Blood to Dust (24 page)

Prescott leans farther down, her hot breath on my cock. I roll my head back and fight to keep my eyes open. Crashing into a traffic light would slow us down, but it would be fucking worth it with her mouth on my dick.

Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of blow jobs. Girls usually suck (no pun intended) at knowing the pace and rhythm that works for me. And Pea’s right, most chicks can’t even get half my cock down their throats, anyway. But this is fucking Prescott Burlington-Smyth. I’d take anything she offered me. Herpes included.

I feel her tongue swirling around my tip, painful desire tensing every muscle in my body. Her mouth is sweltering and her silky locks pale, but dirty like her soul, are all over my lap like a sheet of gold. She hasn’t even sucked me yet, but my balls are already tightening, ready to burst.

“Oh, fuck, Baby-Cakes.” I fist her hair and drag her mouth deeper into my groin, lurching myself up from the seat as far as this fucking car allows me, begging for more contact. My head lolls against the headrest and I’m struggling to draw a steady breath. What is it about this girl that makes me forget how to breathe?

She opens her mouth and takes some of me in a leisured suck, then comes up for air. Then she does it again. And again.

After a few minutes of her licking and nibbling through my length, even I have to admit—she gives terrible head. The California highway is potholed, scarred with the impact of earthquakes and the blistering sun, and the car hits bump after bump. Every time it does and my dick meets the back of her throat, she gags with a ghastly sound. She sometimes moves her jaw from one side to the other.
I can feel her teeth
. It’s like a getting a BJ from a shark. But even though she’s exceptionally untalented at sucking cock, I don’t want her to stop. Her mouth’s on me and that’s enough to make me want to say crazy things to her. Things I’m sure I’m incapable of feeling, anyway.

Ten minutes into the blowjob, Prescott throws in the towel and straightens her posture, eyebrows pinched together. Rage lights up her face.

“You’re not going to come, are you?” Her lips are puffy and bright pink. Just thinking about the fact that they’re swollen because they were wrapped around my cock puts a dark, sinister smile on my face.

“Nope.”

“I thought you said you’re always hot for me.”

“I am.” Is it a good time to tell her she shouldn’t quit her day job as a drug dealer because she sucks like a garbage disposal? “I’m saving my spunk for marriage,” I joke. But she doesn’t laugh. She stares at me seriously, tears pulling at the edge of her eyes. I move my gaze quickly from the road to her face, back to the road. We can’t stop. It’s too dangerous. . .

Fuck it.

I swing onto the shoulder of the freeway, inches from the concrete divider, and lift the handbrake quickly.

“Yo, Pea, what’s up?”

I know she cries. A lot. Over the past few weeks, I saw her pink eyes, the puffy skin beneath her lashes. She cries, but never in front of men. Always alone and in the dark. So why now?

“This is stupid.” She shakes her head, wiping away a tear using the sleeve of my hoodie. Even now, she looks sad, but not helpless. “We need to move. We still have to take pictures for the new IDs.”

“Why are you crying?” I insist. Fuck the fucking pictures.

“It’s stupid, just start the car. We’re running out of time.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

She looks out her window, tapping it with her fingertips, obviously embarrassed.

“I’mscadyo mighsto likee me,” she mumbles.

“What?” I move closer, which rewards me with another hit from her stress ball, right into my groin this time.

“I’m worried you might not like me anymore!” She yells, throwing her arms in the air. “What if you decide to ditch me before we get to Godfrey and Seb, or the minute you get your new passport?”

I take her face in my hands without thinking much of it. The need to touch this girl is overwhelming in a way that fucks up every single working cell in my brain. Carefully, I bring my nose to hers, my lips hovering over her pinks, staring right back at her.

“If you think I’d ever bail on you, you’re out of your beautiful, twisted mind. And if you think just because I didn’t come, I don’t find you attractive anymore, you’re a psycho. Because there’s nowhere I’d rather be than between your legs.
And
if you think that you’re damaged goods because of what those lowlifes did to you, then you’re an idiot. It’s just the opposite, Pea. They built a woman who’s untouchable. So many people have tried, me included. But you’re stronger than anything, which is why we’re sitting in this stupid car right now, chasing freedom. You think I don’t like you?” I breathe into her mouth.

I’m fucking crazy about you.

It’s a depressing realization, not one that I’m willing to admit out loud. But the thing about the truth is, sometimes you don’t need to look for it. Sometimes it finds
you
.

I wouldn’t have killed Godfrey and Sebastian. But she asked for it, and, well, what she asks for, she’ll get. At least from me.

“I do like you,” I finish quietly, not stupid enough to entertain myself with the possibility of giving her the whole truth. “I like you, all right.”

“I like you too.” Her nose brushes back and forth against mine in an Eskimo kiss.

Breathe, assclown. Fucking breathe.

I pull away and look back at the highway while I rev up the engine.

“But I didn’t say I was damaged goods.”

“You think it. Which is even worse. Now, repeat after me: I’m not a victim, I’m a goddamned survivor.”

“I’m not a victim, I’m a goddamn survivor.” She rolls her eyes. I hit the accelerator and speed south, determined to get to our destination before night falls.

“Lift your head up, Baby-Cakes. Don’t let your crown fall. And just for the record, I didn’t come because you were using your teeth like my dick was dental floss. Trust me, I’m so hard for you, the thought of checking into a motel tonight makes my mind work overtime.”

“Who said we’re sharing a room?” she asks with a sly smile.

That’s my Prescott.

“We’re sharing a room. And I’m licking your crack. You owe me one for the Beatmobile and the loss of Stella.”

“Nate Vela, you’re a vile man.”

“And I’m going to violate every hole in your body tonight.”

Great. I cried in front of him.

I’m a crybaby. During my captivity, I made sure I cried when no one saw, because I remember what Camden told me all those years ago.
Never let your enemies see you break. Your indifference disables their victory
. So by the time Beat came for me, my eyes were always dry.

Nate is wrong. I’m not untouchable. I’ve been touched too many times. Each handprint left a scar. It would take years to scrub off the marks and dig out my true self again.

I fall asleep curled into myself, next to him, while he eats up the rest of the journey to Los Angeles at an absurd speed. The minute we hit La La Land, we walk into the first mall we hit, take the passport pictures and get out with our fingers laced together. I’m not sure who makes the first move, it kind of feels like our hands just magnetically connected. The silence between us is comfortable and accepting, and most of all—content. But I’m keeping secrets from him, at least two that’d make him walk away from this arrangement, and I hope to God he doesn’t find out before we split.

Nate has his hoodie over his head to hide the tattoos—although it’s hard to go unnoticed when you’re a six-foot-five pile of muscles and hotness—and I wear my best innocent expression.

It’s time to get down to business.

Is actually a hot shot in the Department of State. Fortyish years old. Neat hairstyle. A real life Walter White, only less relatable. You’d never guess what this suited, respectable man does to make an extra buck. But the extra cash is needed in order to pay for his dark little cocaine addiction.

No one knows.

Not even his wife and three picture-perfect kids.

But me? I sold him two pounds of cocaine when he was on a business trip to San Francisco and cut his price by sixty percent under the condition that he would owe me. Big time. It’s time to cash in on his debt.

It’s time for everyone to cash in on their debts.

We meet Bryan behind a kosher bakery on Fairfax Avenue. I’m wolfing down a chocolate babka, taking long sips from my Americano and watching Bryan and Nate through my big dark shades. I hand Bryan our pictures with chocolate-covered fingertips and he tells us that by tomorrow at noon, we will both have passports under different names.

Nate Vela will die, and from the ashes of his cursed name, a phoenix named Christopher Delaware will rise.

As for Prescott Burlington-Smyth—If you thought my parents burdened me with an unfortunate last name, you’d be surprised, because the only name Bryan managed to snag that fits my physical profile is Tanaka Cockburn. And while Tanaka is a beautiful name. . .

Cockburn.

Nate sprays his coffee all over Bryan’s white dress shirt when he hears my new name, then proceeds to turn away, walk to the corner of the alleyway, and rest his hands on his knees as his massive back shakes with wild, unrestrained laughter.

“I shouldn’t have to pay for a name like that,” I mutter into my foam cup.

But what Nate doesn’t know is that I’m barely paying for this service. I’m only footing the bill for the actual production of the passports, which sums up to a few hundred bucks.

He doesn’t need to find out that I’m flat broke and won’t be able to help him in any way to cross the border. Fifty grand? I don’t even have five thousand. Hey, don’t judge me. You’d do the same in order to save your life too
. Lying to your captor included.
And his question about me being a mother? Well, that’s none of his business, either.

Seeing as we have 24 hours to burn in Los Angeles, Nate suggests that we check into a motel and use the time to plan our next move on Godfrey and Sebastian.

I still want him to lust after me, even though I shouldn’t. Seducing him should no longer be part of the plan—I’m already free. But the truth is, I crave him.

Trying to remind myself that he’s a criminal, a killer and a guy who—up until a few hours ago—had every intention of handing me back to my ruthless enemy to be skinned alive and fed to his twisted son, I disconnect our hands and keep to myself until we arrive at our next stop.

We check into a rundown motel in a rough neighborhood downtown. The one-story complex is unevenly painted in baby blue, with pink lettering announcing
Palm Spring Apartments
. A Mexican pop station greets us when we walk in, its tunes swallowed by a loud portable fan directed at a heavy lady wearing taffy lipstick at the reception desk. Her curly hair has been violently straightened, a flowery dress barely covers her huge cleavage and a coat of sweat mists 100% of her flesh.

“No AC,” I cough into my fist when Nate and I walk in.

“Hey, Dorothy, I don’t think we’re in Blackhawk anymore. Unless you want to waste your money on the fucking Chateau Marmont. Your call.”

I grimace. At this point, he probably has more in his bank account than I do.

The woman ignores us, despite me punching the bell on her counter several times. When she finally looks up from an erotic paperback, it’s because she sees Nate approaching from behind me. When he rests his elbows on her reception desk, she puffs a cloud of cigarette smoke into his face. Her blue mascara is so clumpy, blinking must be an exercise for her.

She lets out a primal growl. “Well, you’re a treat, aren’t you, gorgeous?”

Am I see-through? Nate and I are clearly together. I’m not sure why I care. He is not my boyfriend and it’s not like he’s going to run away with this middle-aged woman. Besides, the bastard is probably used to it. I haven’t seen him interacting with the outside world yet. I know the man in the darkened basement, the captor who will hurt me if I disobey, but something tells me this isn’t the first time a woman has blurted out something embarrassing in real-life Nate’s direction.

He looks like the reason women buy Pocket Rockets. This probably happens to him all the time.

Nate leans his waist on the counter and flips through a wrinkled travel magazine, chewing his peachy gum, the signature flavor of his mouth. Completely unfazed by the attention he’s drawing.