Page 368 of The First Taste
I jog the couple of steps to where Persephone stands, breathing hard. I grab her hand and turn toward the back of the lot, where I know there is another fence.
And then I begin to run.
Hades
We slip away into the sultry Spanish night, our cheeks red with exertion, our panicked pulses racing as we head down Valencia’s winding, hilly streets. I clench Persephone's hand in my fist as I hurry her along, trying to glance in the windows of shops to check if we are being followed. She keeps casting fervent glances over her shoulder as we come down onto the broad sweep of highway that stretches along the beach from one end of the city to the other.
“Raise yer hand,” I say, nudging her. “Hail one of these taxis.”
She pins me with a desperate look and pulls free from my touch. She flags down a cab, leaning down to talk to the first driver that stops for us.
I pull her back. “No. Never go with the first one when ye are on the run.” I make a puzzled face and wave the taxi on. Once the car pulls off with a screech of tires, I urge her to raise her hand again.
“I really never wanted to know how to evade people like this.” She flags another car down, a haunted look crossing her fatigued expression.
“And yet, I’m going to do my best to save yer fucking life,” I say, eyeing her with a sick sense of mirth.
She presses her fingers against the bridge of her nose for a moment, highlighting the dark shadows beneath her eyes.
She doesn’t say it aloud, but I have the distinct impression that she blames me for being dragged out of not only her bed tonight but of her entire life, generally. Which isn’t completely fair, but there is no time to debate who did what to whom, not just now.
We take a taxi in the wrong direction for about ten miles. I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Eros.
Villa was attacked. Made it out okay. Going underground. Wait for word from me.
I leave the SIM card in the phone and wedge the whole thing behind the gray plush of the seat. For anybody really searching for us, the phone will be a red herring, driving all over the city in circles.
It’s probably not much of a distraction but I had to get rid of the phone anyway. Better do something with it that someone may take the time to chase down rather than just throwing the phone out.
We get out, tipping the driver, and hail another taxi to the ferry terminal. Persephone blinks as I pay the driver, climbing out to look at the large ferry boat. She waits until we are alone before she asks me any questions, though.
“We’re crossing the water?” she guesses.
“Aye,” I say. I peel off a few hundred euros and push her toward the terminal. “I’ll get the tickets. Ye take this money and get us both a change of clothes in the gift shop. We want to blend in with the tourists for a time.”
She nods, her brow furrowing as she walks toward the neon colored Ibiza t-shirts. I watch her for a moment, wondering if I should trust her. She scuttles along, her dark head bowed, her arms wrapped around herself. After all, I did just hand her cash and send her on an errand.
I suppose I will just have to trust her. So far as I trust any woman, which is not very damned much. It would be a lie to say that I wasn’t expecting her to disappear as soon as I take my eyes off of her for a few minutes.
When I return from the ticketing booth, though, Persephone is standing in the middle of the open terminal. She’s still wearing her own clothes, but she has a bulging tote bag full of items from the gift shop.
I jerk my head toward the unisex bathrooms. “Come on. We have to get rid of everything.”
She screws up her face, looking at me. “What do you mean?”
I catch her elbow and steer her into one of the cramped, metallic bathrooms. “Everything that yer wearing right now goes into the trash. And I do mean everything.”
Her brows rise delicately. “Even my panties?”
I shoot her a look, locking the bathroom door and beckoning for the bag. “What did ye get?”
She sets down the bag and shows me her haul, day-glow colored t-shirts with Ibiza on the pockets, odd khaki-colored shorts, two tie-dyed Ibiza hoodies. I’m glad to find sunglasses and sandals in the bottom of the tote bag.
“Strip,” I tell her pointedly. I start unbuttoning my dress shirt, feeling a little strange. It’s not often I am naked in front of other people.
Not to mention a woman like Persephone, who could easily be a fucking runway model in Paris if her life had played out slightly differently. But I rip off my shirt and unzip my slacks, pushing away the material as if I have nothing to hide. And really, I don’t, except that I am very careful to keep my back facing the wall.
I don’t need Persephone getting a good, long look at my ravaged skin. I know she has seen it before. Touched it, even. But my walls are up just now and I don’t need Persephone ripping through them with a tiny, tossed off comment.
