Page 63 of Pocketful of Shame

It wasn't a sweet kiss, or a slow burning one. No, it was a kiss full of teeth and tongue, a kiss full of desperation and gratitude. To be alive. To not be splattered on the diner floor. To be together.

"Thank fucking god!" The overhead light in the freezer came on and I tore my lips away from Sketch's in a rush. "I thought you were dead!" Presley bellowed from the doorway, looking all cut up and frazzled. "As in, deceased, departed, gone from this world, no longer in existence, extinct, but noooo…" He waved a hand around like a deranged lunatic. "You two are fornicating in a freezer full of raw meat– which, FYI, is totally unhygienic considering you're bothbleeding!" He shook his head, causing tiny shards of glass to spill from his curls. "I'm fine, by the way. Thanks for asking. I only got almost fucking shot by a mob of madmen!"

"Glad you're alive, Pres," Sketch replied, his eyes and hands still roaming over me, like he was checking to make sure I was still here.

"Sure you are, Judas," Presley huffed. "No thirty pieces of silver needed for your loyalty, huh? Just a golden pussy. Good to know where your priorities lie."

"Do you wanna stand here and bitch at me, Pres, or do you wanna get the hell out of dodge?" Sketch demanded, squeezing my thighs in a gesture for me to move.

Presley's brows shot up. "Leave the scene of a crime?"

"Or wait around for the cops to show up, identify us, and take her back to Tully House?" Sketch replied hotly. "I know what I'm choosing, Pres, do you?"

I didn’t want to move an inch from Sketch, I never wanted to let him out of my sight again, but I reluctantly climbed off his lap, not wanting to face the police that little bit more. "I'm not going back there," I croaked out, taking Sketch's outstretched hand and letting him help me to my feet. "No way."

"Dammit, Sketch, you're right," Presley groaned, digging his fingers into his temples. "It's such a rare occasion that I'm sporting a migraine."

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sketch

Crossing the state line between Texas and New Mexico, I drove for most of the afternoon before finding another motel to check into a couple of hours south of the city of Santa Fe. This room had two beds – Presley was insistent that we all stay close and I couldn’t agree more. After the day's events, I had no plans on letting either one of them out of my sight.

Even though I knew he was only half serious with the Judas digs, I felt guilty as hell for leaving him to fend for himself back at the diner. My only explanation for my knee-jerk reaction to protect Romi at all costs was exactly that;myknee-jerk reaction. I couldn’t help it and I was fairly certain that if I was put in a similar situation, I would do it all over again.

My world felt altered. All of the revelations that had come to light in such a short span of time, the near-death experience, and Romi’s mouth having been on mine no less than twice today, had fractured my thoughts and left me completely reeling.

He didn’t touch her.

She didn’t sleep with Chris.

They were hunting her.

They wanted to scare her.

What the actual fuck was happening?

Jesus Christ, my emotions were in tatters. I was feeling too damn much, absorbing too much of her pain and fear, just like I always had. It wasn't good for me, but whenever I was near her, my brain checked out and my heart took over.

"I still say that if we can make it to Colorado without being blasted to smithereens, it's worth our while taking a trip to Boulder to see my cousin's half-brother," Presley declared, flopping down on the double bed in the middle of the room. "It's a long shot– no pun intended – but he might be able to help us."

I rolled my eyes and tossed our bags on the twin bed in the opposite corner. "Pres, if you say one more word about your mysterious, resurrected hitman cousin, I'm going to lose my shit." For three damn hours, this was all I'd listened to. "We are not getting mixed up with a crime lord." I curled my lip in disgust. "And especially not one that goes by the nameLucky."

Ripping off my t-shirt, I stalked into the adjoining bathroom and inspected the damage from earlier. I had a few cuts and scrapes on my arms and upper body from the broken glass we crawled through, but any bleeding had long since stopped and none of the cuts were deep enough to require stitches.

Rummaging around in the cabinet under the sink, I withdrew a small first-aid box and flicked it open. Grabbing a pair of tweezers from the box, I plucked several tiny shards of glass from my shoulder before tossing the glass down the drain. Hands trembling, I gripped the sink and stared at the dry blood caked to my chest.

Fuck, that was close.

Without warning, imaginary visuals of my brother's last moments flooded my mind and I flinched. Those men. The guns. The smell of blood and gunfire. The fear of death. Jesus, he must have been so scared.

Nostrils flaring, I bowed my head and tried to gain the composure I needed to not lose my shit right now. "I'm so sorry, brother," I whispered, words barely audible, as I visualized everything Romi had told us about the night in the alleyway. "I wish you would've come to me." Feeling helpless, I shook my head and continued cleaning up, forcing all thoughts of Chris to the back of my mind before I drowned in my grief.

"He's not acrime lord," Presley said when I returned to the bedroom. "He's a semi-retired assassin." Squeezing a chunk of glass from his arm, he tossed it on the nightstand before reaching for the little first-aid pack I had tossed him. "And he's not my cousin. His half-sister Hayden is. Big difference."

"She's the stripper, right?" Romi asked, leaning against the door, arms covered in scratches.

"Hayden? Yeah." He shrugged unapologetically. "Mom's side of the family is a little ghetto."

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