Chapter 7 – Damian
Chapter Seven
DAMIAN
The woman, Marlowe, sits in the backseat of the rental car, her electric blue eyes fixed straight ahead, wide with terror. Black-framed glasses rest on her nose, her wild curls framing a face so striking it’s almost unnerving. I never thought I’d see her again.
“You want to let me in on what’s happening?” Bridger hisses as he fumbles for his seatbelt.
Bridger never uses a seatbelt. My gaze flicks to the speedometer.
It’s shaking around 110. Shit. Last thing I need is to get pulled over.
I ease off the gas and glance into the rearview mirror again.
Her expression is lethal. I still can’t believe it’s the same woman from last night.
And to think I was pissed when I woke up to an empty bed this morning.
It takes every ounce of self-control not to snap her neck right now or strangle her while I’m balls deep inside her.
Get a grip on yourself, man.
“I have to pee,” she says in that smoky voice of hers.
“Cross your legs,” I answer. Outside, the pine barrens stretch into a dark blur, nothing but towering trees and endless night. There’s nowhere to stop.
Her eyes narrow in the mirror. “If you don’t pull over, I will pee all over this backseat.”
“You wanna take a leak in the middle of these creepy-ass woods?”
“In the creepy woods or in this car, your choice,” she threatens.
Bridger turns to me, his voice edged with exasperation. “Stop the damn car. Come on, bro.”
I exhale sharply and pull onto the shoulder. The road is empty, nothing but an abyss of trees swallowing the headlights. No houses. No streetlights. Just the kind of place bodies go missing. I don’t know any woman who would willingly walk out into something like that alone.
The lock clicks, and she’s gone. The door flies open, the dashboard screaming in protest.
Bridger folds his arms. “What. The. Fuck?”
My teeth grind together. “She’s the one from last night.”
Bridger lets out a laugh, leaning a hand on the dash. “Say what now?”
“Yeah. Exactly.” The door open chime dings insistently, hammering into my skull. It’s so fucking annoying.
“The one that got away . . .”
“What’s that supposed to mean? We just had really great—”
“No, Damian,” he interrupts, a dry laugh slipping out. “She’s actually getting away.” He points out the window.
Fuck.
If she gets away . . . if I don’t get that money . . . fuck!
Bridger smirks. “Maybe try being nicer? You couldn’t shut up about her all damn day.”
“Maybe you should shut up.”
I yank on the handle and shove the door open. My boots hit the damp ground with a loud, wet squelch. I don’t bother closing the door behind me. Instead, I surge forward, the cold night air biting at my skin. The towering pines loom overhead, their scent thick and almost suffocating.
In the distance, Marlowe is just a thin, moving shadow, swallowed by the darkness.
I push harder, breaking into a full sprint.
Dry leaves crunch underfoot, brittle twigs snapping beneath my weight.
The ground is unforgiving, a tangled mess of uneven earth.
Gnarled roots snag at my ankles, and low branches scrape across my face. I barely register the sting.
I don’t take my eyes off her. Not for a second.
She zigzags between the spindly tree trunks, her movements quick but desperate. Her ragged breaths cut through the night, loud enough that it feels like she’s right beside me.
And then . . . nothing.
She vanishes.
I skid to a stop, my heart thundering against my ribs. Panic coils tight in my gut, unfamiliar and unwelcome. I shove it down. I could turn around right now, leave her here, hop on the plane to Vegas. I could track down where Vick’s place is on my own, no problem.
But do I want to leave her out her, alone in the woods at night? Or worse, leave her to deal with Joel? There’s a small part of me that wants her to be innocent in all this, but there’s a bigger part of me that knows she probably isn’t.
Somewhere behind me, Bridger slams the car doors shut. An eerie silence settles over the forest. The kind that prickles at the back of your neck, warning you that you’re not welcome.
Moonlight filters through the dense trees, casting long, skeletal shadows. Then I catch a glimpse of movement. A pale silhouette flickers against the darkness. My breath frosts in the cold air as I push forward, closing the distance between us.
She’s stopped running.
She’s huddled on the ground, barely more than a heap of trembling limbs.
“Listen to me, Damian.” Her voice cracks, fragile but edged with something desperate, and it sends a sharp twist through my chest. “I can make my way to Nevada a lot faster than you can drive me there. It’s Tuesday. I need to be back before Saturday. I have to be.”
I crouch beside her.
She scrambles back, panic wild in her eyes, but something stops her.
Her foot is wedged deep inside the splintered top of a rotting log. If she tries to yank it free, she’s going to snap her ankle clean in half.
“Stop squirming,” I murmur, reaching out before she can hurt herself. “You’re going to mess up your ankle. Just . . . stop. Let’s talk for a minute.”
“I can’t even begin to tell you how much I’d rather be doing literally anything else right now than talk to you.” She twists away, her face tightening in pain.
“Just stop moving for a damn second.” My patience is razor-thin. I need her to just fucking make this easy for me.
She exhales sharply, making a frustrated sound that slices through the woods, but at least she stops moving. Her breath is shaky, her fingers digging into the dirt as she braces herself like she’s expecting me to lunge. Like I’m some kind of monster.
I press my fingers against the rotting wood, testing its give. The log is splintered and damp, ready to fall apart, but her foot is jammed in deep.
“I don’t need your help,” she snaps, yanking her leg hard. A sharp cry rips from her throat, raw and pained. She stills, sucking in a harsh breath, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts.
I exhale through my nose, jaw locking tight. “Will breaking an ankle get you there faster?”
She glares, but there’s no real fight left in it.
I grip the log with both hands and twist hard. The wood crumbles, splintering apart in my grasp.
The second there’s space, she bolts up, yanking her foot free, stumbling as her weight shifts. The motion is too fast.
She wobbles, her body pitching forward.
I move without thinking.
My hands clamp around her arms just as she collapses into me, the force of it slamming our bodies together. Her breath stutters, her fingers instinctively clutching my jacket for balance. Heat sears between us, an electric charge crackling in the cold air.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Her scent, something warm and sharp, like vanilla and honey, hits me first. Then the feel of her, the way her body molds against mine, soft and tense, like she wants to shove me away but can’t quite bring herself to let go.
Her pulse thrums against my fingers, fast and wild. I should let her go.
But I don’t.
She tilts her head back, those stormy blue eyes locking onto mine, fury and something dangerously close to need burning behind them.
The space between us is barely there, our breaths tangling, her lips parted just enough to make my brain go straight to the worst possible places.
“Get your hands off me,” she murmurs, voice low and shaky, but not nearly as sharp as it should be.
I should definitely get my hands off her. Instead, I lean in just enough that I can feel the heat of her breath against my mouth. “Then stop falling into me.”
Her breath hitches.
For a second, I think she’s going to shove me away, break the moment before it can spiral into something neither of us needs right now.
But she just stays there, locked in place, her body still pressed tight against mine.
I have the irrational urge to press my lips to the pulse on her throat to measure how fast it thunders under her skin.
Fuck. She’s too beautiful.
It’s an indescribable kind of beautiful because it comes from everywhere, all at once. Her full, pouty lips. Those intense blue eyes. Her deep, throaty voice. The way she moves. The way she’s looking up at me right now.
I let the moment stretch just long enough to see her squirm. Then, just as fast, I release her, stepping back like she didn’t just unravel something inside me. She sways slightly before catching herself, blinking hard like she’s trying to shake off whatever the hell that was.
“So, what was your plan just now?” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Run all the way to the airport? Hitch a ride? And how exactly were you planning on buying a ticket when all your shit is still in the car?”
“I don’t know, okay?” She scrubs her hands down the front of her pants, frustrated. “I just . . . I can’t drive all the way there. I have to be back before Saturday.”
I arch a brow. “I was driving to the airport.”
Her head snaps up, blue eyes gleaming like a blade catching light.
And fuck, that look sends my brain straight to last night—her nails sinking into my back, the way she tasted sprawled across that hotel table, her breathy moans in my ear.
I drag a hand over my face and force the thoughts down.
Not now. Not fucking now. I can’t let my dick screw up this situation any more than it already is.
“But Joel said—”
“I have to get back just as fast as you do,” I cut in, forcing the words out before I can second-guess them.
I step back, putting space between us before I do something stupid.
I can’t get personal with her. I can’t trust her.
She’s Vick’s daughter. “Look . . . This will all work out.” One way or another, it always does.
Either the money will be there, or everyone dies. Simple as that.
She lets out a humorless breath, testing her weight on the foot that was stuck. “Yeah. I’ve heard that a few times before.”
“Well, okay then, you just have to believe it.”
Her laughter is sharp, bitter. “Right. Sure. It’ll all work out.
Vick is the king of ‘It’ll All Work Out Land.
’” Her lips curl into something that’s not quite a smile.
“Like when he blew the grocery money on instant lottery tickets, and I had to beg for extra lunches at school just so I’d have something to eat at night. Yeah, that worked out great.”
A simmering heat burns low in my gut, but I keep my face blank. She’s playing me. There’s no way that happened.
“Or when he made me pickpocket tourists because they didn’t need it as much as he did.
” Her voice wavers, but she covers it up by throwing her hands in the air, letting out a laugh so hollow it sounds closer to a cry.
“But don’t you worry, Lucky. It’s all going to work out just fine.
You just get caught a few times, talk your pretty little self out of it.
Or maybe you just have to pick up a couple of part-time jobs after school to keep the lights on.
” She kicks at a loose rock, sending it skittering into the darkness.
It vanishes instantly, swallowed by the night.
She keeps going. “You’re my lucky charm,” she mocks, voice dripping venom.
“And even when you move out, Lucky, my girl, you’ll work yourself to the bone at three jobs just to make sure dear old Vick always has enough to get his hands on.
Because any day now, any fucking day now, he’s gonna get that one big score.
Because goddammit, Vick is due for a win. ” She stops, her breath ragged.
I stare at her.
Well, damn. That sounded almost believable.
“And you really had no idea about the money?” My voice is steady, but the skepticism bleeds through.
It’s hard to believe. Some bartender working in a run-down, hole-in-the-wall inn somehow scrapes together enough to open a state-of-the-art bakery all by herself? Yeah. Right.
She knows about the money. Hell, she probably helped spend it.
The real question is, what happens when we get to Vegas and she has to fess up? What’s her plan? Is she just going to play dumb until she’s backed into a corner? Because if she thinks she can talk her way out of this, she’s going to get herself killed.
“No, I swear,” she breathes, her voice thin, like the weight of the accusation is pressing down on her. “I had no idea about any money.”
Liar.
I hold her gaze, letting the silence stretch, watching for the tell, the flicker of unease, the twitch of guilt. But she doesn’t flinch. She’s good. Too good.
“I guess we’ll find out when we get to Vegas.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. Then, steady as ever, she lifts her chin. “I guess we will,” she says.