Chapter Fourteen
It hurt to pee, which was not a problem Ava had time for. When she reappeared from the forest, Jack looked a little sick to his stomach—not what she would have expected from someone who was supposed to be a seasoned killer.
“I told you he’d start to stink.”
Jack looked at her distractedly. “What? He hasn’t yet.” He grabbed one of the gas cans and started splashing it across the seats and the body.
Ava shuddered and looked away. Despite her determination to kill Cale, this body was .
. . a lot. Honestly, she hadn’t put much thought into how gross it was all going to be.
Her plan ended when Cale’s life did, and she hadn’t bothered too much with what came after.
Certainly not living with the fact that she’d taken a life.
“Grab the other gas can,” Jack said shortly.
“Who died and made you king?” Ava asked, masking a wince. “Wait, unless you’ve actually killed a king? Have you killed a king, Jack?”
Jack caught her flinch, despite her effort to cover it, his eyes flickering as he paused pouring the gasoline. “Never mind,” he said. “Probably best not to lift something when you’re injured. Just stand back and let me work, then.”
“I want to know if you have killed a king,” Ava repeated.
“I’m an O’Sullivan,” Jack said. “Plenty of us would, if we had the chance. That isn’t even special to me or my line of work.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Ava wiped the back of her hand over her brow, where sweat was beginning to bead. Even that motion hurt, the pain in her ribs feeling as sharp as if she was being kicked right this minute.
Jack didn’t answer, just splashed the last of the gasoline over the body, tossed the gas cans into the trunk with him, and held a lighter out toward the edge of the car, leaning slightly away.
“It would look cooler if you lit it and tossed it in,” Ava observed.
“Don’t believe the movies,” Jack said. “Tossing the lighter wouldn’t work.”
“That must mean you’ve tried it,” Ava said. “And when it didn’t look cool, you’ve been salty ever since. But I bet I could get it to work.”
The flames poofed up, and Jack stepped back.
Within seconds, the heat from the car was overwhelming.
“Should we be worried about a forest fire?” Ava asked suddenly. “I don’t want to be like those dumbasses a few years ago who threw fireworks over the side of a cliff and lit half the state on fire.”
“I damped down the soil first with the water from the gas station,” Jack said. “And that’s the best I can do. Now you and I are going to get a motel room somewhere.”
“Oh, I thought you were too good for motels or hostels,” Ava said. The Airbnb they’d stayed in had been fancy, at least by former-librarian-from-Iowa standards.
Jack grabbed her wrist and began towing her toward the motorcycle, which was parked far from the flames engulfing the SUV. “No, I just prefer not to stay in the places the police check first,” he said. “Have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?”
“I—of course I have,” Ava lied.
She’d had a pretty boring, law-abiding existence before this. But you couldn’t really tell that to the wall of muscle who just saved your life, could you? If there was one thing Ava couldn’t do, it was admit she wasn’t good at something to an expert in the field.
“Just hold on to me,” Jack grunted.
His eyes fell on her and then darted away again, like he couldn’t quite bear to look at her.
That was new.
Even when she had been stark naked, and he had sometimes averted his eyes politely (not that he had to—his hungry look was kind of fun, if Ava was being honest with herself), he hadn’t looked this . . . nervous.
“Do we need to wrap your ribs first?” Jack turned to her at the motorcycle, his face unreadable. He took her face roughly, his calloused hand eclipsing her jaw.
Ava’s knees weakened at the touch. Get it together, Cavalcante. “My ribs?” she asked. She pressed a hand there, gasping when it hurt. Never breaking eye contact with Jack as she did. “No,” she managed shakily. “No, I think they’re fine.”
He grunted and pushed her hand out of the way, his touch still rough but controlled. “Let me see.”
“It’s not a T-shirt, Jack,” Ava said when he motioned for her to show him her ribs. “I can’t just move it out of the way.”
“Are you shy now?” Jack asked, looking almost surprised. “I’m not going to force you to undress, Ava. I just didn’t think you minded if your ass was out.”
She gaped back at him, the heat of the burning SUV overwhelming. Or maybe she was just blushing. “At the motel, then,” she said. “Also, that’s rude. Of course I mind if my ass is out.”
“In front of who?” Jack asked, looking around the little clearing. “Never mind. Here, wear the helmet.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Of course you don’t,” Jack said. When she didn’t take the helmet from his hand, he reached out and placed it on her head with more care than she would have expected. “Or you wouldn’t, if you’d ever ridden a motorcycle before.”
“Hey! I told you that I have been on a motorcycle, actually.” The nerve of this man.
Jack cut off her argument by mounting the motorcycle and tugging her on behind him.
She straddled it, an inch or so of space between her body and his, because come on.
How was she supposed to be pressed against his body and not make bad choices later?
Her library romance book club girlies would have classified this one as a danger bang.
Which Ava had always thought was theoretical, until she was on the back of a motorcycle clinging to a hit man.
Jack tugged her forward. “Let’s go.” His voice was an impatient growl, something Ava felt all the way down her spine.
Across the clearing, the flames were reaching higher.
“Is it going to explode?” Ava shouted through the roar of the motorcycle. “I want to stay and watch if it’s going to explode.”
In answer, Jack revved the motorcycle, and then they were off, Ava clinging to him as they went.
Jack didn’t bother to tell her where he was going, or what motel he had found, or his plans around transportation. Or anything else.
They didn’t return to Portland. Instead, Jack stopped at the edge of South Scappoose for gas, and then at Deer Island, a tiny thing nestled in towering pines, the elevation higher here than it was in the city. Even this late in spring, there was a chill in the air.
Jack looked like he could fit in anywhere, with his jeans and T-shirt and nondescript ball cap, the boots with no logo on them. Ava felt about as out of place as a polar bear on the beach, dressed in her tattered little red dress, which still clung to her skin.
Jack pulled into the parking lot of the motel and offered Ava his hand. Which was a good thing, because her head was pounding and her legs were jelly, and she wasn’t sure she could have gotten off the motorcycle at all without his help.
“I’m going to pay for our room,” Jack said. “And then I’m going to get you some clothes and get us a new rental car. You should stay here.”
“What’s wrong with my dress?” Ava managed, but it sounded half-hearted even to her ears. The dress was digging in everywhere, and Ava would kill for some sweatpants right now.
Jack ignored her, helping her to a bench outside the stretch of rooms.
It was a cozy little place, daffodils and a few early-blooming lupine nodding merrily from well-tended garden beds that stretched the length of the motel.
Ava’s vision swam. She rubbed furiously at her eyes. The motel sign had a rose above script she couldn’t quite decipher. The Rose—the Rose something.
There was a stretch of . . . twelve rooms, maybe? The garden was nice, and there was no cracked or patched glass, and the curtains all looked neat and clean.
A few minutes later Jack reappeared, holding out his hand to her.
She took it, despite herself.
“We’re here for one night,” Jack said.
“Just one?” Ava groaned.
The sun was high in the sky, around midday—her phone was dead, so she couldn’t tell exactly what time it was. She needed to sleep for at least twenty-four hours.
Jack shrugged and unlocked the door, helped Ava to the bed, and then, when she flopped dramatically down onto it, stood there, surveying her with his hands on his hips. “How are your ribs? Your head?”
Ava grunted in response. She was too tired and sore to be appropriately verbal.
“Can I look at them?”
He was impossible.
“No. They’re fine.”
At least, they were fine-ish. Fine adjacent. They would be fine someday.
Right now she could breathe and move—and run if she had to, honestly. And that would have to be enough.
“All right. I’ll check on them when I get back, then. I’m going out to get you clothes,” he said. “Anything in particular you don’t want?”
“What is your obsession with making me wear more clothes?” Ava rolled her eyes at him.
“I don’t care if you’re naked while we carry out this job,” Jack told her abruptly. “But it does draw unnecessary attention. Which we already have way too much of, thanks to you.”
Ava sat up swiftly, regretting it as the room spun rapidly, Jack’s face distorting as her vision wobbled. “Excuse me?” she said. “Which one of us shot a man and had to do away with the body?”
Jack crossed the space between them so swiftly it disoriented her for a second time, his hand covering her mouth and forcing her back down onto the bed. “Keep your voice down,” he snapped into her ear. “Do you know what the hell you’re saying, Ava?”
Jack was all hard muscle, the hand pressed to her mouth strong and broad.
Ava let out a low moan, and he nearly jumped off her, his eyes flashing.
For a moment they stared at each other, chests heaving, breaths caught.
And then Jack was gone, hands clenched into fists at his sides.