Good. She’s doing as she’s told. I wait for her, no more than ten seconds, and then I’m walking again, around the buttress of a tessellated rock formation that shields the parking area from view. The Humvee’s right where Cade left it when he got back from our little road trip. Alongside the gleaming black beast, a not-so-shit-hot Dodge Charger—blue, rusting wheel arches, a total bomb—has been up on blocks for the past eight weeks. Carnie keeps saying he’s going to fix her up, but so far all he’s done is sit in the driver’s seat and smoke pot for hours on end. If the fucking thing isn’t either souped-up and ready to roll or completely gone by the time we get back, I’m towing it out into the desert and firebombing the fucking thing. I throw the bag into the back of the Hummer, growling under my breath.
“Am I allowed to sit back there?” Sophia asks. Her arms are folded across her body, but she’s not defensive. She’s unsure. I don’t have time to be arguing over stupid shit with her right now, so I just shrug.
“Whatever you need, Miss Daisy.” She goes to sit on the driver’s side in the back and I grab her by the shoulders and forcibly redirect her to the passenger’s side. “I know you’re a pretty smart girl, so stop planning stupid shit.” She’s seen too many action movies. I’m willing to put good money on the fact that she thinks she can try and subdue me from behind while we’re driving or something, and that isn’t gonna happen. Not without one or both of us dying horribly when I flip the damn car. Her look of irritation only proves my suspicions.
I bundle her in the car and hop into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. She stares out of the car window, the muscles in her throat working overtime as she clearly tries to come up with another scheme to get herself out of this situation. I hit the lock button, and all four doors to the vehicle respond instantly, thunking closed. They won’t open until I hit that button again. Sophia gives me a tired roll of her eyes—I see it in the rearview as I speed away from the compound and the rest of the Widow Makers. We’re silent for a long time. Surprisingly, she breaks the silence first.
“How long does it take to get to Alabama?”
“’Bout nineteen hours.” I look in the rearview again and catch the stricken look on her face.
“I am so sick of being trapped in cars. Why do you insist on driving everywhere? It’d probably take a couple of hours on a plane, max.”
She’d fucking love that—me trying to herd her through TSA. Her screaming about my holding her captive. Me getting my ass thrown into jail. I reach behind me, shifting so I can grab my gun from my waistband. “I don’t know of any airlines that will let me take this as carry on,” I tell her, holding up the Glock I stole from my father when I was twenty-four. The night Laura went missing.
Sophia tries not to react, but I see her eyes go wide in the mirror. I’m used to being around guns now. Something feels off if I don’t feel the weight of the Glock at the base of my spine at all times. For Sophia, a weapon like that is something to be afraid of. For me, it’s a necessary accessory that enables me to get through my day without ending up dead.
“You should be careful with that,” Sophia tells me, angling her body so her back’s half turned to me. Looks uncomfortable. I laugh, returning the Glock to my waistband.
“You think I don’t know how to handle a gun?”
“My dad’s an anesthesiologist. He’s sat in on so many surgeries where guys have been shot in the feet. In the thighs. In the junk.” She seems especially pleased with that one. “All because the assholes tuck their piece into their pants like a G. So fucking stupid.”
I’ve heard her curse before, but this time it actually registers—the Widowers have plenty of groupies, women who aren’t exactly what you’d call ladies. The language on some of them could rival any of the club members. It’s not that I think chicks shouldn’t swear, but there’s something about Sophia. It’s just seriously entertaining when she does it.
“What the hell are you grinning about up there?” she snaps. I forget that since I can see her, she can see me in the mirror, too.
“Absolutely nothing. Just enjoying the scenery.” Ironic, since we’re staring at scrub and dirt and not much else for miles.
“You’re just like them, y’know? The men my dad used to come home talking about. Reckless. Selfish. People like you don’t give a shit about anybody else.”
“I might be those things, Soph, but just to set your mind at ease…I’m not stupid enough to blow my own balls off just because I shove my gun down my pants.”
“Oh, I feel so much better knowing that.”
“I’m glad.”
“You’ll excuse me if I choose not to believe you, though. You don’t strike me as the intelligent type.”
“I don’t?”
“You probably didn’t even finish high school.”
The irony of this statement almost has me wheezing. “Oh, sweetheart…”
“I’m not your sweetheart. And don’t call me Soph, either. I don’t like it.”
I hold my hands up. “All right. Whatever you want, One Eighty-One.” She kicks the back of my chair, lashing out hard enough that I actually feel the dig in my back.