Forsaken (The Secret Life of Amy Bensen #3)(25)

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned,” I reply, “it’s that life is rarely fair. And death is the biggest bitch of all.” I reach down and untie her hands. “Stay here.” I walk out of the bathroom, setting the gun on the nightstand before grabbing all the bags with her things in them and returning to set them all on the floor in front of her.

“Chad—”

“There’s no window in the shower. The bathroom’s all yours. Make it quick, and be ready to leave suddenly if we have to.” I back out of the room and shut the door. Needing space. Needing to think and figure out what to do about her and with her.

Leaning against the wall, I close my eyes, one clear certainty in my mind: Gia’s the newest addition to the list of people I f*cked over when I made a deal with the devil and found that cylinder. I shut my eyes against the sound of a soft, muffled sob from inside the bathroom, as if Gia’s covered her mouth to try to hide any sign of weakness. But she’s not weak. She’s strong. The tears are a part of the process of acceptance she has to go through to survive, but they come with pain, and her pain cuts me. God, how it cuts me, carving out what’s left of my soul and leaving me to bleed the only thing I have left: vengeance. Sheridan knows I’m alive. He knows Amy’s alive. I’m not starting another hide-and-seek session with this man. This is war, and it’s going to be nasty—bloody too, if that’s what it takes to end this. After six years, I know there’s no other option with Sheridan.

The shower comes on and it hits me that I am standing around in a towel, a dangerous way to be when we need to be ready to leave at any moment. I quickly dress in faded jeans and a black Coca-Cola T-shirt the kid at Walmart picked out for me. Tomorrow we’ll be able to tap into my many resources. Gia will have a proper fake ID, and we’ll be staying in a much nicer hotel room that includes two beds, not one to share—tonight is going to be interesting.

The shower turns off and I sit down on the bed, setting the alarm on my phone for five hours from now. As much as I want to get to Denver and Amy, my body is going to force me to sleep, and I can’t risk making stupid mistakes out of exhaustion. The wall-mounted blow dryer in the bathroom turns on and I grab the phone book, looking for the closest car dealer and typing the address into my phone. By the time I’m done and leaning against the headboard, my booted ankles crossed on the mattress, the bathroom door opens and Gia appears.

She’s dressed in a simple black sleeveless dress, and her dark brown hair has been dried straight and sleek, falling around her slender shoulders. Her face is clean of blood and mascara, her skin pale and beautiful, a hint of pink on her lips that she must have found in the Walmart stock, but her eyes are bloodshot, the look in them tentative, perhaps tormented.

Fidgeting, she runs her hands down her hips. “The bags actually had some makeup and a few hair products. I was shocked.”

“Nothing I’m sure you’d pick on your own.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she says, clearly meaning to fill the awkward space, but still I get the impression she isn’t cowering from our obviously difficult sleeping arrangements. She’s tough, and yet somehow still feminine.

“Twenty-four hours from now you can shop for yourself, and we won’t be sharing a lumpy bed.”

“Where will we be in twenty-four hours?”

“You know I’m not going to tell you that.” I scoot over and pat the bed. “Come here.”

Her brows lift. “Right there. To that spot.”

“That’s right. To this spot.”

“Will it do me any good to argue?”

“You either get me up close and personal, or you get tied up again. I don’t want to do that to you.”

She inhales and walks toward me, tentatively sitting down on the bed. Before she even fully settles, I grab her and lay us both down, curling around her, one of my legs wrapped around hers. My arm comes down over the top of her and I scoot in closer, molding our bodies together so well that if she moves a muscle, I’ll know.

“Go to sleep,” I order near her ear, her freshly washed hair a silky tease against my cheek.

“The light is on.”

“The sun is coming up anyway.”

She’s silent a beat. “Most men would have—”

“Don’t fool yourself, Gia. I’m not a good guy. I never was, and I never will be. Now. Do as I say. Go to sleep.”





SIX



ONE MINUTE I’M LISTENING to Gia’s soft, steady breathing, and the next I’m fading into sleep and with it, the memory of six years ago, in vivid, damning detail, the scent of smoke teasing my nostrils.

I burst through the door of the house, screaming, “Mom! Dad! Lara!” and immediately I’m consumed by smoke, my lungs convulsing in protest. Coughing, eyes burning, I use my shirt to cover my face, fear for my family sending adrenaline shooting through me, making me shake. Sprinting forward, I cross through the kitchen—no fire in sight, and I know that means it’s all on the upper level. Rounding the corner, I reach the bottom of the stairs and see that flames cover the second floor landing. I launch myself up the stairs. “Mom! Dad!”

“Chad! Chad!”

The sound of my mother’s voice is a relief, but the flames that greet me as I turn right toward her voice in the hallway blast me with heat. Panic overwhelms me. I can’t get to her. There are too many flames. “Mom! Mom, you have to go out the window!”