motel, a car honks. Our taxi. I exhale in relief, then thank the front desk lady and book it outside to avoid continuing this conversation.
“The closest train station, please,” I tell the driver.
“That’ll be New Haven,” he says.
I let out a startled laugh.
“Oh my God. Those shitheads actually did it. They kept their word. They got us closer to the city.” I shake my head. “I wonder what they planned to do with us.”
“About that…” Nico rubs his chin. His nervous tic, I’ve realized. “I have a theory.”
I quirk a brow, waiting for him to continue.
“So, you know how Clarisse told Thomas she was ready to make the trade?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think maybe that trade was…us?”
I think about it for a second. “You mean, like, for ransom?”
In the rearview mirror, I see the taxi driver frown. Nico lowers his voice.
“I’m saying, what if Harry ‘the Hug’ Lester was coming himself to finish the job? What if he hires idiots like Clarisse and Thomas to round up people who owe him money, and when they can’t pay up, he…takes them out? What if they’ve done this before?”
I bite my lip, remember their hushed words. References to a he. That could make sense, of course. But our kidnappers seemed like petty con artists. Thieves at most. Not cold-blooded killers. But maybe they’ve gotten involved with some bad guys who do much worse?
“What makes you think that?” I ask.
Nico pulls out a notebook, a cheeky smile on his face. “They left their ledger in the car, and I kind of took it.”
My jaw drops. “You stole their ledger?!”
I open the book and begin flipping the pages. Scribbled numbers and data tables, notes about accounts and IOUs. Gambling numbers. Some kind of code I can’t understand.
“Not sure what most of it means or if it proves anything,” Nico says. “But I figured if we could make sense of it, it would give us leverage. You know, if they try to come after us again.”
I drop my head into my hands. “Nico. Now there’s no way they’re not going to come after us.”
His brow furrows. “You mean…”
“They’re definitely going to want this back.” My voice cracks. “Which means they’ll definitely come looking for us. Sooner rather than later.”
Nico’s face pales. “Should we ditch it? Burn it or something?”
I shake my head. “It’s too late for that. Let’s just keep moving. The more distance we put between ourselves and them, the better.”
Minutes later, the taxi pulls up in front of the station. I reach into my duffel and pull out a scarf, a hat, and two pairs of sunglasses. I drape the scarf over my hair and hand the hat and one pair of glasses to Nico.
He gives me a look.
“Come on, we need disguises. No arguing. Put those on.”
He grumbles, then dons the bedazzled oversize spectacles.
I burst out laughing. “Oh, this is too good. If only I had my phone. I can’t wait to buy a burner in New York.”
The train is already waiting for us on the tracks. We get on at the café car, and I position us by the bathrooms so I can watch as people get on and off at each stop. My stomach grumbles so loudly that several passersby look up and shoot me dirty looks.
“I’ll go get us breakfast,” Nico offers, “before your body makes a sound so offensive that we’re thrown off the train.” He gets up before I can say thank you and approaches the counter.
I sigh, wishing—not for the first time—that I could check the Salty Girls group chat.
I miss my friends, my community. But on the bright side, if I don’t update my latest fic by the end of the week, there’s a 90 percent chance my readers will send an actual search party out looking for me.
I smile, thinking about 911 texts and police dogs.
It’s nice to be noticed.
To be missed.
Too bad they don’t even know my real name.
Someone clears their throat. I look up just as an older woman slides into the seat across the table from me.
She has gold bangles on both her wrists, henna tattoos swirling up her inner arms. A long, tentlike skirt drapes across her body, and there’s a scarf adorned with gold coins tied around her waist. Large black curls fall down her back.
Her skin is cracked with age, but her eyes crackle with fire.
She looks in my direction. Not directly at me, but through me. I feel every inch of my body ignite at once.
“Um, hello,” I hear myself say.
The strange woman stares. “I was called to you.”
I squint, looking around. “Nico called you?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Your spiritual energy. I feel pulled toward you, as if propelled by a force larger than myself. By the universe. Do you know what I mean?”
My hands turn ice-cold. “Just like Merriah and the conch,” I whisper.
“What?” The woman tilts her head.
“Never mind,” I say quickly. “What’s your name?”
“Veda. I am a psychic, the greatest in the tristate area. I have true ties to the prophet.”
I frown. “Which prophet?”
“All of them. None of them. It does not matter, child. I come bearing a message for you and your traveling companion. A prophecy.”
My heart races. As a lover of fantasy romance, I am obviously very fucking familiar with prophecies.
I lean forward across the café car table. “Tell me everything.”
“Uh, uh, uh.” She shakes her head. “What will you give me in return?”
I frown. “I have no cash. See?” I take out my wallet and turn it upside down, shaking it. Nary a cent falls out.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Venmo, then?”
“No phone.”
She sighs, long and hard. “Okay, girl. Then this one’s on the house. But listen carefully, as I will not be repeating myself. I will say this only once, and then the words will evaporate, never to be uttered again. Okay?”
I nod fervently, then shut my eyes, prepared to commit her prophecy to memory.
“Three men emerge from a shallow pool of damnation. One is made of tree sap and ink. The second, hallucinations and the fog of the mystic. And the third, flesh, fire, and the truth of the histories. When the squatting bird chants twice, go forth to the fallacies of your heart. Do not use your mind or your eyes to guide you. Follow the moonlight of your heart. Beware the goat dressed as a lamb. Only then will you defeat the fool and the red-painted maiden, and land in the arms of the steady tide. For what you seek, you hold in the marrow of your shrouded words.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
But when I open my eyes, the mystic is already gone.