No one knows.
Not even his wife and three picture-perfect kids.
But me? I sold him two pounds of cocaine when he was on a business trip to San Francisco and cut his price by sixty percent under the condition that he would owe me. Big time. It’s time to cash in on his debt.
It’s time for everyone to cash in on their debts.
We meet Bryan behind a kosher bakery on Fairfax Avenue. I’m wolfing down a chocolate babka, taking long sips from my Americano and watching Bryan and Nate through my big dark shades. I hand Bryan our pictures with chocolate-covered fingertips and he tells us that by tomorrow at noon, we will both have passports under different names.
Nate Vela will die, and from the ashes of his cursed name, a phoenix named Christopher Delaware will rise.
As for Prescott Burlington-Smyth—If you thought my parents burdened me with an unfortunate last name, you’d be surprised, because the only name Bryan managed to snag that fits my physical profile is Tanaka Cockburn. And while Tanaka is a beautiful name. . .
Cockburn.
Nate sprays his coffee all over Bryan’s white dress shirt when he hears my new name, then proceeds to turn away, walk to the corner of the alleyway, and rest his hands on his knees as his massive back shakes with wild, unrestrained laughter.
“I shouldn’t have to pay for a name like that,” I mutter into my foam cup.
But what Nate doesn’t know is that I’m barely paying for this service. I’m only footing the bill for the actual production of the passports, which sums up to a few hundred bucks.
He doesn’t need to find out that I’m flat broke and won’t be able to help him in any way to cross the border. Fifty grand? I don’t even have five thousand. Hey, don’t judge me. You’d do the same in order to save your life too. Lying to your captor included. And his question about me being a mother? Well, that’s none of his business, either.
Seeing as we have 24 hours to burn in Los Angeles, Nate suggests that we check into a motel and use the time to plan our next move on Godfrey and Sebastian.
I still want him to lust after me, even though I shouldn’t. Seducing him should no longer be part of the plan—I’m already free. But the truth is, I crave him.
Trying to remind myself that he’s a criminal, a killer and a guy who—up until a few hours ago—had every intention of handing me back to my ruthless enemy to be skinned alive and fed to his twisted son, I disconnect our hands and keep to myself until we arrive at our next stop.
We check into a rundown motel in a rough neighborhood downtown. The one-story complex is unevenly painted in baby blue, with pink lettering announcing Palm Spring Apartments. A Mexican pop station greets us when we walk in, its tunes swallowed by a loud portable fan directed at a heavy lady wearing taffy lipstick at the reception desk. Her curly hair has been violently straightened, a flowery dress barely covers her huge cleavage and a coat of sweat mists 100% of her flesh.
“No AC,” I cough into my fist when Nate and I walk in.
“Hey, Dorothy, I don’t think we’re in Blackhawk anymore. Unless you want to waste your money on the f*cking Chateau Marmont. Your call.”
I grimace. At this point, he probably has more in his bank account than I do.
The woman ignores us, despite me punching the bell on her counter several times. When she finally looks up from an erotic paperback, it’s because she sees Nate approaching from behind me. When he rests his elbows on her reception desk, she puffs a cloud of cigarette smoke into his face. Her blue mascara is so clumpy, blinking must be an exercise for her.
She lets out a primal growl. “Well, you’re a treat, aren’t you, gorgeous?”
Am I see-through? Nate and I are clearly together. I’m not sure why I care. He is not my boyfriend and it’s not like he’s going to run away with this middle-aged woman. Besides, the bastard is probably used to it. I haven’t seen him interacting with the outside world yet. I know the man in the darkened basement, the captor who will hurt me if I disobey, but something tells me this isn’t the first time a woman has blurted out something embarrassing in real-life Nate’s direction.
He looks like the reason women buy Pocket Rockets. This probably happens to him all the time.
Nate leans his waist on the counter and flips through a wrinkled travel magazine, chewing his peachy gum, the signature flavor of his mouth. Completely unfazed by the attention he’s drawing.
“We need a room,” he says, ignoring her compliment. “One night. One bed. Paying in cash.”
“No problem, sweetie. Name?” Her pen floats over a page listing the rooms. Almost none of them are highlighted in yellow as occupied. Jesus. This place doesn’t even use computers. I hope there’ll be a lock on the door.
“Baby-Cakes”—he drapes his arm over my shoulder, his mouth invading my cheek with a charged groan—“should we put it under your name? What do you say? Yeah, let’s just put it under your name.” He angles forward and pronounces slowly, “Tanaka C-o-c-k-b-u-r-n. That’s her last name. Cockburn.”
“Shut up.” I swat his arm, barely biting down my laughter.
“Do you need me to spell that for you again?” Nate points at the form the receptionist fills out, and she licks her lips when her gaze moves up to his tattooed fingers. Stone-faced and perfectly composed, he continues, “Cockburn. Like a cock that burns. You know, like an STD side effect.”