No, he’s more than that.
As soon as I arrived in Vegas and met them at the hotel, my hackles rose at the undercurrent of tension I sensed. The way she fidgeted, her eyes darting to him over and over. The way he didn’t look at her. They’d arrived a few days before me, and I smelled something rotten. Sure, Kian and I had a tumultuous relationship and had broken up a few times, but I always trusted him to be faithful when we were together.
Finding a pair of women’s lacy white underwear under his bed had cemented my suspicions.
Then the awful fight that ensued afterward—the final straw.
“I’m throwing my clothes into my bag as we speak. You’re literally giving me seconds.”
“He’s been with me in the car. I couldn’t call you. I texted.”
I was asleep.
“He can’t focus when it comes to you,” she adds, her tone annoyed. “He needs to be getting ready for next season—”
I hang up on her and turn my phone off. I fly around the room, grabbing candy and water. My hands shake as my head runs in circles, trying to hatch a plan in seconds.
There’s no time to call a taxi or Uber; plus, I don’t want to use my phone until I can delete the app he installed. I could use the one in the room, but there’s no phone book, and I’d need to turn my cell on to find the listing for a taxi company. I could call from the front desk for information, but I wouldn’t have time if they’re just down the road. I could hide in the stairwell or a dark corner, but knowing Kian, he’ll walk every inch of this place. I picture him walking the outskirts of the desert around the motel with the flashlight on his phone. Right now, he’s thinking he’ll get me back by showing how much he cares by sacrificing the wedding to look for me.
Look at me, I’ve traveled hours to get you back in my arms. That underwear was left there on purpose—to break us up.
I’m almost out the door when I spot a set of keys on the desk. For the Lamborghini. G must have left them by accident. I snatch them up, dash out my door, and dart to his. I knock and call out his name.
Mayday. Mayday.
Please. Answer. Let me hide in your room.
“It’s Emmy, G!” I knock rapidly.
My reaction isn’t just about Kian being angry; it’s about my weakness. The man knows how to grovel. He’ll beg my forgiveness, say that he’s sorry for the tracker, that he never touched Missy, that he’s sorry he put his hands on me. He’ll make heartfelt promises with tears in his eyes, and I might just get in his car and go back to Vegas with him.
My heart thunders as a wild idea swirls.
Wait.
Could I “borrow” Lambo’s car?
Gran’s voice dances through my head. If it feels wrong, then it probably is . . .
I pull a notepad from my purse and scribble a barely legible message.
G
I’m in the middle of an emergency! You left your keys in my room, and I borrowed your car. You’ll find it in Tucson at the airport. I’ll leave cash for gas and the keys tucked on one of the tires. Thank you again for helping me. SORRY!!
Emmy
I slip the note under his door and dash down the breezeway.
After taking the stairwell farthest from the main office, I run through the parking lot. I click the fob to the Lamborghini, and the car unlocks. Relief hits as I open the fancy door and slide inside. It looks like a spaceship. And, wow, it smells like him, a spicy masculine scent mixed with rich leather.
I’m trying to figure out how to start it when a black Escalade pulls into the lot. Grunting, I duck down in the seat, recognizing Kian’s rental. He parks in front of the office and gets out.
His jawline tics as he strides to the doors. He’s dressed in black, from his Doc Martens to his expensively ripped shirt. Thick silver rings adorn his fingers as they tap the side of his thigh. I used to think his anger aura was just the result of him being a hot guy with inner demons. Which is true. He is angsty.
My eyes shut to erase images of him holding me when my grandmother passed away, his soft voice telling me he’d take care of the arrangements, that he’d make sure she got the service she deserved. Then there was the wake. While I was a mess, he arranged for a meal to be catered at the apartment and filled it with white calla lilies, her favorite flower. A few months later, I recall him carrying me into the ER, his face torn with anguish. I can still feel the brush of his lips on my forehead, the wetness of his tears—
I push him away. I have to end it. I’m not my mother.
The Lambo’s engine roars to life, and I creep slowly out of the lot, then hit the accelerator as I head toward the airport.
I’m sorry, G.
Chapter 3
GRAHAM
Another day crossed off in my odyssey across the desert. I exhale heavily as déjà vu pricks at me.
I’ve missed something, somewhere.
Was it the encounter with Emmy?
My head circles back to the bruises on her throat, dark spots on either side that looked suspiciously like fingerprints. Sure, she sensed my awareness of them and popped the collar on her shirt, but I saw. Once the initial shock of how we’d “met” had worn off and I focused on her, I sensed the fragileness she held together beneath her bravado. I grimace. Kinda like me.
I almost knocked on her door to see if she wanted to come to dinner but decided I needed to be alone to figure out what’s next on this trip.
The two things I know for sure are this: I’ve seen enough roadkill armadillos to last a lifetime, and this place is lonely as fuck.
Yes, I came out here to be able to drive my car in the desert, but the real idea came from a dream where I saw an endless highway in a barren wasteland. It’s my theory that the images I saw while being “dead” on the field come when I’m asleep, or maybe it’s just my subconscious conjuring up random ideas to compensate for the frustration I feel for not being able to recall them.
Except for that iguana on the motel sign. My intuition said, This, this.
I jerked the wheel and pulled in.
Pain ripples inside my head, and I massage my temples, willing the ache to disappear. I fumble in the pocket of my jeans and tug out my meds and pop one in my mouth. I pick up my coffee and take a hasty sip.
My diagnosis is postconcussive syndrome—headaches and dizziness, two things a football player does not need. It’s not uncommon for players to have them, and they usually resolve in a few months, but mine still linger.
I’m inside the Roller Diner across the street from the motel. Patsy Cline sings from the jukebox. Above me, ceiling fans turn slowly, creating a soft whir over the clang of plates and silverware. The place smells like grease and coffee. I came in and picked out the darkest part of the restaurant to sit.
“Here you go, our special today,” the waitress says in a sugary voice as she places down my honey chicken, rice, and egg rolls.