Rich Dirty Dangerous (Bad Billionaires 3)

We passed the outskirts of Tuscon, then headed west, avoiding Phoenix. The sun started to come up, making the Sonoran Desert look rose-colored. I had passed through exhausted—and partly drunk—into wired, my brain buzzing, my stomach queasy. McMurphy wasn’t an early riser, especially after a night of partying and screwing, but you never knew. The rising sun could wake him up, or wake one of the other brothers up. Maybe he was kicking what’s-her-name out of his room right now, stumbling home to his apartment.

It was only a matter of time before he opened that apartment door and found me gone.

I pulled my phone from my purse and stared at it. No calls, no texts. My hand was sweaty, almost trembling. I pressed the power button and turned it off.

Cavan saw me, but said nothing. He didn’t talk. He was probably as tired as I was, though he didn’t seem as afraid as I was. He just drove, his eyes on the road. From time to time I found myself slipping into the pleasant lull his company had given me in the tattoo shop, the feeling of peace and safety, and then I’d jerk into fear again, my stomach twisting.

His gray, dark-lashed eyes flicked to the signs passing us on the highway, and then he signaled and exited, the turning of the wheel doing fascinating things to his wrists and forearms. Despite my jangled nerves, I watched.

He’d turned me down; I wasn’t surprised. It was the small hours of the morning, we were on the run from McMurphy, and we’d both just left our lives behind. Besides, my hair was a mess and my eye makeup was smeared. We both smelled like old booze. Fifty Shades of Grey, it wasn’t.

It didn’t make me want him any less.

Sitting in the car with him this long had only confirmed what I’d already suspected: Cavan Wilder’s presence cut through the numbness that had been my companion for nearly seven months. I was awake when I was near him—not just my brain, but my body. Through the exhaustion and the fear, my body felt like it was thawing. I had no idea what I would do if he ever touched me or, God forbid, actually kissed me. A crazy part of me that wasn’t dead yet held out hope that I would find out.

“Why are we exiting?” I asked, coming out of my lust thoughts to see we had left the highway behind.

“We need sleep,” he said, “and to clean up. I’m going to find us a place, but we need to be off the main route.”

“Okay.” I pushed my sluggish thoughts into motion. “Do you need me to use a GPS or something?”

“Not now,” he said, pointing to a sign. Datsun, 10 Miles. “You ever heard of Datsun?”

“No.”

“Me neither. Sounds perfect.”

“It’s a town named after a car,” I observed. I had great powers of thought right now, that was me.

Cavan glanced at me. “You got a problem with that?”

“I guess not.” There were weirder towns in America. In Arizona, even.

“All we need is a motel and some food,” he said. “If Datsun has it, we’re crashing.”

It was going to be a hot day. The chill of night on the desert was already evaporating under the power of the sun. I was getting woozy now, I was so tired. Datsun seemed to have a gas station, a strip mall, another gas station, a few houses, a few stores, and—thank God—a motel. A one-story place that looked like it had had better days, maybe in the seventies. There were no other cars parked in front of it; no other tourists were in Datsun today. Cavan pulled into one of the spots and stopped the car.

“Stay here,” he said to me. “I’ll go in.”

“Why?” I asked, not wanting him to leave me alone.

“Because this is still Black Dog territory,” he said, “and you’re distinctive. I don’t want word getting back to McMurphy before we’ve even cleared the state.”

“Why am I distinctive?” I asked. I had no filter right now. I wanted to know if distinctive was good or bad.

Cavan frowned, looking me up and down impersonally. “The hair,” he said. “The eyes. And you look like you just came from a party.”

I glanced self-consciously down at my half-unbuttoned blouse. “You look like you just came from a party, too,” I argued.

“No, I look like a hungover piece of shit, like any of a thousand other hungover pieces of shit,” he said easily. “The manager’s probably going to think I’m just another Dog driving home from a drug deal. I’ll go ahead and let him think it. But if I have you with me, he’s going to remember.”

I sat back in my seat. “Fine,” I said, reluctantly. The Dogs had a big network, and not just of bikers. They knew a lot of people all the way to the California border, and any one of those people would gladly rat on me. “Go ahead. And you don’t look like shit. You look stupidly good.”

&n

bsp; Cavan laughed, which of course made him look even better. “You’re good for my ego,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He was as good as his word, coming back not ten minutes later with a key, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket. He walked to one of the room doors and opened it, then came to the car and opened the passenger door. “That one’s yours,” he said.