With the guilt riding high, I slip off the uncomfortable double bed and silently kneel, pulling the rolled-up hoodie out from under the bed. I’d stashed it under here the moment I pushed my way through the cheap motel door. Marcus had slipped into the bathroom while Roman stayed out front talking to Mick on the phone, and I took my shot. I couldn’t risk them seeing what I’d stolen from the warehouse. If they knew what I was about to do … fuck.
My hand slips inside the fabric of the hoodie, and my stomach twists as my fingers brush over the cold metal of the handcuffs.
They’re legit going to kill me, and Marcus might even enjoy it.
Anxiety pulses through my veins, and I blow my cheeks out in a heavy breath before finally finding the nerves to get back to my feet. I rub the cuffs between my hands, trying to warm the cool metal before leaning over the cramped double bed. I hold my breath, and before I back out like the chicken shit that I am, I hook the cuff over Marcus’ wrist and slowly clamp it shut. The metal jingles, and I swear I could either faint or throw up. I don’t even want to begin to think what Marcus could do in a split second, getting woken and assuming I was an intruder.
I close the cuff around the heavy bed frame before turning my attention on Roman across the room. He’s sprawled out on the couch and a part of me dies. The guy hasn’t slept in a proper bed for at least two weeks. We had ridiculous little beds in the bunker, a couch at his burned down mega-mansion, and nothing but a dirty cell floor at the castle playground. They’re going to need a vacation once they finally get through all of this bullshit … assuming we all get through this alive.
Padding across the shitty motel room, I creep up to Roman and try not to stare. Roman is some kind of super-human, and I don’t doubt that my stare lingering on his face for a moment too long could probably wake him.
I move extra carefully, sweat beginning to coat my skin. I could hurl. Hell, once I get through the door and into the car, maybe I just might. Fuck, I’ve wandered through his bedroom a million times while he’s slept and not woken him, even had nights of tossing and turning right next to him, probably kicked him in the shins a few times too, so why the hell does this time feel so risky?
Reaching his side, I take the cuffs and slowly thread it over his wide wrist, feeling like absolute shit about it. The cuffs aren’t going to hold them back. They’ll probably tear straight through them, and assuming there’s a gun shoved in their pants or below their pillows, they’ll shoot their way out, but it’s enough to get me out of the door.
I frantically search around for something to attach Roman to, but all I’ve got is the lamp bolted to the ground. It won’t bring much of a challenge, but for now, it’s the only chance I’ve got.
Moving toward the door, I glance back at my sleeping soldiers, knowing without a doubt that I’ll be seeing them soon.
Slipping out of the room, I run.
My gaze lingers on the Escalade, and I shake off the thought for the millionth time. Roman and Marcus are going to need it. It has all their weapons and plans. Without it … well, they won’t entirely be fucked. They’re the kind to go into a situation blind and come out looking like gods. They don’t need the car, but it’ll definitely help, and I don’t doubt that there will come a time during my night where I’ll need that help. So, instead, I run for the main road.
There’s a gas station a mile down the street, and by the time I reach it, my heart is pounding. I’m not a runner, but tonight, I’m a fucking track star whether I like it or not.
I hide in the bushes, impatiently waiting. This isn’t exactly my brightest idea to date, but when a girl is desperate, there’s no saying what she might do.
A black Dodge RAM comes hurtling into the gas station and pulls up beside the pump as a grin tears across my face. The guy who falls out of the driver’s seat looks as though he’s on his tenth bourbon for the night, and the desperation in his eyes suggests that maybe some chick just agreed to let him rail her for the whole four seconds that it’ll take for him to come and grunt the wrong name.
Bingo.
I watch, waiting for my chance to strike, and because I’m a classy bitch, I make sure he’s pumped enough gas to get me where I need to go. Minutes pass and the moment he turns his back to his Dodge RAM and heads into the store I pump my fist like a fucking loser and make my move.
I race across the lot doing my best to keep quiet, and as I reach the big truck, I start praying to Taylor Swift that there isn’t a passenger in the cab.
Yanking the door open, I do a quick scan before diving headfirst into the truck. The cab is empty and as my heart races, I frantically bring the seat as far forward as it’ll allow before pressing the push start button and feeling the monster of a truck come alive beneath me.
It’s loud and the whole thing vibrates with power. My head snaps up, watching the guy through the dirty windows. He’s too occupied scanning through rows of condoms and knowing my shot isn’t going to get any better than this, I hit the gas and take off like a bat out of hell.
24
MARCUS
“MOTHERFUCKER!” Roman’s voice booms through the small motel room, and my head snaps up from the pillow, my eyes springing open, ready for any threat. My arm immediately pulls back in a jarring yank, my wrist screaming from a sharp cool metal.
The room is pitch black, and I instantly search for the threat before my gaze flicks back to find my bed empty and my wrist cuffed to the fucking headboard. “FUCK,” I roar, pulling on the cuff, testing its resistance.
“She took off,” Roman spits, standing from the couch.
My hand falls to the sheets beside me, and I curse under my breath, struggling to control the rage pulsing through my veins. “The bed’s cold. She’s long gone.”
A heavy thump sounds from the couch, and I take a moment to look him over, finding him in the same fucked-up situation, only cuffed to the damn lamp. He pulls on the cuff, anger radiating out of him like a fucking tsunami, destroying everything in its path.
“I’m going to fucking kill her,” he spits, turning his gaze away from me to mask the panic in his eyes.
“Get in line,” I spit back, sitting up and turning, trying to find a weakness in the headboard that I can use to my advantage. It’s been too fucking long since I’ve spilled blood, and I’m getting a little antsy. I crave it, need it. It’s my fucking elixir to life, and right now, the thought of spilling Shayne’s is sitting high on my list of priorities.
Fuck her and her bullshit little games. Is this what it feels like to be played? I can’t say I’ve ever let someone pull one over on me like that, never allowed someone close enough to even try. Fucking sneaky brat. Her perky ass is going to be stinging when I’m through with her.