He gives me a grimace, which is weird because when we lose, he’s our cheerleader.
“W-we lost?” I twitch, anxious to get off the gurney.
He pushes me back down. “You scored, G. We’re champions. I’m not even worried about football. Hey, stop moving. They’re taking you to an ambulance.”
The medics finally get him to move as I rethink the lost look on his face. He was thinking this was it for me. I’ll never play again.
Black and gold confetti, the Pythons’ colors, rains down from the sky as I remember catching the pass, the run, the hit, but the rest is hazy.
I saw something.
Someone.
A hissing sound comes from me as pain ripples in my head; then everything goes black.
Chapter 2
EMMY
A few months later
The hot Arizona sun, a pool, and a beverage. Sounds delightful, but the sun is a volcano, the pool belongs to a shithole place called the Golden Iguana, and my beverage is a tepid bottle of Fiji water. Not to mention, there’s a sketchy scorpion poking its head out at me from the rock garden. I saw one in my bathroom earlier, scurrying over the tile. Screaming bloody murder, I smashed my sneaker on it, then promptly vomited in the toilet. Goodbye, shoes. I can never wear them again, and I may not be able to go back in my bathroom. And if I see one more prancing around like they own this motel, I’m packing my shit and leaving.
There’s one thing that makes me smile: the motel sign has a faded green-and-gold iguana on it, standing upright and grinning as he welcomes you with open arms. He reminds me of that insurance lizard. I’ve named him Darcy.
Welcome to Old Town, a small place outside Tucson in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. A six-hour drive from Vegas, it seemed the last place Kian would look. Sure, I could have caught a plane back to New York, but I wasn’t thinking straight when I left the Bellagio.
The Vegas Incident unfolded so fast. As soon as Kian let me go and stormed out of the room, I ran from the hotel, hopped in a taxi, and told the driver to hit the highway. I didn’t have a plan, and I couldn’t think of what to do or where to go, so I just told him to head east.
This is where I ended up, and I just wanted to sleep.
Pushing Kian out of my head, I swim the length of the pool several times, trying to wear out my body, hoping that will stop my brain from mulling over the past few days.
I cling to the edge of the pool as a Lamborghini with blacked-out windows roars into the parking lot, the engine growling like a beast. Low slung and shiny, the car is lemon yellow, the golden bull emblem sparkling in the sunlight. It parks next to a rusted pickup truck.
“I guess the Four Seasons was booked,” I snark to myself, then wince at my raspy voice. My throat is swollen and aches horribly.
When no one gets out of the car right away, hair rises on the back of my neck.
Wait a minute . . . did Kian rent a different car and follow me?
Nah. He had a bachelor party last night, which means he’s sleeping it off today; plus, I only grabbed a small bag of essentials when I left. My suitcase is still in the room at the Bellagio, along with most of my clothes. For all he knows, I’m wandering around the casinos, pissed at him.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m overthinking it.
I’ll never let you go, Emmy.
I push Kian’s last words away as I sink underwater, swim to the ladder, and scramble up the steps. I gather my book and sunscreen, then adjust my hair around my shoulder, hiding the purple bruises on my neck. Sliding on my flip-flops, I’m dripping water as I make my way to the gate that leads to the rooms, keeping a wary eye on the car.
The driver’s side door opens, and a dark-haired man gets out.
I’m not even aware of how relieved I am until my shoulders sag. Not Kian.
Stretching his arms up and rolling his neck, the man squints at the sun, swears under his breath, then reaches inside the car. His back is broad. Like, fucking big. He must be at least six and a half feet tall. He thrusts on a pair of aviators and glares at the iguana on the sign as if he’s got a personal vendetta. I don’t know what he has against Darcy.
Muttering a curse, he slams the car door, then shoves a ball cap over his hair. The hat casts his face in shadow, giving him a dark aura.
Lambo looks about as cuddly as a steak knife.
Dressed in designer jeans that cling to his thighs and an expensive-looking button-down with the cuffs rolled up, he has a blade for a nose, sculpted cheekbones, and sensuous lips. Tall. Broad. Muscled. Sex on a stick. Swipe right, ladies.
He takes long strides yet somehow manages to appear graceful—no, scratch that, athletic.