Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)(48)

When I’m told this, by Farren, I shudder at the thought of what Haven must have endured. Cold, damp places? Ugh. Where were Eric and Vincent keeping my friend as they traveled from state to state with her? I ask Farren that exact question but get no answer.

I don’t press, and as we stay on at the Blue Cactus Inn, Farren begins to grow quieter and quieter. He withdraws into himself. I know he has a lot on his mind, so I try to be understanding. And even though he’s not as talkative as usual, I enjoy being around him nonetheless. Farren comforts me in a way no one else ever has, and, as a consequence, I’ve grown quite reliant on his presence.

Best not to dwell on exactly what that might mean.

The afternoon that we hear from Rick that Haven will soon be well enough to travel, Farren says to me, “How do you feel about driving out to the desert today?”

“Aren’t we already in the middle of the desert?” I deadpan as I gesture to the window in our motel room.

Farren, standing near the bathroom door, levels me with a not-amused expression. “What I meant was I think we should drive to someplace more desolate. An area with less people.”

Hey, we’re in almost desolation here at the Blue Cactus Inn, but it’s true there are still people around. Not many, but enough.

I don’t know what Farren has planned, but since we’ve remained local up to this point, I nod once and say, “Sure, sounds good to me.” I’m on the bed, lying on my stomach and casually flipping through a magazine I found in a drawer.

I rise to a seated position and ask, “What exactly are we going to do out in the middle of the desert, Farren?”

He steps over to the bed and sits on the edge. He reaches out and trails a finger along my jaw. “It’s a surprise, sweetheart,” is all he says.

Farren’s surprises have, thus far, proven to be rather amazing, so I’m eager to leave.

“Let’s go, then,” I say as I toss the magazine aside and stand.

Farren turns to grab the car keys from the dresser, and I take a moment to straighten my shorts. I also make a quick adjustment to the bra I’m wearing under a tank top. My bra is black, but my tank is vibrant blue.

When Farren and I step outside the room, he says, “Your shirt matches the sky, Essa.”

“It does,” I reply, laughing as I glance up, down, and then back up. With my eyes still on the clear sky, I add, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how pretty it is here in New Mexico. Does it ever rain?”

“It does,” he tells me, “but not much.”

As we stroll to the car, Farren takes my hand.

Minutes later, we are driving down the road—fast—with hot wind whipping through my hair. On a whim, I ask Farren, “Can I drive on the way back from wherever it is we’re going?”

Farren’s car is beyond sweet, and though he let me drive it the day we picked it up at the warehouse near the state line, I’ve not been behind the wheel since.

“Maybe,” Farren replies, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. “I’ll have to think about it.”

He’s totally giving me a hard time. I know I’ll get to drive the car back to the motel.

“You’re so mean,” I playfully retort. “First, you won’t tell me where we’re going, and now you have to ‘think’ about whether or not I can drive. It’s just cruel, I tell you.”

He laughs and places his hand on my knee. Giving it a light squeeze, he says, “I see your point. I’ll be sure to make it up to you later. How’s that sound?”

His low voice and now-wandering fingers hold promise, leading me to breathe out, “Mmm, that works for me.”

I like that after the past couple of days of sullenness, my flirtatious, fun Farren is reemerging. I tilt my head back and enjoy Farren’s hand on the inside of my thigh, caressing softly as the blazing sun warms me further. And it’s in that exact second I finally admit to myself what I’ve known for a while—I’m starting to fall in love with Farren Shaw.

There’s no point in denying it any longer. Admitting it silently, to my own self only, doesn’t mean I’m ready to share the news with the object of my affection. Farren doesn’t strike me as a man with time for relationships and love. Hell, he already told me he doesn’t come with promises.

I cover his hand with mine, halting any further progression up my leg. That motion earns me a sidelong glance.

“Everything okay?” Farren wants to know.

“Yep, everything is great,” I say. I don’t add what I’m thinking: for now.

We travel a dozen dusty desert roads, making turn after turn. Finally, we slow to an almost-stop and drive—very slowly—off onto a large, flat area of sand and sparse desert vegetation. We stop a few hundred yards in, at a wide clearing where several tall saguaro cacti are lined up in a perfectly straight row. It looks as if someone planted them that way on purpose. But I doubt that was the case. Nature often has a way of giving order to the most random of things.

When I’m out of the car, I take note that many of the cacti are riddled with bullet holes.

“Aha,” I say to Farren, who is leaning into the storage space behind the seats. “We’re here to shoot stuff, aren’t we?”

I’ve been bugging Farren to teach me how to shoot, and it seems a shooting lesson is, indeed, what’s in store for today.