She doesn’t even give the line a chance to ring. As soon as the phone erupts into life, she snatches the handset out of its cradle and snarls into the receiver. “You’ve got some fucking nerve.”
My dad just gives me a blank look. I can’t hear what Zeth’s saying, but from the look on Lowell’s face, it’s pure gold. She turns an intense shade of purple as she storms back and forth, listening to whatever he’s telling her.
“You realize this is just another infraction on your—” Zeth must cut Lowell off, because she halts mid-sentence. Her eyes meet mine, no longer cold but blazing with fury. “Okay. All right. Fine.” She slams down the phone and inhales, pulling in a deep, angry breath. “Alan, it seems you’d better take your daughter back into the city. Now.”
The Humvee smells of piss. Rebel is gonna shit bricks about the accident that’s just taken place, but I’m feeling rather good about things right now. Lowell’s Schnauzer—Ernie, according to his bone-shaped nametag—is sitting on the backseat of the car, panting with his tongue lolling out over very white-looking canine teeth. Lowell definitely strikes me as the sort of asshole who would brush her dog’s teeth.
“She really believed you’d kill her dog?” Michael laughs. I give him a confused look, and his smile evaporates. “Oh, yeah. Of course. You totally would kill her dog, wouldn’t you?”
Ernie looks like he’s smiling at me when I check him out in the rearview. I’m not a monster. I wouldn’t kill a fucking dog just ’cause their owner needs a few lessons in manners. Not unless I really had to.
Michael and I sit in silence, Ernie’s panting the only sound filling the car while we wait outside the bus depot for Sloane to arrive. She knows the drill. One of those motherfuckers will drop her off in the city and she’ll go to catch the bus, heading straight to that god-awful coffee house we originally arranged to meet at. We’re hoping to pick her up before she gets on the bus.
We don’t have to wait long. I’m watching out for a black SUV—predictable much?—but instead I’m greeted with the familiar sight of a certain wood-paneled station wagon that pulls up outside the depot. It’s Sloane’s father’s car, the one we abandoned at Julio’s place. So I was right; the old guy at the mall was her dad. The car parks, and then...nothing happens. We’ve positioned ourselves far enough down the road so as not to be seen, but that also means we can’t really get a clear view of what’s going on. Michael pulls out a set of binoculars and squints through them at the car.
“Is she there?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“What are they doing?”
“The old guy’s talking. Sloane’s staring at the dashboard. She looks pissed.”
I hold my hand out, wanting to lay eyes on her for myself. Michael hands over the binoculars, and then there she is, scowling into space. Pissed doesn’t even come close to describing the expression on her face. Murderous. That’s closer. Sloane nods, and then she’s moving. She climbs out of the car, slamming the door behind her. I toss the binoculars onto the backseat, almost forgetting Ernie’s back there. I jump out of the Hummer, not wanting to lose sight of her. That would be fucking typical, wouldn’t it? Get the girl released, only to lose her through sheer fucking ineptitude as she tries to catch a bus.
Her dad’s still parked outside the depot and is on his cell phone when I slip by his car. He doesn’t see me. Besides, with my hood pulled up, face hidden in shadows, I’m the kind of character a man like Dr. Romera would purposefully try not to make eye contact with. I hurry through the depot, heading straight for stand 458. I hang a left, scanning the vacant depot for signs of life, for signs of Sloane. Another left.
And I walk straight into an extended fist.
“Zeth? What the hell?” Sloane pulls back her hand, shaking it out. My mouth smarts like a bitch. I touch my fingertips to my bottom lip and the blood I find on them surprises me. She hit me in the fucking face. She hit me and she drew fucking blood. I look down at her, and she instantly shrinks back.
“Sorry, I…I thought you were one of Lowell’s guys.”
I stalk toward her, checking to see if there’s anyone around. The place is deserted, which is weird for this time of day but highly fucking convenient. Sloane takes a cautious step back, a look of mild panic on her face. “Zeth, just calm down. It was an accident,” she whispers.
I grab her around the waist and lift her so that her feet are off the floor. She freezes for a second—not entirely sure what to do—but then tries to wriggle free from my grasp. I lunge forward with her, slamming her back up against the announcement board that displays the bus departure times, crushing my body against hers. Next comes my mouth. I take hold of her face in both hands and press my lips against hers. I’m not fighting the urge to be rough with her right now. Instead, I’m making myself be rough. It feels necessary—my relief at seeing her safe and unharmed is enough to make me dizzy. And I want to devour her in some sick way, to press her into myself so the two of us aren’t individual people anymore, but one living, breathing entity, where the threat of separation can never trouble us again. Her skin feels hot underneath my hands. Her heart is slamming in her chest—I can literally feel its pulsing rhythm against my own ribcage. She exhales sharply as I tease her lips apart; I slide my tongue inside her mouth and taste her. She responds, slowly at first, and then something snaps. Her hands are clawing at me, pulling down my hood and fumbling with the zip to my sweater. I want her to take it from me. I want her to take every single last item of clothing from my body and I want to remove hers, too. I want to fuck her until she screams right here and now in the Seattle bus depot.