Page 24 of Don't Trust Him

“Can it be cracked?”

“I...I don’t think so. It’s very, very complex. You’ll need the cypher,” Alejandro insists, and then he goes down on both his knees right in front of us. Joining the palm of his hands in a praying gesture, he pleads to us, “I’ve done all you’ve asked of me. Please, let go of me!”

“Do you know who has the cypher?” Grayson insists, deadpan.

“No...but…”

“Then you’re of no use alive to anyone.”

“Wait, my children!”

“Listen here, asshole.” As he speaks, Grayson presses the gun’s barrel against Alejandro’s forehead. “I looked you up. You have no family. You’re a fucking deadbeat asshole that spends all of his cartel money on cheap hookers and drugs. Now, I don’t care about any of that shit. But you lied to me...and for that…”

Without saying a word more, Grayson simply pulls the trigger. Alejandro tumbles back, blood splattering the wall behind him.

“You know,” I start, eyeing Grayson with a surprised look on my face, “I thought you fell for his bullshit. I was starting to think you had a soft heart.”

“Never.”

We get to the motel, a seedy place in the outskirts of Detroit, when the sun’s already rising on the horizon. Grayson exchanged his blood-soaked shirt for a clean one in the car, and I did my best to scrub all the blood from my shoes and dress. I didn’t do a very good job but, hey, maybe the motel guy will just think I’m having a particularly bad period.

I know.

Nasty.

Sorry.

Grayson and I go to our separate rooms, and I draw a bath the moment I’m inside mine. The place isn’t exactly fancy—I’m just happy there are no cockroaches prancing around—but at least it has a bathtub.

As I ease myself inside the tub, I close my eyes and let my whole body relax. God, when Grayson took off his shirt inside the car...oh, his body. His muscles have been sculpted to perfection, and the scars and tattoos that dot his skin make him seem even more attractive.

I actually had to bite my cheek and hold my breath,

just so I wouldn’t do anything rash. And, believe me, right then all I wanted to do was something very rash. Like jumping on top of him and ride him until one of us passed out. I don’t know what it is about him—his killer looks (nice one, huh?), his cold charm, or his fierce sense of loyalty—but he always makes me...I don’t even know how to describe it. I guess wet would be the right word, but it doesn’t really describe the crazy mess he turns me into.

Oh. shit.

Nevermind that’s he’s a psycho killer—why does a guy like him have to work for the other side?

My thoughts suddenly scatter as I hear someone knock at the door.

“Eliza!”

Wait—is that Grayson?

I jump out of the bath then, and I dry myself off as quickly as I can. Meanwhile, Grayson just keeps knocking, doing it harder and harder each time. Jesus, if he keeps at it soon enough he’ll just kick the damn door down.

“Coming!” I cry out as I grab the robe I hung on the bathroom door. As I rush toward the door, I notice the urgency on his voice. Maybe...maybe he came to my room because he’s being plagued by the same thoughts I am?

“Grayson, what do you—”

Before I finish speaking, he takes one step forward and grabs me by the neck, pushing me back against the wall. He does it harshly, lifting me off my feet, and that’s when I notice the rage burning in his eyes.

“Taylor’s dead,” he hisses through his gritted teeth, his jaw clenched so tight it’s a surprise he hasn’t broken it. I feel his fingers tighten around my neck, and I do what any woman would do in my situation—I try and kick him in the balls. He’s too fast for me, though, and I end up kicking him in his stomach.

Not ideal, but enough for me to escape his grip.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Have you lost your fucking mind?” I sputter.

---