Plans required money, and I couldn’t even talk Charlie into spotting me a few thousand bucks so I could get the hell out of Nevada. The fact that he refused to do even that much for me, especially after the things I’d overheard—okay, eavesdropped—his mom saying, told me that Charlie had a plan for me. He might show more kindness than Roadkill or the other Black Jacks ever had, but he still held me hostage.
Which wasn’t much better than the Jacks.
But I kept reminding myself of one fact every time those gray eyes tried to fool me into thinking otherwise. Relative kindness was not kindness, another lesson no one told you as a kid.
The lock on the bedroom door turned with a loud click, and it opened slowly. Charlie peered around the door as though he had a surprise. “I got food. Let’s eat.”
“Not hungry,” I snapped, though he should know it by now. When had I ever jumped at his command?
He let out an impatient sigh and pushed the door all the way open.
“Jeezus, Savannah. You need to eat. I got pizza because everyone loves pizza. You’ve barely eaten since Ma was here. It’s been days. You need to eat.”
I shot him a look that conveyed all my pent up fury. Or it would have for any other human who wasn’t dense. Or didn’t have a plan to use me as ransom.
“What part of not hungry is difficult to understand? I’m not hungry and when I am, I’ll tap on the wall, and you can slide a plate under the door, or however they do it in prison.”
“You’re not a prisoner.”
“Sure, I’m not. Just locked in a room that I can’t leave.” I folded my arms and flashed a phony smile. “Sounds like a prison to me.”
Charlie’s lips kicked up into a crooked grin. “Come on, smart ass. Let’s eat.”
Something about that smile made something in me cave. At least for the pizza. I kicked my feet over the edge of the bed and said, “Fine. I’ll eat.” But I refused to show any enthusiasm.
The kitchen was better than being stuck in the guest room, and brighter than the living room. Jana told me Charlie had installed blackout shades on the bottom floor to keep unwanted eyes from peering inside when he wasn’t home. They’d been closed the day I arrived.
My slices waited on my plate while I watched Charlie inhale four or five slices of pizza. He’d put two plates on the table on either side of the pizza and a box of wings. Tall glasses stood next to bottles of soda, and a stack of napkins sat in the middle of the table.
“I’ll definitely take that root beer,” I said. I didn’t have much of an appetite, but the sugary soda calories took the edge off.
“Good girl,” he said softly and tossed a slice on my plate, careful not to make a big deal about it when I took a reluctant bite. It reminded me that yeah, my appetite was returning.
“How are you feeling?” he asked around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni.
“Better than yesterday but not one hundred percent.” It was my problem, and I’d deal with it myself.
Charlie fell silent while he demolished two slices back-to-back. “It’ll get better.”
I nodded because that was one of those comments that didn’t really demand a response. It was just something people said to make themselves feel better about your predicament.
“How did you end up with the Jacks?” Now he looked at me with interest.
I downed my glass of root beer while I considered how much I wanted to reveal. “Ran away from those Ashby pricks and right into the arms of the Black Jacks.” Now we were getting into what he really wanted to know.
“And?”
“And what, Charlie? I don’t have any intel to pass on to you, because as you know, I wasn’t there as a representative of the Rhymer family.”
“I know,” he sighed. “But anything you do know might help me keep you out of harm’s way.”
“You mean it might help you protect your MC, right?” He looked blindsided by my words. “You ask what you need to know, and I’ll decide if I can answer or not, but you don’t need to pretend you want to know to help me. Okay?”
He fingered his glass, leaving a trail of fingerprints on the condensation coating it like a fog. “It’s true, though,” he said quietly. “I do want to help you.” His words combined with that beautiful face had probably tricked more than a few girls into bad decisions, but not this one.
“Right,” I said. That sharp answer should let him know I wasn’t the pushover he seemed to think I was.
The corners of his lips tipped up into a bemused grin. “Okay. How many Jacks are there?”
“Don’t know. I mostly dealt with Roadkill who handles drugs and Blade, who’s the president and oversees the girls and the fucking operation.”