Page 82 of Rider Daddies
I should be scrubbing my hands screaming,Out, damned spot!like a modern Lady Macbeth. Instead, I’m basking in the morning sun like a cat and drinking coffee at my own leisure.
I’m a murderer, but I see my actions as justifiable. Perverted sex traffickers deserve death. Manual should be thanking me that I thrust that knife into his chest and killed him in an instant. I could’ve gone all in and made him repent for his sins in other terrible ways…which is what the brothers would’ve done if they got there first.
If I catch Tristan, I’ll be sure to get more creative with the knife.
The next sip of coffee turns sour on my tongue.
Where the fuck is he? His absence is taunting me, not breaking my heart the way it’s supposed to.
For coaxing me into a relationship and almost a marriage, I’ll chop up his body one limb at a time and make him watch as I send each part through the mincer.
But the chances of that happening are very slim.
Has he gone back to California? To the law firm?
Is he telling all of my ex-colleagues that I killed a guy, making sure to leave out the sex ring part?
I study the sunrise as if it’s gonna magically answer all of my questions. In the motel, Tristan found it hilarious that I thought our relationship was formed because of the sex trafficking.
He was saying it in a way that made it sound like itwasn’tabout the sex trafficking.
But what else could it have been about?
Love?
Pfft.Next question. I don’t exactly have much experience in that department, but there’s nothing romantic about forcing somebody into marriage.
Whatever twisted motives that boy has, I can guarantee they didn’t end when Manual’s life did. If he can spend a full year manipulating me into a relationship, thebastadocan do anything.
Which leads me to think: What if Manual was never the biggest threat?
I turn back to my phone and reread the message from Mamma, imagining her Sicilian lilt.
Me: I’m not sure yet. I’m at a desert retreat having the time of my life.
“Time of your life?!” comes a voice from behind me.
I tuck the phone away, snapping around to look at Ash. “That’s rude.”
“Leave the premises if you want to send a text message without somebody looking over your shoulder.” He looks back down towhere the phone was. “But judging from that message, you don’t want to leave.”
Ash’s eyes are a new kind of blue today, shining in the morning light like two sapphires.
That face, oh my god.
His eye contact is even stronger in the bedroom.
Now that we’ve broken the tension, I’m seeing him in a different light. I know him more.
Last night, his weathered hands were on a voyage around my body, exploring every inch of my skin. I felt small, but in a good way. Protected.
That’s the funny thing about sleeping with vigilantes—they make you feel at ease. As long as you’re on the right side of them, you can count on them to protect you.
I step toward him. The sunrise is so yesterday. Now, my attention is on Ash. More specifically, his abs. I see bronzed ripples of muscle peaking through the gown that he hasn’t even bothered to fasten around his waist.
I’m sure he’s done that on purpose, the same way I didn’t wear a bra this morning.
I saw the desperation on their faces last night the second my breasts were on display. All six eyes were on my hard nipples.
