Chapter 58 Sloane
Sloane
This guy, this stranger, looks dangerous.
Zeth freezes in the hallway, staring straight at him, jaw clenched.
And he just accused him of being dead? An awful sinking sensation pools in the pit of my gut.
Zeth looks like he put a bullet in this guy and buried him, only to find out that he resurrected himself and dug his way out of a shallow grave.
Fuck, is out-and-out warfare about to be unleashed?
Zeth just picks up his clothes and gets dressed, frowning slightly.
“Hey, Mal, why don’t you go see if the boys need anything, huh?” the stranger asks the guy who was watching us have sex just now. Mal looks mildly put out but, at a stern look from the dark-haired guy down the hall, does what he’s told and leaves.
Now that he’s fully dressed, Zeth seems to have gathered himself together a little.
“So you’re a Widow Maker. I guess that makes sense,” he rumbles.
He sounds… I have no idea how he sounds.
I can’t figure out what’s going on with the stormy expression he’s wearing.
Cade scuffs the toe of one boot against the heel of the other, nodding.
“I guess it does. You’re probably very confused right now.”
“Could say that.”
The tension between these two is stifling. Cade looks apologetic, while Zeth seems wired to blow a fuse.
“They moved me after the stabbing. I got put in solitary for the remainder of my sentence.”
“They put you in solitary for five months?”
“Yeah, man. They pushed pretty hard. And then they pushed harder. I wouldn’t give them what they wanted, so they left me in there to rot. Said I knew where to find ’em if I changed my mind.”
So, prison. That’s where Zeth knows this guy from.
And by the sounds of things, Zeth thought he’d died inside.
I clear my throat—a timely reminder of my existence.
Cade glances up at me, shocked to find me still standing there.
Apparently, Zeth feels the same way. “Uh, Naomi, why don’t you go get ready for later?
I need to have a conversation with this guy. ”
A private conversation, then. Fine by me.
If Zeth thinks I shouldn’t be present for whatever these two have to say to each other, then I’m inclined to listen.
Plus the heat has receded from my cheeks, but I am still very aware of the fact that we just got caught fucking in the hallway.
I need a shower, not to mention a moment to regain my dignity.
I leave them and hurry off down the hall, questioning my own behavior the whole way back to the room.
Who am I? Suddenly so ruled by hormones and a level of stupidity that frankly borders on insanity.
I don’t recognize the person I’m becoming.
I’m sore as I strip and take my second shower of the day.
I crank the temperature control all the way to the right and let the blistering hot water slough off two layers of skin, disconcerted when I realize that my shame has remained intact.
The door starts hammering not long after I step out of the steaming bathroom.
“Hawthorne! Ms. Hawthorne!”
Hawthorne? Oh, yeah. Right. That’s me—Naomi Hawthorne.
The door bulges, about to come off its damned hinges.
What the hell is going on out there? Kicking my way into a pair of jeans, I throw on a fresh T-shirt and answer the door, panting from the exertion of trying to wrestle on clothing when still wet.
A short, portly guy stands on the other side, chest heaving, with a gun in his hand. Oh, hell no. Absolutely not. I am not getting shot to death in the bathroom of a Black Talon brothel. I try to slam the door closed again, but the guy jams his foot into the gap.
“Ms. Hawthorne! Please. Come with… me. We need your… help.”
My help? Crap. Zeth did want to beat that guy to death after all.
They must have gotten into it as soon as I left.
I let go of the door, shoving past the short guy.
“Okay, where is he? Show me.” He’s probably killed that Cade guy by now.
I don’t know why they think I can stop him from fighting.
Ironic, how he’s been telling me we need to keep our heads down, and now he’s—
Outside, the morning sun bakes the courtyard flagstones, making the air dance.
I stop dead, trying to piece together what I’m seeing.
The girls I met last night are standing in a circle, holding each other and crying, and a man on his knees is performing CPR on a body laid out on the ground.
A woman. White sneakers on her feet. Faded blue jeans.
Red shirt. No, not red. Her shirt is white; the front of it is just drenched in blood.
The guy performing CPR stops, gasping, looking down at his hands like he doesn’t know what to do, why the girl’s not waking up when he presses down on her chest. Instinct kicks in then.
I sprint across the courtyard and shove him out of the way, not paying any attention to the gasps from the onlookers as he falls sideways.
I drop to my knees and lift the girl’s shirt.
The source of all the blood is instantly visible: a gunshot wound, just below the underwire of her bra.
I roll her toward me, craning over her to check her back—is there an exit wound?
No. No exit wound. Shit. And she’s been shot in the worst place possible.
These days, bullets are designed to shatter inside a body, breaking into pieces to cause maximum damage to internal organs.
And the internal organs close to this wound are the most important ones of them all: the heart and the lungs.
“We need to get her inside. On a table.” I look up to find a dozen strained faces watching my every move.
On the outskirts, I register Michael, lost in the bustle as three men, members of the biker gang that rolled in late last night, hurry forward to get the woman inside.
I still haven’t even ascertained whether she’s alive.
I hold her by the wrist, searching for a pulse as they take her inside.
There. I find it, weak and tachycardic but there, and then—
All my worst nightmares coalesce into one awful moment.
I see the small star-shaped birthmark on the inside of the girl’s wrist. I know that birthmark. It features in nearly every one of my childhood memories. I’d recognize it anywhere.
I never looked at the woman’s face, but I know it’s her.
It’s Alexis.