through the wimp’s face, I think better of it. Can’t risk bleeding on him, just in case this turns into an investigation. A maid finds them, calls the cops, that could go any direction.
My options whir through my head like a cyclone. Best-case scenario: these wannabe thugs wake up and scamper off into the night never to be heard from again. Worst-case scenario: they tell the Savocas about Adri and we’re tracked back to Port St. Mary.
I need to kill them to protect her. It’s the only way.
I press the muzzle of the Glock against the whimpering guy’s temple and my finger tightens on the trigger.
“Oh, God,” he mewls, sounding more like a seven-year-old girl than a man.
I lower the gun as Adri’s plea echoes through the chaos of my mind. Promise me.
Shit.
“Remember who let you live,” I say, flipping my piece and bringing the butt down on the side of his head. The whimpering stops. I unbind the pair and collect every scrap of duct tape, then take one last sweep with the towel of anything that might have my fingerprints, grab my bag, and head back to Adri’s.
In her room, the chairs are straightened out and everything looks pristine except the pale brown stain on the carpet that was once the entire contents of a bottle of Jameson. She hands me the ball of duct tape, and I see she’s cleaned up her cut and the bleeding’s slowing.
I grab her bag off the floor and take her hand. “Call down to the desk and tell them a bottle from the bar broke on the carpet. Tell them you’re going out for a few hours and ask if housekeeping can come clean the carpet while you’re gone.”
She takes a deep breath to steady her nerves before picking up the phone on the desk and relaying the request. “They said they’ll be here shortly,” she says when she hangs up.
I take her shaking hand and tow her out of the room. We take the elevator to the parking garage, and one minute later, we’re rocketing down Lake Shore and out of the city on the Ducati. She holds tight around my waist. Despite our current danger, her thighs hugging my hips, and her body molded against my back lights my fire. I need to hold her, taste her, and know she’s real. But I don’t stop.
“You’re bleeding!” she yells from behind me.
I ignore her and keep driving, but I feel her hand leave my waist and tug at my jacket, where she’s no doubt found a bullet hole. It can’t be that bad or I’d be unconscious by now.
The truth is, I’m thankful for the wind and the road and the rumble of the engine. It clears my head and gives me time to think about what I can possibly say to Adri to explain this.
Four agonizing hours later, we’re across the Missouri border and almost out of gas. We pull into the dirt lot of a roadside motel in the middle of nowhere. I roll my bike around the side, out of sight of the road.
I dismount, help her off the back of the bike, toss the wimp’s gun, the wannabe’s knife, the bloody facecloth, and all the duct tape in the Dumpster. “We should be okay here for the night.”
“You’re hurt,” she says.
Shock and concern are doing battle on her face, but I can tell it’s the shock that’s winning. She’s pale and weaves a little before catching her balance. I hold her by the arms until she does.
“It’s nothing,” I assure her. “Come on.” I pull her to my side and stride into the hotel office.
It’s only an hour short of dawn, so I don’t expect to find the office door unlocked. Apparently, it’s my lucky day. I stride up to the desk, where an old man sits in a wooden chair with his head lolled back, snoring like a jackhammer. I toy for a minute with getting Adri her own room, but I want to keep an eye on her.
Hell, if I’m honest, I want a whole lot more of myself on her than my eye, but I can’t even think about that right now.
“Hello?” I say.
“Didn’t touch her,” the man behind the desk mutters without waking up.
“Hello!” I say louder, jarring the man awake.
His eyes snap wide as he sits up straight and wipes a dirty flannel sleeve across his chin. “What you want?”
I pull a couple bills from my roll and drop them on