So much grief.
Jake and I ran, becoming a part of the shifting shapes of the darkness. He got us out of Denver, out of Colorado. He had thought ahead, had made detailed plans for us, and I followed, grateful he’d taken on that burden.
I was burnt from the inside out.
We ended up heading for Utah in the back of a truck crammed with fertilizer.
“We’re never going back,” Jake muttered. His head sank onto his knees, his body shuddering.
Poor kid. All that adrenaline had finally run its course, and all that blood and gore had shaken him up. He’d never killed anyone before this.
I leaned my head back against a crate, the stench of manure unbearable.
“Thank you,” I whispered into the shadows between us.
I couldn’t remember when I’d last said those words, and I meant them now. It was a relief, it was the truth. He could have called me insane and taken off, but he hadn’t. Jake had seen this through with me. He’d had my back. No one had had my back for such a long time.
A long, long time.
“You don’t have to thank me.” Jake wiped at his eyes. “That felt good. Freaked me the fuck out, but it was good.” He sat up straight. “You know shit. You know shit I want to learn, and you’re going to teach me. ’Cause that’s the only way from here on in. The only way.”
I raised my head and was met with hard eyes. Eyes blazing with determination.
What had burned me, had lit him on fire.
What had drained me, had breathed new life into him.
Ah, here were demons. But were his real or were they ghosts?
“You sure? That’s what you want?” I asked.
“That’s what I want.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, good.” He grinned. Brittle hope and brutal confidence.
“You ever used a gun before today?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Well, you got good aim. Got a bright future ahead of you.”
He laughed.
I got him to tell me his whole fucking story, and I told him mine. Oh, his demons were real, all right. Real and bloody and unavenged.
But my fight was done.
He leaned forward. “Plenty of places for us to go. Plenty. We’ll change our names, too.”
“Jake, I—”
“I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry about a thing. You’ve been through enough lately.” He reached out a hand, wrapped it around my neck and squeezed. “We’re in this together now.”
Jake was a believer in a better day, a blacker one, but it would be a day of our own making. That was something I could believe in, that was something I could hold onto.
He lifted his chin. “You and me, Santiago.”
“You and me.”
A new fucking era was born for Jake Pence and Santiago Arana that night in the back of a foul smelling truck hurtling down I-70.
“Never goin’ back,” I murmured.
“Never,” he agreed. “And never letting anybody have that power over us again.”
Yeah, never sounded real good.
Never was a plan.
I weaved through the traffic in downtown Denver and willed those bitter images away from my vision.
That tingling numbness just beyond the scar tissue flared across my middle, reminding me of my willingness to believe over and over again. I had known it was tempting fate to have something good for myself, to have Jill. The gods of vengeance were angry at my arrogance.
At least, Alejandro Calderone was.
I steadied myself on the memory of making love to Jill last night and this morning. On the fragrance of my scented oil that she’d dabbed on her chest before we’d finally fallen asleep. On Becca’s voice piping up across the hallway in the darkness—a soft babble of words, non-words, and sighs that filled my empty house.
My chest swelled.
I had achieved what I had always known I shouldn’t, what Alejandro would never allow.
The last time Alejandro and I had spoken was a few weeks after Dig and I had left Denver. I had made the mistake of calling Julio, and Alejandro had answered his phone.
His voice had smoldered over the line. “You killed my brother and now she lost my baby, you motherfucker. I will never allow you to have what you’ve taken away from me. Never. That’s a promise.”
Yes, never.
And never was today.
I BELIEVED THAT HATE remains buried in our marrow. Does it ever soften? Does its power over us fade? Maybe. Maybe if you were able to forgive.
The glacial dark eyes of Alejandro Calderone told me different. His was a hate born of passion, full of fire.
A security guard had patted me down in the private elevator up to his penthouse high above Denver. The ceiling had to be over twenty feet high. The floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living and dining rooms, offering a massive view of the city and the mountains beyond. Artwork crowded the walls, furniture and carpeting stifled the space.
He stared at me standing in his royal domain. He was pleased to see me. He was pleased with himself.