Secret Life Of Amy Bensen: Forsaken Part 4

"I'll do whatever I have to do. You don't seem to get that. If Sheridan is the devil, then I'm his redheaded stepbrother who has been locked away in h.e.l.l for six years. I'm very cranky and very p.i.s.sed off."

"You're not worse than Sheridan, so if you think that scares me, it doesn't."

I turn her back against the wall, flattening her against the hard surface. "You should be scared. Because if I find out you had anything to do with what happened six years ago, I'll kill you."

She swallows hard. "I didn't even know Sheridan six years ago, I swear. If you hate me this much, why would you want me to come with you?"

"Because it's not you I hate. It's him, and you're going to help me take him down."

"You left me at the bus station to die."

"I needed to know if you'd contact him. Now, are you walking, or am I carrying you?"

"I want him to go down, too. You don't have to threaten me to do it, but I'm not his wh.o.r.e, or yours either. Don't treat me like I am, or I swear to you I'll fight you like no one ever has. And the answer to your question is I'm walking."

I give her a look that has to be cynical. It's all I can be anymore, besides p.i.s.sed off. "Then let's walk." I grab her wrist and waste no time leading her out of the bathroom and down the hallway to the hostess stand, where the woman who'd tried to join us in the bathroom is talking to a man in a suit who I a.s.sume to be a manager. "Bathroom's all yours," I say, continuing to the front door and shoving it open.

I pull Gia forward, in front of me, and she glances over her shoulder at them and calls out, "Have a good night."

I snort as we fall into step together on the sidewalk, her strides keeping remarkable pace with mine as we travel to the back of the restaurant. " 'Have a good night'?" I ask. "Really?"

"I didn't want them to call the police and risk Sheridan monitoring the police frequency, which is why you should hold my hand or let me go. Right now, I look like your prisoner."

I stop walking, dragging her in front of me, towering over her by nearly a foot. "You are my prisoner, and you'll stay that way until I'm done with you." I start walking again.

She double-steps to keep pace, and instead of fear in her voice, there is disbelief. " 'Done with me'? Then what? You'll kill me? Or hand me over to Sheridan so he can do it?"

I step over the curb leading to the mall parking lot and she stumbles, forcing me to wrap my arm around her waist and catch her. She is tiny against me, soft and womanly, and I feel a warmth deep in my gut that I do not want to feel. I set her away from me and lead her to the truck, then quickly release her wrist, and it's like ice on fire, a swift, welcome relief.

I yank open the door and motion her forward. She steps toward the cab but then whirls on me, the moon peeking from behind clouds, casting her in a warm glow. "You didn't answer my question," she whispers. "What are you going to do with me whenever you're done with him?"

My hand comes down on the top of the window and I step closer, crowding her. "The same thing I was going to do for you with that fifty thousand dollars, but better."

"You set me up to fail back there."

"I told you. It was a test. Don't stand in the way of me and Sheridan and we won't have any problems."

"Why doesn't that answer make me feel any better?"

"It's the only one you're going to get right now." I motion to the truck cab. "Get in."

"If I say no?"

"You won't."

"I was doing just fine in that bathroom. I had a plan."

"A fifty-thousand-dollar plan won't help you escape Sheridan long term, and we both know you have one of two reasons to hide: Either you really betrayed him, or you let him down when you couldn't f.u.c.k me into stupidity. Either way, you need me. If the latter's true, you'll still try to f.u.c.k me into stupidity."

"I'm not-"

"Save it."

"I'm not his wh.o.r.e, or yours," she hisses. "Maybe if I keep repeating that, you'll get it. You want information from me, and I want a real escape that doesn't get me killed. The end. There's nothing more to this story." She climbs inside the truck, but her words linger in the air. Nothing more to this story. Suddenly, I'm transported back a year in time to the New York subway station where I'd met Meg.

I step off the car, trying to get to Amy's job before she gets off work, keeping her close even if she doesn't know I am. It kills me not to be able to talk to her, but I don't dare. I am poison. I'm the reason she's going through this h.e.l.l in the first place. And she's doing fine. She doesn't seem to need me, but if she ever does, I will not fail her again, the way I did so long ago. The way I did our parents. Sometimes I just need to see her alive and well.

I push through the busy Grand Central crowd, about to exit to the street when a woman tries to go up the stairs at the same time as me. Our shoulders collide and I grab her arm and it's thin, and she is pet.i.te and blond, like my sister, and I have to see her face, but she won't look at me. She murmurs an apology and tries to move away. I hold onto her. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I-" She seems to look at me despite trying not to, the mascara smudged on her cheeks, one eye black. She is small, fragile. Lost. I can't leave her without helping her.

I jerk myself back to the present and blink Gia into view. She won't look at me. But Meg did. She looked me straight in the eyes and lied without a blink, and I never guessed the "more" of her story. After five years of staying off Sheridan's radar, I didn't make mistakes, she became my one and only mistake, and I didn't even love the b.i.t.c.h.

Angry, I slam the door shut and round the truck. I won't be played by another devil in high heels. Once is enough. And I won't start thinking Gia deserves a hero for what she did tonight. Even if she does, there's a reason I've stayed away from my sister. I'm n.o.body's hero.

Inhaling, I climb inside the truck and shut the door, the powerful crackle of Gia's anger a brutal contrast to the soft scent of woman that teases my nostrils with punishing precision. I don't remember Meg ever working me over like this.

I glance in Gia's direction and she stares forward, refusing to look at me, further proving she is not planning to play the wilting flower. Nope. She is not playing the victim like Meg at all. The question remains though, is she a lying b.i.t.c.h like Meg?

Flipping on the overhead light, I lean down to reconnect the wires in the dash when Gia makes a soft sound and says, "You know what's pathetic?" I still, waiting for an answer, not sure what to expect as she adds, "I don't know you or trust you any more than you do me, but I trust you more than anyone else I know right now."

That statement reaches inside me and burns me in places I keep telling myself can't be burned anymore. No one understands what "trust no one" means more than I do. No one. If Gia is telling the truth, if she's ultimately the innocent victim that she's trying not to be in a world she doesn't belong inside of, then maybe, just maybe, I do have a chance to be her hero. The truth shall set me free. And her, too. "Then you're a fool," I tell her, "because even I don't trust me."

FOUR.

"HOW LONG ARE WE GOING to be on the road?" Gia asks about thirty minutes after we hit the highway, the first thing she's said since my warning about trust. But then, I get the feeling she chooses her battles cautiously, which tells me her decisions tonight, no matter what their motivation, weren't made lightly. She knew the magnitude of every choice she made, including getting in this truck with me instead of screaming for help.

I glance at the dash that reads midnight, calculating the drive to our Lubbock destination. "Five hours."

"I can take a shift driving."

I snort. "Not a chance in h.e.l.l."

"There's no way you've had any sleep," she argues, clearly not intimidated by her role as captive.

"Staring at the walls of the interrogation room wasn't exactly exciting."

"Bleeding while tied to a chair doesn't count as sleep."

"I'll sleep when I can actually close my eyes."

"It's not like I'm going to stab you to death with my finger while you sleep and I'm trying to drive this monster of a truck."

I give her an incredulous look. "Are you daring me to kill you?"

"If I was, I'd just let you drive without complaint."

"You do remember me saying you're my prisoner, right?"

"I also remember you saying you need my help. That makes me pretty safe until you don't need me anymore."

"You have big b.a.l.l.s for a woman, but then, I guess that's what it takes to set off a bomb like you did."

"They're called brains, not b.a.l.l.s, as my mother used to love to tell my father."

"No one likes a smarta.s.s," I comment dryly, not missing the past-tense reference, and reluctantly admiring her fearless determination, even if it is irritating as h.e.l.l.

"Then you, Chad, must not have any friends."

"You think I'm a smarta.s.s? Well, f.u.c.k me. I was shooting for a.s.shole, not smarta.s.s. I'll try harder. And I don't keep friends around to stab me in the back. Or prisoners, for that matter."

"Oh, you're an a.s.shole, but from what I overheard when I walked into that warehouse tonight, Sheridan's crew seemed to think you'd taken smarta.s.s to epic proportions while they questioned you. They hated you; they were plotting to cut one of your toes off so the injury wouldn't show. It was the head of the chemistry department who chose the truth serum option. He has a weak stomach."

"I guess I should thank him the next time I see him-right before I kill him."

"Don't bother. He's a bigger a.s.shole than you. And what you said about friends-friends don't stab you in the back. Real friends are family, and you can count on family. They don't let you down."

Until they do, I think, her declaration like acid burning through an open wound, leaving me ready to end this conversation. Reaching behind the seat, I snag the bag I'd given her earlier and set it between us. "Your fifty thousand dollar pillow. Never let it be said I don't know how to treat a lady. Lie down and rest."

"You told me not to trust you," she argues, curling her feet onto the seat toward the door and staring out of the windshield. "So I don't. That means I'll have to make sure you stay awake. We'll just have to talk for four hours. Or five, right?"

"Forget it. We are not talking for five hours."

"Not about anything important, of course," she says, as if I haven't spoken, "since we don't trust each other. How about football? I personally think the Cowboys will never win again until Jerry Jones retires and hands over the leadership to someone else."

I don't do random conversation. It's dangerous. It makes you give away little details, like Gia's past-tense reference to her family-but I have to give it to her. Every male born and raised in Texas has an opinion about the Cowboys, and I fight the ridiculous urge to give her mine now by turning up the radio. A Garth Brooks song, "Friends in Low Places," instantly transports me to Jasmine Heights. To home and family. To a white-painted wooden house, green gra.s.s, and family barbecues. A few lines play in my head and then those images go up in flames, the house on fire, and I am living the part of my history I don't want to relive. The part I'm always reliving.

Shoving away the bitter memories, I force my mind to travel to Egypt, to the archaeological dig site where Lara, because she had been Lara to me then, and I had spent a chunk of our pre-teen and teen years with our parents, learning far more from our explorations with them than our homeschooling. Those had been good times, filled with sibling arguments, lots of laughter, and plenty of shared excitement over historical discoveries. But as easily as I embrace the good times, they always shift into darkness, and soon the images of those days transform into memories of Sheridan meeting my father at that same dig site, before my business with the b.a.s.t.a.r.d overtook my father's.

The music shifts, the station's wild mix delivering every genre under the moon that's nowhere in sight on what has become a cloudy, eternal night. Gia caves to the drugging effect of the road and lies down. Sleep rarely consumes me. Guilt keeps me up and pacing, often running the streets of New York that somehow take me to Amy's apartment-before I had to move her to Denver.

The song "Breakdown" by Seether begins to play, the words seeping deep into my soul, burning. And I'm the one you can never trust/ 'cause wounds are ways to reveal us. The words speak to me on every level. Glancing at Gia, not for the first time since she fell asleep, I stare at her long dark hair draped over the makeshift pillow, trying to figure out why I keep doing it. I didn't stare at Meg. I just f.u.c.ked her. And filled the void of six years alone I'd thought she'd needed filling in her own way as well. Somehow, I'd let a crack in the wall I'd built around me open up and she'd crawled in, like a true wolf in sheep's clothing.

Dialing Jared, I get the same voice mail I'm coming to expect with growing concern. He's the only one left I completely trust, no matter how much I might lead Sheridan and even my fellow treasure hunters at The Underground to believe otherwise. If he's not answering my calls, I have to consider that he might be dead. And if he's dead . . . I can't even think about where this is leading me. I can't lose Amy. I can't. I won't.

Instantly ready to come out of my own skin, I start tapping my left foot up and down, needing out of this truck and out now. Bypa.s.sing a rest stop, I force myself to endure another ten miles, and finally we hit Abilene, Texas, where I get off the highway in hopes of finding a less conventional place to grab supplies and a bathroom, scoring that twenty-four-hour Walmart Gia wanted after all.

At two a.m., there are only a half-dozen other vehicles in the lot, and I pull into a spot to the left of the doors, allowing us a fast departure should it become necessary. I kill the engine and Gia seems to jolt awake, sitting up and blinking, looking stunned and confused. It p.i.s.ses me off. "What happened to not sleeping?" I snap, and before she can possibly process my irritation, I'm out of the truck and opening her door.

"Get out," I order.

"Why are you so angry?" she asks, slipping on her shoes, her hair wild, s.e.xy like she is, and it only serves to add an extra level to my anger. "Did something happen I don't know about?"

"You went to sleep."

"Yes," she agrees, scooting to the edge of the seat to face me, her skirt riding high on her killer legs. "I went to sleep. Oh, G.o.d-did you almost fall asleep? Did you want me to stay awake and talk to you?"

I shackle her arm and physically slide her out of the truck, my arm wrapping around her waist, her soft curves melding to my now very hard, very tense, body. "Your trust does not equal my trust."

Her hand presses to my chest. "Let go. Stop being a b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Stop trusting people you shouldn't trust."

"I don't trust you. You need me. That keeps me safe for now. I told you that frankly and honestly. And why do you care? You think I'm out to get you anyway."

"Because it doesn't matter if I'm right or wrong about your intentions. You're two steps away from death, and I'm one of those steps. That means your fate is in the hands of someone who can't afford to see you as anything but the enemy, which means you are the enemy. And I'm yours. I could have no choice but to kill you. Don't forget that."

"Why? So you don't have to feel guilty if you do? Well, forget it. If you kill me, I'll haunt your a.s.s. You can count on it."

"Ditto, sweetheart. I'll come f.u.c.k you in your sleep." I reach around her to shut the door, when my gaze lands on her hand and the blood trickling down her fingers. Cursing, I grab her wrist.

She tries to tug herself free. "Hands bleed easily. It's nothing."

"I'll be the judge of that," I tell her, hanging onto her as I lean inside the truck, opening the glove box, and scoring a handful of fast-food napkins. "Open your hand," I order, and when she reluctantly complies, I wipe away blood and inspect the deep wound in her hand. "You need st.i.tches that we can't get you right now." I close my hand over hers, forcing her to apply pressure on the napkins and the wound. "Hold it tightly until we get inside and get it cleaned and wrapped."

I shove the door closed and release her hand. "I'm okay," she a.s.sures me. "I'm tough. I won't get an infection and die on you without helping you take down Sheridan. I hate him, too."

I arch a brow at her fiercely spoken proclamation. "Hate him, do you? Good to know. If it's true." I grab her arm and pull her to me. "I'll want details later." Our gazes lock, that spark of attraction that's been with us from the moment we laid eyes on each other ever present.

"He's a greedy monster."

"We both know it's more than that, and you're going to tell me the what, when, where, all of it. But right now, I want in and out of here in fifteen minutes."

"You keep threatening me. What if I try to escape?"

"Run if you want to. Die by Sheridan's hand. Feel free." I turn us to the building and head for the automatic doors, stopping just inside the entryway to scan the store, counting not more than two handfuls of shoppers and staff combined.

"Are you at least going to tell me where we're going?" she asks as I take her uninjured hand in mine and direct us toward the pharmacy.

"You can't repeat what you don't know."

"Kind of like you not being afraid of the lie detector test?" she asks.

"Bait is for stupid fish, sweetheart," I say, stopping at the aisle of first aid supplies. "I'm not one of them." I release her and grab a basket from the end of the aisle, filling it with items she needs to doctor her hand that I hope like h.e.l.l doesn't become an issue.

"I need to know this is all for something," she argues. "I need to know I'm protecting something."

"You proclaimed your hatred of Sheridan," I say, sticking the basket in her uninjured hand. "Destroying him will have to be enough." I glance at her feet and back up. "What size shoe do you wear?"

"Seven."

"And pants?"