13. Attila
13
ATTILA
I have heard stories of marriages of convenience amongst our kind. Cartels, mafia, syndicates; we’re not all that different, after all. But I had thought that such practice had been discarded, a thing of the past. That it was still happening today that a woman or a man would have to marry at the whim of their parents was unbelievable.
Not that I didn’t believe her. The sincerity in her words and the consistency of her story told me she was telling the truth. About everything. I can’t say my heart broke for her, because I don’t feel anything. For anybody. But it did piss me off that her father was trying to palm her off against her will. She should have a choice.
Her story does, however, raise a problem for us. There is no way we can use her to lure out Castillo. We’d be doing the same exact thing he was doing to her by selling her off to the highest bidder. We’d be using her as bait, and we’d have to sacrifice her for that, which wasn’t an altogether appealing idea after everything she’d told us. She really was of no use to us now. Which is what The Jekyll and I argue about after she stands, stretches her legs, and tells us she’s going to shower.
“You can’t just dispose of her like that,” he hisses, when he hears the water running.
“She’s a liability to us now.”
“They will kill her,” he reminds me. “She will keep defying them until they kill her. Or worse yet, she’ll end up married to that sadistic Gamboa and he’ll end up torturing her to death.”
The thought irks me. I don’t care — I never have. About anyone. Except maybe Caleph, the only one that ever understood me and accepted me with all my flaws. And I can’t start caring now; it’s not who I am. It’s not the way I’m built. I’m just not made to care.
“The girl can do whatever she wants and go wherever she wants; I’m not saddling myself with this problem.”
The Jekyll has steam coming out of his head as he watches me, his face red and splotchy with the makings of an impending explosion.
“We can’t lose sight of our initial target,” I remind him.
“This is unethical,” he snaps back at me. “You can’t be that much of a monster that you would send her back to her destruction.”
“Cut her loose, TJ.”
* * *
After her shower, Luna doesn’t come out of her room. The door remains closed and I don’t hear any movement from within. The Jekyll has gone out to get some clothes for her, something we hadn’t considered in our haste to leave Phoenix.
I knock on the door softly, then again, until the door swings open and she is standing there in the doorway, her eyes swollen as though she’s been crying. I notice it, but it doesn’t affect me in the way that I think it should.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head and steps away from the door. She’s wearing the white cotton robe supplied by the motel, and I doubt anything else underneath because she came with only the clothes on her back. The robe reaches to her knees, giving me a flash of long legs that seem to go on forever until they end at her small bare feet.
“Why are you crying?” I ask, coming into the room. I’m not built to care, but I’m curious. I can’t always read human emotions the way others do, and I don’t always care what one is thinking or feeling, but now I find myself interested to know. Luna Castillo has become a fascination for me.
“Why do you care?” she snaps back.
“Who says I do? I’m just asking because I’m curious.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
She steps closer and pushes a long finger into the middle of my chest, pushing me away. She does it with such force that I almost lose my balance, and I look at her in surprise, wondering what’s gotten her so angry.
“I’ve been called many things,” I tell her. “Asshole is right up there at the top of the list, so yes, I’m well aware that I am one.”
Her eyes blaze, anger simmering beneath the surface. I’m not doing myself any favors here.
“You think you did your good deed for the day and rescued me from those men and now you want to throw me to the wolves?”
She heard us. Must’ve heard every word. Put the water on in the shower and pretended to be in there but instead listened to our conversation until her brain caught up to my plans for her. An unfortunate turn of events, but she should ditch the eavesdropping.
“You heard us, huh?”
“Yes, I did, asshole. What sort of a man are you?!?”
“The sort of man that makes decisions based on logic and method. You do not fit into that equation.”
I’m honest with her. I don’t see her fitting into our plans or how we need to execute them. She will just drag us down and hold us back.
“You bastard!”
She screams then rears her hand back and brings her palm down to my cheek. She even hits with the force of a man; my face goes flying to the side. There is so much anger and hurt and betrayal in that one connection between her palm and my cheek.
My skin scorches with the sting, but it misses her heat already. No woman has ever slapped me before. I turn my face back to her slowly, my eyes hard as I watch her standing there, shocked at what she’s just done while contemplating my next move.
She answers her own question by flinging herself at me. Without warning, her body is pressed up against mine and her lips are sealed to mine. She digs between my lips, as though searching for treasure, forcing her tongue into my mouth until I’m reciprocating, my hand going to her back and pushing her into me.
She tastes of mint and strawberries and sugar. She’s soft and gentle and languid. Her tongue probes against mine, until we’re engaged in a happy dance together, our bodies moving against each other feverishly.
I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m not in a position to stop it. I’m logical and methodical, and everything happens for a reason. Just so. But there’s no reason for this to be happening. It’s not part of my plan. There’s no method, no rhyme or reason. No control. But it’s happening. And I don’t want it to stop.