Storm (Sex and Bullets 1)

Chapter Seventeen

STORM

I have the driver drop us off at the first decent hotel I lay eyes on and tell him to drive back without us. I also tell him not to give our location to anyone. Hell, his pay is so good I have to hope he’ll do as I say, but experience tells me I shouldn’t hold my breath.

Trust no one, that’s what my uncle taught me, and I hate to admit it, but he was right.

Except when it comes to Raylin. Everything changes when it comes to her. The laws of physics and the universe go out the window.

I’m that fucked. No wonder both Rook and Hawk seemed uneasy with my actions. It’s not every day I vanish into thin air for months, then return with an unknown girl who also just happens to be a ticking bomb for a triad.

Yeah. No wonder my friends are pissed as all hell with me.

Sucks to be them right now, stuck with a friend like me, but I can’t find any trace of regret in me. Especially when she looks up at me as we walk up to the front desk of the hotel, her warm gaze grounding me.

I consider whether I should give a false name, but when the receptionist gives me a broad smile and says “Welcome, Mr. Jordan,” I guess the question is moot.

I don’t think I’ve stayed in this hotel before. Not that it matters.

Raylin’s wide eyes jump from the man to me and back. She hasn’t really grasped it yet, though she will eventually: everyone knows my face. Probably how we were found back in Boca Raton. The gardener or a passerby saw me, recognized me and ran to sell the story to the newspapers.

Happens all the time. When I ran, three years back, I grew a beard and wore a hoodie or a baseball cap—or both—to hide who I was. Then I realized a good disguise is ninety percent attitude, so I changed the way I talked, and the way I walked, and suddenly I was someone else.

Storm. Definitely not Troy.

The hotel manager appears through a glass door, rubbing his hands together in glee. “Mr. Jordan, what an honor,” he gushes. “You will of course have the white suite.”

He waves an imperial hand at the receptionist who prepares two key cards for us immediately. I’d laugh if my insides weren’t a knot of nerves.

“Anything you need,” the manager croons, “we’re here for you. And may I say you look fine, Mr. Jordan. So pleased to welcome you back home.”

Home.

Hiding a wince, I take the cards and nod. I wonder if my name’s on the news yet in connection to the ‘accident’ that landed Rook in the hospital. I wonder if as soon as the elevator doors close behind us, the manager will turn to the receptionist and tell him to call a reporter, let them know I’m here.

Christ. I didn’t miss this shit. At all.

The elevator opens directly into the suite, like it does to my penthouse apartment. Shit, the apartment. I wonder if the cleaning crew fixed and cleaned everything.

As if it makes any difference. As if I’m ever going back there without reliving the moment of the explosion and the shard slicing into me.

The wound on my back gives a sympathetic twinge.

“Oh my God.” Raylin walks into the suite, lifting her hands in the air. “Oh my fucking God. This is awesome.”

Is it?

I glance around the place. White furniture, white carpets, white walls with pale gray photos in—wait for it—white frames.

Ah. The White Suite. How imaginative.

“It’s not bad,” I concede, stripping off the jacket of my dark suit and throwing it on the white sofa. It lands among white cushions.

Jesus.

“Not bad?” Raylin turns in a circle, that pretty mouth hanging open

. “Not bad?”