Page 75 of Cruel Love

I grunt. “It’d be awfully nice if I could meet people who haven’t colluded with a criminal organization at some point.”

Lilah scoffs. “Good luck, Scratchy.”

“Sparky,” Archer says.

“Boxcar,” I say through my teeth.

“Idiot with the laptop,” she says. “Whatever.”

“So, are you ever going to get over the anger stage of grief? Because this shit is getting really old.”

Archer sighs as Lilah digs her toes into the grass. “Bloody…” he whispers.

“Listen, Bartholomew Eugene Carson,” she growls at me, “you say one more thing about my brother and I’ll string you up from your little piss tree.”

I smirk. “Hey, bargaining! That was quick.”

Lilah lunges at me but Archer grabs her by the arm before she can get close.

“That’s enough,” he barks. “Both of you get your shit together. Now. I don’t care who’s right or wrong — and I’m sure as hell not getting killed today over either one. Got it?”

She yanks her arm free and spins away silently. As she stomps off, Archer glares at me again.

“I know,” I say, raising my hands. “I know.”

“I admire and respect you, Boxcar,” he says, “but if I have to choose between you again—”

“I know…” I point upward. “Piss tree.”

He nods.

I gesture forward. “It should be just up ahead.”

Archer walks off, following Lilah through the woods. He catches up to her and lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. She accepts it, reluctantly, and I hear her biting words echoing through the wind.

I hang back for a moment. My arm instinctively reaches behind me and I graze the grip of Caleb’s revolver poking out of my belt. I’ve pointed it at Lilah Hart before.

I’ll do it again if I have to.

Chapter 23

Caleb

A soft zipping noise wakes me up. I twitch awake and look around, taking a moment to remember that I’m in a dingy motel room on the outskirts of Vegas. A wad of used tissues lies crumbled on the pillow beside me. My eyes feel stiff and my lashes tug a bit as I open them a little wider.

I sit up, feeling emotionally drained, but well-rested. That’s the power of a crying oneself to sleep, I suppose.

Dani pushes her small suitcase to the side and sits down on the edge of her bed, facing me. “You okay?” she asks, cautious.

I rub the crusty bits out of the corner of my eyes. “Yeah,” I answer.

She grabs the bottle of water from the table between our beds and holds it out to me.

“Thank you.” I twist the cap off and take a bland, flavorless swig.

“Did you sleep?” she asks.

I chuckle. “Not really.” I squint at her perfectly-combed hair and easy-going make-up. Damn movie stars always looking so pretty all the time. “How long have you been up? And why didn’t you ask the woodland creatures to stick around and do my hair?”

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