I give a frustrated groan—not too loudly—and then rush into the bathroom. Relief courses through me as I spot my duffle still tucked in the corner, undisturbed.
I grab the bag and dig through for another change of clothes, quickly settling on a pair of ripped jeans and a T-shirt. I take a deep breath and stare into the mirror, cringing at the mess that looks back at me. My hair is all ruffled, and without makeup to hide it, my skin is freakishly pale, except where it’s blotched with dark bruises. I curse again, unable to stop myself, and do my best to quickly fix my hair. Cleaning up further will have to wait until I get something to eat. I’m starving and my mouth is totally dry, reminding me of my long trek to the stadium.
I hesitantly undo the lock and step out of the bathroom. The RV feels strange under my feet as the floor rocks softly, the rumbling engine creating a steady stream of vibrations. I glance out the window and see desert rushing past—sand and rocks, and more sand and more rocks. It seems endless.
New York has never felt farther away.
I shudder and tread down the short hallway leading to the room with the couches. Killer is sitting at the desk in the far corner with a laptop. He’s wearing nerd glasses and squinting at the screen, and the way his wrist expertly flicks around the mouse tells me he’s experienced with computers. Strange. I didn’t think rock stars could be geeks.
Killer doesn’t notice me, and I nervously shuffle my feet as I consider what to do. I could just nonchalantly say, “Hey,” and pretend I belong here. Or I could introduce myself properly, which I never got a chance to do earlier. Although I’m not even sure how I’d do that. Hello, I’m Ali, a random chick who will be stowing away here for a bit. Pleasure to meet you. Sorry I’ve never listened to even a second of your music. Yeah, there’s nothing I can say without being awkward.
Before I can force any words out of my mouth, more vibrations move across the floor, and I look up to find Arrow striding out of the kitchen and toward me. Heat instantly floods my cheeks, and I grit my teeth. Last time I saw Arrow, it was when Jace had flipped me off. Not the most elegant of introductions.
Arrow seems about as happy to see me as I am to see him. He tries to smile, but it comes off as more of a grimace. “Well,” he says, “if it isn’t Jace’s little sailor.”
I’m about to ask him what he means, when I remember my curses from before.
Oh. Right.
“Where’s Jace?” I ask. I try to keep my feet still, but they just keep shuffling, giving away my anxiety. Arrow’s posture remains rigid and unfriendly, and I can’t help noticing that he has quite a bit of muscle. I watch his fists carefully in the corner of my eye as I wait for his reply, unable to stop myself from the habit.
Arrow inclines his head toward the front of the RV. “Jace is taking a shift driving.”
I nod and force in a deep breath. Okay, so I’m stuck with two strangers in a small, isolated room that Jace definitely isn’t in. I can handle this. After all, if Jace is going through all this trouble to help me, it’s not like he’s going to leave me alone with guys who are actually a threat.
I edge toward the couch facing the desk, and Arrow moves toward the one opposite of it. We both sit at the same time, me barely touching the cushions, and Arrow falling back heavily into them. The message is clear:
He belongs here. I don’t.
Killer finally tears his attention from the computer and toward me, spinning his chair away from the desk as he offers me a wide smile. Relief trickles through me, slowing my pounding heart. At least someone is happy to see me.
Killer pushes his glasses up his nose in a practiced way that tells me he’s been wearing them forever, and doesn’t use them just for style. Then he strides over to me and extends his hand. “We haven’t properly met.”
His lips move slightly differently, and I can tell that he has a pretty strong accent. Which just makes him all the more interesting. Now that he’s not hungover, I’m surprised to find that he’s far from shabby looking. I can’t tell what race he is—maybe Asian, maybe African American, maybe both. Whatever he is, he’s drop-dead gorgeous. Not really a handsome type of gorgeous, but a more delicate type, the kind that would make most girls jealous.
“Hi,” I say and hesitantly give him a little wave. But I don’t take his hand. My nerves still feel overloaded with anxiety, and touching people is the last thing I want right now.