Page 89 of Undone

“You and your mother have an hour. Then I’m driving you to the airport. We’ve arranged a private jet for you.”

“Creed, can afford that?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Honey, what in the heck is going on?”

I meet my mother’s caring eyes. She’s sweet, believes the best of everyone, but her advice has never been wrong.

I spill all the secrets I’ve been carrying in my soul. Voice my doubts that Smith and I were ever real. Tell her my fears that if I stay here—I’ll fall under Roque’s dangerously seductive spell…that I hate being summoned back to Springdale like the Club owns me, but that I want to go because it’s also home now.

She pauses, leans back, and sips her tea. “To hell with them all. Find yourself Lucille. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. You’re brave and strong, stubborn too. I know you’re over thirty and all your friends are getting married… some starting families. You’ll have your time for that too. But don’t miss out on today, pining for tomorrow. If you want to go back to Springdale—go. But don’t go for him. Go for you.”

My hands reach out to rest on top of hers, “Thanks, Mom. I needed that.”

“I know honey. I’m always here.”

“I know.”

We finish our meal in silence and hug tight as we say goodbye. I transfer my bags from my rental car into Dare’s sports car. Another man wearing Creed’s cut grins as he escorts my mother into the rental, assuring me he’ll see her safely home and return the car.

“Wait! I recognize you!”

“Mac. My name’s Mac or ‘Toad’ if you prefer.”

“Dev trusts you.”

“She does. You can too.”

My phone goes crazy as Dare drives me to the airport. Pictures of what went down at the diner already went viral.

“Great. Now I’m in a love triangle between you and Roque.”

“My girlfriend is gonna love that.”

“You have a girlfriend?”

“… more like a hook-up. A very frequent hook-up.”

“Uh-huh,” I shake my head as he winks.

My senses are on high alert. I doubt anyone in this remote airport recognizes me, but after my face has been plastered all over social media for the past forty-eight hours—I’m not taking any chances. The cheap, oversized, black plastic sunglasses I picked up at a corner store in Chicago covers half my face. My black beanie is pulled down tight over my unruly blonde hair. It’s grown out since I moved out west, the strands reaching a few inches past my shoulders now.

Flying in a private jet was quite an experience. Rog must’ve set it up because I half-expected Smith to ambush me on the plane.

The heels of my boots click across the plowed asphalt as I enter the parking garage. A tingle between my shoulder blades alerts me.

I was right. Someone is here… watching me.

I quickly open the back door of my Honda and shove my bags inside.

The engine is sluggish and barely turns over.

Great.

I hit the lock button for the third time as I fasten my seatbelt. It could be anyone. Press, Creed, Roque’s mafia men… or him.

I pick up my phone and lower my head, pretending to be reading through texts while my eyes dart right, then left. Every car is empty. But then, headlights snap on behind me.

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