Chapter 10 – Marlowe
Chapter Ten
MARLOWE
The plane jerks violently, metal groaning beneath me like it’s barely holding together. My ears pop, sharp and painful. My hands grip the armrests so tight my knuckles go white. We’re about to land. Or crash. At this point, I honestly think it could go either way.
Through the grime-streaked window, the sun blares down in blinding sheets, unforgiving on the dry vegetation below. The land stretches far and endless, cracked and sun-bleached, a graveyard of dust. Heat distorts the horizon, warping the jagged ridges and scattered brush into something unreal.
The plane lurches. The engines groan. Metal protests in long, aching creaks. My stomach rolls, coiling in on itself like it wants to turn inside out.
The plane drops. My ass lifts off the seat.
Then the wheels slam against the ground.
The impact rattles through my bones, jarring my teeth.
We bounce, the force of it slamming me back into my seat.
The brakes shriek, fighting against the sheer force of the landing.
The entire cabin rattling so hard it feels like the plane might shake itself apart.
Nausea rolls through me, fast and hot. I swallow hard against it, gripping the armrests tighter.
Then, suddenly, it’s over.
We stop. Still and quiet.
A thick lump claws its way up my throat, but I shove it down, force it deeper, lock it away with all the other things I don’t have time to feel. My fingers tremble. I curl them into fists, willing them to stop.
We actually landed. I’m still alive. For now.
Bridger is already moving. He wrenches the exit door open and jumps down without hesitation, disappearing into the blinding white glare of sun.
I desperately want to get the hell off this plane, but I can’t move. My body won’t cooperate. The floor still feels unsteady beneath me, like I’m trapped between falling and standing still. My fingers clutch the seat, my pulse a frantic drum in my throat.
Damian moves, shifting in his seat, and when I look up, he’s staring at me. His expression is masked, all sharp edges and locked doors, but his eyes…they’re the same. The same ones that burned through me last night. The same ones that drank me in, held me down, left their mark all over me.
His hand moves. A flicker of motion.
An offering. Or maybe a warning.
I don’t know which.
I don’t know if it matters.
“Come on,” he says, voice low, rough. “We need to go.”
I stare at his outstretched hand, at the tension in his arm, the way his fingers flex like he’s waiting for me to make the choice. A heartbeat passes. Then another. My gaze drags up to meet his, and there it is again: a flicker of anger, frustration, and something darker beneath it all.
This shouldn’t feel like a test, but it does.
I reach out and take his hand.
Heat.
Instant, searing, bone-deep heat.
It crackles through my skin, racing up my spine, curling low in my stomach.
My breath catches. His fingers tighten around mine, his grip firm and grounding.
A white-hot shiver courses through me, sharp and consuming, and from the way his chest rises, the way his muscles tense, he feels it too.
We break apart. Fast. Like we’ve both touched something scalding hot. Maybe we have.
“Maybe it’s a good idea if we don’t touch each other,” he mutters, rubbing his palm against his jeans like he can scrub me off his skin.
I huff. “Right. Because we hate each other so much?”
He exhales, slow and controlled. His gaze flickers toward the open door as if he’s waiting, stalling, trying to come up with something that makes sense.
“Look,” he says, finally turning back to me, gesturing between us, voice edged with a warning.
“Whatever this is, it’s not happening. We don’t know each other.
Last night was—” He stops, jaw ticking, like saying the words is painful. “I don’t trust you.”
Of course he doesn’t. Not with who my father is. Not with the blood that runs through my veins. I lift my chin. “I don’t trust you either.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Something sharp and knowing. And then he does the last thing I expect.
He chuckles.
It’s low, rough, barely a sound, but I feel it vibrate through my bones. The absurdity of it makes me want to laugh too, but nothing about this is funny.
“Let’s just get all this over with,” he says, voice flat. “And be done with each other.”
It should be simple. Easy-peasy.
Then why does it feel like it won’t be?
I don’t answer him. I just grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and move past him toward the exit. I don’t touch him or look at him. But my body is hyper-aware of every inch of space between us. It’s too much and too little at the same time.
A trace of heat lingers where his hand held mine. I push it down. Ignore it.
Bridger’s voice cuts through the thick air. “Come on, let’s go. Now.”
I sit at the edge of the open door and dangle my legs over the side. The drop isn’t far, but the second my feet hit the ground, my knees buckle slightly. I stumble, catching myself, but a sharp yelp escapes my mouth before I can stop it.
How embarrassing.
Damian lands beside me, boots kicking up dust. He smirks, just slightly, and I glare at him.
I hate how gorgeous he looks.
I force my attention away from him, redirecting my focus to the world in front of me.
A rugged mountain range rises in the distance, its jagged peaks standing sharp against the sky.
Beyond the stretch of cracked pavement, a handful of small planes and gliders sit in neat, orderly rows, their wings gleaming under the relentless sun.
In the distance, a tall white sign stands against the backdrop of endless sky, its faded blue lettering reading “Jean Airport, Sport Aviation Center.” The words seem almost surreal.
We didn't even land at a real airport. My stomach tightens with unease. I don’t even know how far we are from Vegas.
I swallow back any questions, for now. The air is thick, scorching hot, dry enough to burn my throat. The scent of sun-scorched metal and sagebrush clings to the wind. But there’s something else too. Something metallic. Rust, maybe. Or blood.
Heat rises in thick waves off the cracked earth, making the world ripple and distort, but past it, past the suffocating brightness, storm clouds roll in, heavy and black. They swallow the horizon, creeping closer, slow and ominous.
A storm is coming.
Even though I was born here, it’s been years since I was in Nevada.
Years since I breathed this hot, dry air.
Since my boots pressed into this cracked, unforgiving dirt.
I should feel something besides anger—nostalgia, regret, maybe even relief—but I don’t.
There is no bittersweet tug, no wistful ache of homecoming.
There is only white-hot rage.
It snakes inside me, twisting sharp and tight, pressing against my ribs like it wants to gouge its way out. The heat of the desert is nothing compared to the fire searing through my veins.
Memories claw their way up, choking me, dragging me back to a time when I still believed in things like luck and second chances.
My sixteenth birthday.
Vick had promised me something special, something just for me. I should have known better.
My sweet sixteen was an underground poker tournament disguised as a party. The room was full of smoke, whiskey, and men twice my age, slamming down stacks of cash while I stood there in a thrift-store dress two sizes too tight.
There wasn’t even cake.
The only gift I was given that night was from a stranger, an old watch, delicate and worn, after my father picked it off him.
The next morning, I had to slide it across the counter at a pawn shop to a man who barely looked up as he counted out a few crumpled bills.
It wasn’t enough to make up for what Vick lost the night before but just enough to get us two bus tickets out of here.
The memory cuts deep, like a blade honed over years of disappointment. It sinks into me, carving out pieces I’ll never get back.
Stop, Lo. You’re not that kid anymore. But standing here, shoes in the dirt of a place that only ever took from me, I’m not so sure. I’m still paying for my father’s mistakes. And I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.