Jackson slows down the car for a sharp turn in the road. “Why’s it a bad thing?”
I scrape at the chipped nail polish on my thumbnail. “I guess it’s not really bad. It’s just not necessarily a compliment.”
Jackson trades an indecipherable look with Wilder, their eyes sparkling with amusement, which makes a hint of uneasiness stir inside me.
Are they making fun of me? Or are they up to something?
With a slight nod of his head, Jackson redirects his attention back on me. “You know what? I think from now on I’m going to call you Cute Girl.”
My lips plummet to a frown.
Jackson chuckles. “Oh, come on. Get that cute, pouty look off your face. I promise, it’s a compliment.” He presses his hand to his chest. “Because I just so happen to think cute is an awesome word, and I don’t throw it around lightly.” He removes his hand from his chest to playfully tug on a strand of my hair. “I only use it when I think something is completely and utterly adorably cute.”
My cheeks flood with heat, but not in a bad way.
Holy glittery, dizziness, I’m not so sure I can hate the word cute when he’s looking at me that way.
Wilder snickers. “And that, Zhara, is how Jackson hurts people in a non-physical way. He charms some poor girl, who takes his flirting as more than what it is. They get attached and then Jackson breaks their hearts when he tells them he’s not looking for a relationship.”
“Hey, I’m not trying to charm her. I’m being completely honest. I think Zhara’s cute.” He faces forward, gripping the wheel with two hands. “And you kind of insulted Zhara by implying that she was some poor girl taking my compliment out of context.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Wilder’s gaze darts to me. “Zhara, I swear that’s not what I meant.”
“I didn’t think you meant it that way.” Honestly, I didn’t. Besides, even if I did, I can tell Wilder didn’t mean anything mean by what he said. “I promise.”
“Good. The last thing I need is to get started out on the wrong foot with you.” Wilder yanks his fingers through his hair as he flops back in the seat. “That’s Xavier’s thing.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jackson grumbles. “He seriously needs to get his head out of his ass, if we’re going to make this work.”
“I know he does… And we need to make this work, if we’re going to…” He trails off as he glances at his phone. “Hold up. Benton just sent me a text.”
“What’s it say?” Jackson asks.
Wilder taps a few buttons on his phone. “He’s saying that we need to keep Zhara away from the apartment for the rest of the day. That there might be a Rogue in the area.”
“Are you fucking shitting me?” Jackson’s grip on the wheel tightens. “We haven’t had a Rogue around here in forever.”
“I know.” Worry fills Wilder’s eyes as he puts his phone into his pocket.
“What’s a Rogue?” I ask.
Wilder rests his arms on his knees. “It’s a spy who’s quit all the organizations and works as a freelancer. And usually they have a vendetta against the organization they used to work for, so they can be dangerous.”
When I start to frown, Wilder brushes his finger along the brim of my nose. “No frowning. You’re safe. I promise.”
I force a smile and Wilder sighs. But then a smile tugs at his lips.
“Jackson turn the radio up,” Wilder says and Jackson complies.
An oldies song plays through the speakers and Wilder begins to sing. He has a nice voice, gravelly, in a sexy way.
“Come on, sing with me,” he encourages. “I know you know this song.”
True. I do know the song. It’s a classic and my dad was really into them. But I’m not much for singing in front of people. However, when Wilder pouts out his lip and says, “Please, pretty please, Zhara, sing with me,” I surrender.
“Oh fine.” I belt out the lyrics with him.
He laughs and sings with me. Jackson joins in, and for the next couple of minutes the three of us sing. I get so lost in having fun that I almost forget why I’m here with them. But then Jackson suddenly stops singing, his fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white.
“Shit.” Jackson cuts our singing off with a string of curses, his gaze darting to the rearview mirror. “We’re being followed.”
Wilder and I both whip around in our seats. Sure enough, a large, black SUV is tailgating the Chevelle.
“How long has it been behind us?” Wilder asks.
Jackson shrugs while changing gears. “I noticed it when we first turned onto the highway, but I didn’t suspect they were following us until I made that last right hand turn.”
“Are you positive they’re following us?” Wilder wonders. “They could just be one of those people with some seriously bad tailgating issues.”
“Maybe.” Jackson sounds doubtful, though, and honestly so does Wilder. “There’s only one way to find out.” He changes gears again and the engine roars. “Zhara, put your seat belt on.”
“I already have it on.” My pulse quickens even more as he slams his foot down on the gas and the car zooms forward, the tires spinning.
Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap, two hours into this and I’m already involved in a car chasing race? What have I gotten myself into?
But underneath the fear, resides a drop of… Well, I’m not really sure what it is, but I definitely don’t hate the feeling.
Holy crap, I’m twisted!
“Not that seat belt,” Jackson says with his eyes trained on the road. The sun has already begun to descend behind the shallow hills, the land shadowed by the greying sky, and he turns on the headlights. “Put on the shoulder straps.”
“The what?” I stare at him stupidly. But since when do cars have shoulder strap seat belts?
“Shit, you have no idea what I’m talking about… I forgot…” Jackson peers in the rearview mirror, his jaw clenching. “Wilder…”
“On it.” Wilder scoots forward in the seat, opens the console, and pounds his hand against a round, red button labeled: For Emergencies Only.
And no, I’m not kidding. Trust me, I’m not that imaginative.
Before I can even freak out over the fact that Wilder pushing the button means I’m currently in whatever they consider an emergency, my seat starts to vibrate. At first I think the seat is going to eject out of the car or something, but then a series of clicks sound off and two shoulder straps pop out from a hidden compartment in the seat.
“See, shoulder straps.” Wilder grins, but his smile goes poof as the car jerks harshly to the right.
We both freeze as Jackson struggles to realign the car, a sequence of very colorful words fleeing from his lips. He just about overcorrects, but manages to regain control before the car skids into the river. Then suddenly everything starts moving in fast motion. Jackson shifts to the highest gear and floors the gas pedal, zooming toward a sharp turn in the road, while Wilder works to put the shoulder straps on me.
“Relax,” Wilder whispers as he clips the last of the buckles into place. “Nothing’s going to happen. Jackson’s the best driver out of all of us. He even races at the track sometimes.”
I appreciate his attempt at trying to get me to calm down, but I have no clue who’s following us or why, and not knowing makes me uneasy. Plus, Jackson’s driving straight towards a turn that nearly does a one-eighty. At the speed we’re going…
I cover my eyes. I don’t even want to watch what’s about to happen. Can’t watch myself die in a car crash, just like my parents.
Guilt begins to crush against my chest as I realize the bigger picture. That if I do die, my siblings are going to have to deal with another death.
What have I done?
“You’re not going to die.” Wilder’s voice breaks through the roar of the engine as he gently pries my hands away from my eyes.
I’m unsure if I accidentally spoke my thoughts aloud again, or if he just senses the cause
of my terror.
“You’re not going to die.” Wilder repeats, fixing his finger underneath my chin to angle my head up. “I promise.”
I may not know him very well, but the intensity in his eyes makes me believe him. Gradually, the tension leaves my body and my pulse slows down a notch.
I’m going to be okay. I’m going to be—
The car gives another harsh jerk as a loud boom echoes through the air.
And just like that, my heart rate skyrockets again. My hands shoot to the shoulder straps, and I hold on for dear life as the ride suddenly gets bumpy, like we’ve veered onto a dirt road.
“Did they just run into us?” Wilder asks, throwing a glance behind us
“Nope.” Jackson sounds as calm as can be as he downshifts.
Puzzlement etches into Wilder’s features. “Then why the heck are you slowing down?”
“Because we blew out a tire.” The smell of burnt rubber floods the cab as Jackson maneuvers the car to the side of the road. Then he shoves the shifter into park, silences the engine, and twists in his seat to face me. “I hate to do this to you Zhara, but we’re going to need you to go undercover.”
I tighten my death grip on the shoulder straps. “Like right now?”
“Yep, like right now.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You’ll be all right. Just follow our lead.” Appearing way too calm, he reaches for the door handle to get out.
I, however, don’t share the feeling.
This so isn’t going to end well.
Sexy… who?
“Hold on a second,” Wilder says before Jackson gets the door open.
Jackson pauses, turning back around. “We don’t have a second. We need to get out and deal with this shit before they get us trapped in the car.”
“I know that.” Wilder’s gaze is all over me, as if searching for something I’m not sure he’s going to find. “Just check your weapons while I work on this.” His head tips to the side as he stares at my shirt.
I resist the urge to cross my arms. Why on earth is he looking at me like I’m a piece of weird art he’s trying to figure out the meaning to?
“You guys carry weapons?” As shocked as I am, my voice comes out strangely even. I don’t know whether it’s because I’m starting to warm up to this crazy world I’ve been thrown into, or if I’m just in shock.
Jackson smirks at me as he reaches down, lifts up his pant leg, and reveals a holster strapped to his ankle. Sticking out of the top of the holster is what looks like the handle of a knife. “Of course we carry weapons, Cute Girl. It’s how we protect ourselves from the big, scary drug lords.” He winks at me and I gape at him.
I can’t believe he’s teasing me right now, after what just happened. No, what I can’t believe is that I’m actually flushing over the flirty smile he’s giving me.
“Most of the guys carry guns,” Jackson continues, his grin growing as more warmth rushes to my face. “But personally, I prefer the simplicity of a knife. It gives me an edge, you know. Plus, it’s harder to detect during pat downs.”
“Quit showing off,” Wilder says, unclicking the straps from my shoulders. “You’re going to scare her more.”
“I’m fine.” And considering the circumstances, I think I am. I mean, for one thing I haven’t jumped out of the car and fled. And for another… Well, that’s all I really have at the moment. “But can you guys at least tell me what’s about to happen? And…” Movement at the back of the car catches my attention. “And can someone tell me who those big dudes are walking up to the car? Do they work undercover too? Or do they work for your drug lord?”
Jackson and Wilder track my gaze and then drop the f-bomb about ten times in a row.
“Those guys don’t work for either,” Jackson says as Wilder starts tousling his fingers through my hair.
When I give Wilder a perplexed look, he either doesn’t see me or ignores me, which leaves me even more lost.
“Then who do they work for?” I ask Jackson, distracted by Wilder tugging on the hem of my white tank top.
Seriously, what is he doing? Because the butterflies in my stomach seem to like it a little too much.
Jackson doesn’t appear the least bit confused about what Wilder’s doing as he casts a glance at the big guys outside, who are now loitering around the back end of the car. “They work for a drug lord a few towns over and let’s just say that their boss and the drug lord we’re working for don’t get along very well.”
I swallow hard. “What’re they going to do to us?”
“Nothing,” Jackson replies without missing a beat. “They’ll more than likely just want to talk. Then we’ll fix the flat tire and get you home.”
“What about the training pit?” I don’t know why that’s my next question. With everything going on, it seems like the last thing I should be worrying about.
Jackson gives me a strange look then glances at Wilder. Wilder pauses from trying to tie a side knot into my shirt and a trace of a smile touches his lips. Jackson presses his lips together, as if fighting back a grin, then focuses back on me.
“If, after this, you still want to go to the training pit, we’ll take you tomorrow, okay?” He brushes his knuckles across my cheekbone, and a pleased grin rises on his lips when my eyelashes flutter. “But right now, we need you to get into character.”
“Character?” My head is a bit dazed from all the touching going on, the drug lords hanging around, and the almost car crash that just occurred.
Is this what their life is like every day? How to they handle it?
“Sexy, Badass Zhara.” Wilder gives up on the side knot and tears off the hem of my shirt.
I wrap my arms around myself as the bottom of my stomach is exposed. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m sorry, but the cute little hearts at the bottom of your shirt had to go—it made you look too sweet. And sweet’s going to stand out with these guys big time.” Wilder tosses the strip of fabric onto the floor and reaches underneath the seat to retrieve a plaid shirt. “This might smell a bit funky, but it’ll help make you look a little more grungy and rebellious and less like a pure and innocent virgin.”
It’s as if someone has doused my cheeks with gasoline and lit a match. “So I’m pretending to be a bad girl then?” If my stammer troubles them, they don’t show it.
Jackson nods. “Later on, we’ll flesh out your new persona a little more and create something you’re more comfortable with. But with these guys, you need to come off as tough and badass as you can. You can still keep the name Zhara, but under no circumstances are you to tell them your last name, okay? And let us do most of the talking.”
I nod, but feel like a big old liar, liar. Still, I tie the plaid shirt around my waist, which doesn’t smell funky, but like Benton’s cologne. Then I try to bury my nerves and play the part of a bad girl who deals with these kinds of situations all the time.
Whether I’ll succeed or not, is beyond me. But I guess I’m about to find out.
Get in the Car
Holy crap, I’ve gotten in way, way, way over my head. That’s the first thought that crosses my mind the moment I step out of the car.
Not only are the three guys standing—or more like looming—at the rear of the car, huge and bulky, but they’re even sketchier looking than Ralpho and Tank. Two of them look in their mid to late twenties with tattoos covering their arms, their hair is cropped short, and brass knuckles cover their hands. And the tallest guy has a hood pulled over his head and sunglasses on, so I can’t see his face. I don’t know why he’d wear all that heavy clothing when it’s like ninety degrees outside, other than maybe he’s hiding weapons underneath his jacket.
“You’re going to be okay,” Wilder utters under his breath as he ducks out of the car and moves up beside me. Then he places a hand on the small of my back and dips his head toward my ear. “We won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
It’s the second time he’s promised me something in
the last five minutes. I just wish I knew if he was the kind of person who carried out his promises. But I don’t know him or Jackson or any of the other Bad Boy Rebels very well. I’m just a girl who was thrown into their world by accident and is now attempting to play fake girlfriend to all six of them.
Wait a second. Am I supposed to be Wilder and Jackson’s girlfriend right now? These aren’t the guys Tank and Ralpho work for. So who am I supposed to be?
Le sigh. Story of my life.
Wilder urges me forward with a gentle push, guiding me toward the back of the car. My heart slams against my chest with each step I take and my legs tremble.
Wilder steadies his hand on my back. “Take a deep breath, Zhara,” he whispers.
I take a subtle, deep breath and then another. Relax, Zhara. Just breathe. Do not freak out or you’ll make the situation worse.
The breathing exercise helps until we reach the back of the car and the giant men focus their attention on us. They eyeball us over before focusing on Jackson approaching them from the other side of the car. Or well, two of the men focus on Jackson. The broadest of the three men, sporting a goatee and leather jacket, keeps his gaze zeroed in on me. The way he’s looking at me, like a hawk ready to strike, causes anxiety to claw underneath my flesh.
Even when Jackson starts speaking with the two other guys, Goatee Guy refuses to avert his gaze off me.
“Who’s the girl?” he asks Wilder, his gaze never wavering from me.
Wilder drapes his arm over my shoulder and he pulls me close to his side. “That’s none of your damn business.”
Goatee guy laughs, the sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. “If I say it’s my business then it’s my business. Now shut your mouth and lets chat.” Then he reaches inside his jacket, and I catch a glimpse of a circular, snake shaped tattoo with a series of symbols in the middle on his wrist. The symbol looks faintly familiar, but why? I have no idea, yet I know I’ve seen it before, like a distant, faded memory pressing against the far back of my mind.
My thoughts are soon distracted from the mark, though, as Goatee Guy opens up his jacket and reveals a glinting, silver object strapped inside a holster.