Page 2 of Wild Angel

Chapter Two

Nyx

“In the back, where?”

My eyes snap open. I blink them furiously a few times, trying to see through the pitch-black space surrounding me. That voice sounded familiar, but I can’t match it to a face.

Must be the knock on my head. There’s a scathing ache pumping through my skull and, when I reach up and touch the back of my head, I feel a big lump under my hair.

Fuckers.

I shift on my seat and drop my zip-tied wrists into my lap. I lift my hands up, gnawing at the thick plastic as I desperately try to piece together what happened.

“Well bring her out then.”

That voice. Where have I heard it before?

A door opens. Light washes over me. Before my eyes can adjust, before I can react, someone grabs my bicep and hauls me up.

Strong and silent type, eh? I shall call you Beefhead.

Beefhead drags me over the floor and out the door.

What the fuck?

When I squint into the clinical light cast down from a fluorescent bar and see the grubby reception desk of the Happy Earth motel, memories finally flood back.

“You cunt!” I spit out, aiming every ounce of my rage at the thirty-something woman behind the check-in desk.

Lexie watches me unfazed, and slowly pops a pink bubble between her botoxed lips. I figured out long ago that she’s a pimp, but I didn’t judge her for it back then.

Now I’m hoping she’ll contract syphilis and die.

“Hey, easy.” A shadow moves to my right, and instinct kicks in.

Grabbing hold of Beefhead’s arm, I kick out to the right, my boots slamming into something soft that grunts and then drops to the floor.

My attention desperately wants to go back to Lexie, but something tugs at my mind.

I know him!

Beefhead starts laughing. I shake my head, willing away the residual grogginess that a well-aimed shot caused to usually razor-sharp thought processes, and focus on the guy I downed.

He rolls onto his side, groaning like I disemboweled him, and stares up at me with part shock, part awe.

“The fuck you do that for?” Savage’s friend whines.

Ah. Now I remember.

Hope floods my heart like a water tank busting a seam in someone’s basement. “He’s here?” I choke on my words, my throat tight. “He came?”

“Christ,” the Colombian mutters as he slowly pushes himself to his feet. “I’m gonna be puking blood for a week.”

“You wish.” I jerk my hands out of Beefhead’s grip and walk up to the Colombian. “Where is he?”

“Busy checking out—” The Colombian stops abruptly, his eyes sliding first to Beefhead, then to Lexie. “How about we go chat outside?”

I hold up my hands, aiming my bound wrists toward Beefhead with a meaningful gesture, but keeping my eyes on the Colombian. “He sent you?”

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