Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Not ideal, but a hell of a lot better than nothing.
Robin stops with me. Her hair is loose and tangled around her face, her dark eyes wide open. Fear is there, yes, but also anger. Stubbornness. That same fire that made her talk back to me in the cell.
She should look broken. She doesn’t. And I shouldn’t be thankful for that, but I am.
“Stay close,” I say.
She nods. We climb the wall. I go first and then reach down for her. She grips my forearms, and I lift more than she jumps, pulling her over and setting her down as quietly as I can.
She winces when her bare feet hit asphalt.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“I’ll survive. I’ve gotten this far.”
I move toward the closest car, an old sedan. Nothing flashy. Exactly what we need. I check the area once more. No movement behind the building. No cameras obvious enough to worry about, though that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.
I pull a small blade from my pocket and work it into the door. Not my cleanest entry, but clean doesn’t matter right now. Fast does. The lock gives after a few seconds, and I open the door without letting the interior light spill too long.
“Get in,” I say.
She climbs into the passenger seat.
For a moment, I let myself look at her in the car. Just sitting there. Alive, furious, scared, and beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with soft lighting or pretty clothes.
Get your head on straight, Cruz.
I slam the door and move to the driver’s side.
Inside, the car smells like stale coffee and cracked vinyl. I crawl beneath the driver’s seat and get to work. Hotwiring a car is a skill I picked up in my teen years. I learned how to do it just for fun. I practiced on an old vehicle of Señora V’s. It doesn’t take long before the engine coughs and then catches.
I put the car in gear. “Seat belt.”
She obeys.
I pull out of the lot with the lights off until we hit the road and then flick them on. I keep my speed controlled. Not too fast. Not suspicious. Every instinct in my body screams at me to floor it, but I stay in control.
Robin twists to look out the back window.
“Do you see anyone?” I ask.
“No.”
“Keep checking.”
“I will.”
I grit my teeth. “You okay?”
She scoffs. “Great. I love dungeons, kidnappings, sexual harassment, and grand theft auto.”
“Robin.”
She turns her head. Looks at me. “I’m not okay,” she says quietly. “But I’m not back there, and we’re moving, so I’m better than I was.” She combs her hands through her hair, runs them down her face. “I’ll pay them back.”
“What?”
“The owner of the car.”
I squint at her. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”
“Yes.”
“We’re fleeing for our lives.”
“I’m multitasking.”
I huff out something that almost passes for a laugh.
She lifts her chin. “When I get home, I’ll figure out who owns it. I’ll make sure they’re compensated. Handsomely.”
“Handsomer than a stolen sedan?”
“Very.”
“Assuming we don’t dump it in a ditch and light it on fire.”
She gasps.
“Joke,” I say.
“Was it?”
I blink. “No.”
I think of the way she looked at me when she realized Zabala might have caught us. Her fingers crushing mine. The trust there, even under suspicion. Even when she had every reason to think I lied.
I don’t deserve that trust.
I take another turn.
Then another.
The road narrows as we leave the thicker streets behind. Houses appear farther apart now, set back behind walls and iron gates, some dark, some glowing with warm light.
A brothel isn’t a perfect destination for a woman under threat of being broken for sport. It’s not clean, it’s not innocent, and it’s not free of ghosts. But it has doors that lock. Women who know how to keep secrets. Men who know better than to ask questions if Valentina tells them not to.
The large house appears after another mile. Even in the dead of night, the place looks alive, softened by the exterior lighting and magenta flowers everywhere.
Robin leans forward. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
I park a block away, tucked beneath a tree where the shadows are thick. I kill the engine and sit for a second, listening.
No cars approaching fast. No shouting. No sign we’ve been followed.
At least not yet.
“We walk from here,” I say.
Robin looks down at her bare feet.
I bite my lower lip. “I can carry you.”
Her head snaps up. “No.”
“Your feet—”
“I said no.”
I get out and then come around to her side. She opens the door before I reach it. The street is quiet as we cross it. When we reach the brothel, I climb the front steps and knock.
A minute passes before the lock turns.
Señora Valentina stands in the doorway wrapped in a deep red robe, her dark hair pinned back, her face softer with age. She stares.
Then her face breaks into a smile. “Cruzito.”