Summer
Straightening up my black dress, I take in my reflection in the chipped mirror of this dilapidated hotel, and I get the urge to fuck myself.
Or maybe that’s because my handsome Chocolate Bar Thief hasn’t done it for too long.
Fourteen fucking days of waiting longer than I care to admit, like a misplaced, lonely statue in front of the Hemisfèric, contemplating every plausible and wildly implausible reason Atlas isn’t showing up for me.
I left a spectacular mess when I fled, but a few days of dealing with the fallout of my actions would’ve been enough before he got on the first flight here.
Even if Atlas didn’t kill his father, he still would’ve found a way to come to me.
That’s what I thought, until the days kept slipping one after the other, with neither a sign of him nor any news about one particular death.
But he’ll come. He has to. He loves me.
Those more than two weeks alone gave me time to grieve everything I’ve lost, including the father I knew, and learn to hate the one I didn’t. The liar. The cheat. The coward. The man who was willing to leave his family. The man who invited death into our home.
With enough time on my hands and more than enough sangria in my bloodstream, I figured out a way to punish a dead man—never mention his name again.
Staring through the small window, I watch sunlight fade to none, mentally preparing myself for the night ahead.
Owen—one of Milo’s friends—got me fake IDs for free, and I immediately celebrated the savings by buying extremely overpriced high-heeled beauties the first week I got here.
Raven always says the shoes make the outfit.
Apparently, running for my life is exactly the time to adhere to her wisdom, just so I’d look sexy for Atlas when he comes for me.
I’m so wise when I’m horny. So that and the fact I didn’t grab much money in the first place, nor did I plan on such a prolonged sojourn, and my funds are already an apparition, two nights away from whispering Get out!
from the hotel. That’s how little I have left.
And now I’ll have to resort to other means for a quick cash grab. Means like gambl—
Nope. I’m not even going to think the word, let alone say it. My mom would ghost-slap me if I did.
“Don’t leave things to chance. Never gamble! If you do, you’ve already lost,” I recite my mom’s words.
Yeah, Mom. I know.
She played with chances and read people’s faces. She also counted cards at blackjack, which was never my thing. But live poker, I’m pretty good at.
Everyone has a tell, even those who don’t. The pupils never lie, Maeve.
Mom taught me well enough to know how to play both the game and the players. The most important rule is to always quit while ahead. That’s the hardest one to follow.
Slipping into part of the reason I’m low on cash, I head into the bathroom and grab the burner I obtained with the sole purpose of following the news of Mason’s death being announced.
I scroll through the pictures on my phone—fur and faces, dead and alive, everything I love and miss. How I wish at least Raven were here, but I slipped a note telling her to lie low for a while, just in case. I miss the guys, too. I pause at Atlas’s picture, love and pain mixing as I stare at him.
“Why aren’t you coming for me?” The words crack in half before leaving on a whisper.
The sound of a door opening and closing echoes like it’s coming from inside my room. I know better than to think I have visitors. The paper-thin walls of this hotel make it so I could hear a cockroach tap dancing from a few rooms away. I’ve gotten used to all kinds of noises at any given time.
Turning off the lights behind me, I cross to the bed and grab my bag and jacket, before heading for the door.
I’m dead set on making enough money to switch hotels, because if I hear the dime que me quieres barely-legal-escort-collector and snoring-machine from next door one more time, I swear I’ll scalp him.
No, those girls don’t want you, you creepy old perv. They want your money.
Hand on the door handle, I flip the lights off when a strong grip clamps around my throat from behind.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
My brain goes into overload, forgetting to send signals for me to breathe or for my heart to beat. I’m frozen.
Mason’s alive.
His men found me.
Atlas didn’t protect me?
A shot of adrenaline surges through me, and I drop my belongings, shifting fast enough to land a blow to the throat of a head-to-toe, black-clad, hoodie-covered figure.
That split second is enough for me to rip free from his grip and bolt out the door.
This time, I’m fucking running. I can fight a regular Joe, but the man sent after me for sure isn’t one.
The only thing I have as an advantage against a trained assassin is the element of surprise.
I sprint for the stairs, because this ramshackle elevator, moving at the speed of a crippled tortoise, is useless. And damn, those shoes are comfortable to run in. I bet I could even drag a body in them.
Reaching the ground level, I dart for a door leading to a small secluded parking lot at the back of the hotel. I need a car to get the hell out of here.
There are exactly three vehicles there, and imagine my surprise when getting out of one is the dime que me quieres creep. I neither have the desire to reconsider the first thought that springs to mind, nor the mental restraints to rein in my impulses.
I barrel toward him, screaming—yes, actually screaming—for help in Spanish, not because I need it, but because if I’m perceived as a victim, I won’t be seen as the perpetrator.
A single step away, he tries to reach for me.
I scream out again, forcing my features to contort into terror while my gaze shifts to a blank point in the space behind him, fooling him into believing someone’s there.
That’s when I grab his grizzled, thinning hair, slamming his face against the car roof.
The creep groans in pain, and blood trickles down his nose, but he doesn’t pass out from that first hit.
Another hit. Another groan. But he’s still conscious.
Oh, come on! I don’t have all night. Smashing his face against the surface of his car yet again, a voice cuts through the night. Hoarse. Familiar. Uttering my name.
A name.
My fake name.
My previous fake name.
Whatever.
“Summer?”