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  And possibly Teresa. For the first time, it occurs to me that whoever sent Teresa could have some kind of leverage that’s forcing her to compromise me against her will. If that’s the case, the sooner I find out the better so their heads can roll and she can be free of any duress she’s under.

  Standing beside my open trunk two minutes later, I pause for a beat before taking Teresa’s wallet out of her purse. First thing I see is a picture of an older couple, both of whom share Teresa’s default mischievous expression. The woman leans into the man, a bouquet of flowers resting in her arms. Her parents.

  I bypass a gym membership and a couple credit cards, landing on a rectangular receipt from a shipping company with a tracking number. I unfold it and make note of the recipient address. The Film Institute. That doesn’t answer any pressing questions about Teresa’s motives or identity, but I’m damn well interested, so I tuck that nugget of information away for later and continue on to her driver’s license. I’m already positive her last name isn’t going to be Smith, but a sharp jab catches me in the throat nonetheless.

  Teresa Valentini. LA address.

  Grateful she didn’t lie about her first name and zip code, I screenshot the identification with my phone and forward it to one of the numbers on my speed dial. As soon as the message goes through, I hit call on the same number.

  “Yeah, it’s Caruso. I just sent you something.”

  “Received,” says the brisk, faceless voice on the other end. “What do you need to know about her?”

  “Everything. Specifically, if she has any ties to QLR Management or Century Investments,” I say, listing several other cut-throat New York funds in direct competition with mine. “Run her information against everyone on their payroll. And mine. Update me as soon as possible.”

  “On it.”

  After snapping the trunk closed, I go through the front entrance of the motel, feeling guilty despite the reason I ordered a background check in the first place.

  I’m guessing your Chevelle doesn’t have a navigator, she’d said.

  Too bad I never told her what kind of car I drive. Unless she went back to her room last night and took a much closer look at the Instagram account, she has no way of knowing the model. She’s either a closet car enthusiast, interested enough to stalk me a little online—which I don’t mind one bit—or she’s done some homework.

  I intend to find out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Teresa

  I’m pacing the room, waiting for Will to return from stowing my luggage in the back of his car. Shouldn’t he be back by now? I drop down on the bed, and Southpaw wastes no time putting his big head in my lap, burying his nose in my skirt. I sigh and cradle him to my stomach, feeling unworthy of the comfort.

  A memory of last night’s text message drifts in and I shake my head. No, I’m not unworthy. I’m a sister looking out for her brother. A reminder of why I’m in Texas in the first place is what I need. Especially right now when I can still feel Will’s teeth tugging at my lips, his deep, coaxing voice inviting me to bed. And now he’s driving me to Nashville. Lord. These two males—of different species—are making me feel like a traitor, when I’m actually doing Silas’s bidding out of loyalty to Nicky.

  Thankful I didn’t leave my cell phone in my purse, I slide it out of my dress pocket and pull up a familiar video. One I’ve transferred every single time I’ve purchased a new phone. Eight-year-old Nicky dangling from a tree in our backyard wearing homemade angel wings and a halo. He recites his lines from the Christmas pageant I’m directing in the background while our parents and neighbors watch.

  “Flap your wings,” I can be heard whispering off-camera. “Do it.”

  I have to go number two, he mouths back at me, holding up a pair of fingers and looking miserable.

  Southpaw looks up at me when I snort-laugh, although the sound is much sadder than usual. This is why I’m here in Texas. Why I’m doing Silas’s dirty work. My brother. I can’t forget, no matter how deep Will and his dog pull me under their spell.

  When my cell phone rings, it’s so unexpected, I shoot up from the bed, juggling the device. I see the screen and my throat closes. It’s Nicky.

  No, no, no. As much as I want to hear my brother’s voice, I can’t take this call right now. Can’t deal with my brother at all when I’m so on edge about Will walking away with my purse—which contains all my freaking information. Granted, we both knew I was bullshitting when I told Will my last name was Smith. Covering myself in Mysterious Girl Body Spray was part of the plan. But I’m not going to be a mystery for long if he looks inside my wallet.

  Would he do that?

  Oh yeah, he would. There was a tension running between us back in that field, Will daring me to call his bluff. So I did, letting him walk off with all my possessions and gambling on the hope that me and Nicky aren’t connected to Silas Case anywhere on paper. We shouldn’t be. Nicky has only been working for the man a short time and in lowest-man-on-the-totem-pole capacity.

  There’s a slight chance Will snooping in my purse will work in my favor. It’s not like there’s a Luring Will Back to New York checklist in there, complete with Post-it notes and diagrams. My wallet is only going to confirm the truthful things I told him. My name is Teresa and I live in Los Angeles. Three thousand miles from his dear old dad. I’m not a total amateur—I remember my father covering our tracks upon moving to California. I’ve created enough of a trail that I should be in the clear. Should be. I can only imagine the kind of tech whizzes Will employs.

  Right. Okay. I need to remember the phase I went through after reading The Secret. Life is following me. The destiny is in my hands. I got this.

  Will is going to walk back into this room, twice as enamored of me than before now that he’s satisfied I haven’t lied about my identity. We’re going to drive east, which is exactly what needs to happen in order to snatch my brother from Silas’s clutches. The plan is working. I just need to keep Will interested and moving in the right direction.

  Toward New York.

  Speaking of New York, my phone rings again. Weighing the risk against the relief of knowing my brother is alive and well, I stalk into the bathroom, flip on the rattling fan and answer. “Hey. Listen, I can’t really talk right now. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, but…look, we’re going to need a daily check-in. I’m fucking worried about you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Just…” I catch sight of my crazy eyes in the mirror and quickly look away, breathing in and out through my nose. “What’s up? Are you all right?”

  The slightest pause. “Yeah.”

  I stop pacing. “Why did you hesitate?”

  He expels a breath. “You’re a human lie detector, just like Mom.” My heart lurches at the comparison and we’re both quiet a moment. “I don’t know if we should talk about this now. But we need to talk.”

  My pulse drums in my temples. “Has something changed?”

  He doesn’t answer. Which is an answer in itself.

  I swallow hard. “Okay.” Think. “Remember that place we used to go on Saturdays with Mom and Dad? When we were kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll call you there at ten o’clock tonight. East coast time, okay? Be smart.”

  When we hang up a second later, I brace my hands on the sink and wrap myself in a layer of calm. I don’t want to be calm. I want to laugh like a hyena because I’m in the middle of Texas attempting to seduce a man into following me home. And that man is too smart for games, so every move counts. Or my brother will get swallowed up by the lifestyle my parents fought to remove us from. This can’t get any more risky or ridiculous, and I would like nothing more than to hand myself over to the oncoming panic attack. But I won’t. I won’t.

  Okay, screw The Secret. What would Kathryn Bigelow do?

  My head comes up. The famous director would sit back in her reserved chair and weigh the landscape calmly. She would know how to make every movement of her characters effectiv
e, in a way that moves the plot forward. There wouldn’t be any succumbing to panic or self-doubt when the opposite was needed, that’s for sure. So I won’t succumb, either.

  Will walks into the room on the other side of the bathroom door—and that’s when I admit what’s upsetting me the most. Every second I spend screwing with Will’s life is a second spent guaranteeing his eventual resentment. Disdain, even. Have I been playing the what-if game in the back of my head? What if we met under different circumstances?

  Useless thoughts, Teresa. Pointless.

  If Silas’s betrayal was enough to drive Will out of New York and away from his multi-million-dollar company, whatever his father did was bad. Bad enough that he’s going to have zero mercy for the woman doing his bidding. Not to mention, I’ve only spent one day in Will’s presence and I already know he’s proud. Too proud to let me get away with lies.

  “Teresa?”

  “Yeah.” I bend over and flip my hair back before taking a long breath and opening the door to reveal a concerned Will. Concerned is good. Eons better than betrayed. “Just checking my makeup. I’ll get out of your way so you can shower.”

  On my way out, he snags me around the waist with a strong arm. “Hey.”

  There’s a fluttering in my belly when I lift my chin and meet his eyes. “Hey, yourself.”

  He turns us in the doorframe, pulling me into his hard body at the same time. “I like coming into my room and finding you there.” His hands slide down and cover my backside through my dress, kneading one side and then the other. One, two. One, two. Most men would have tasted a backhand by now for touching my ass without asking, but I only want Will to squeeze me there harder. “Wouldn’t mind making a habit out of it. When we get to Arkansas, stay with me.”

  There’s nothing phony about my stomach leaping. “Mmm. I don’t know. What other habits do you have?” I look up at him through the veil of my lashes. “If I’m going to consider being your roommate…” I’m not. That would be stupid, right? “I should be aware of the ugly details.”

  “Sometimes I walk around naked. If that’s going to be a problem for you, I can put on sweatpants.” His slow grin makes my knees wobble. “Or you could join me.”

  “See that?” I shake my head. “You give a man one free show…”

  “That show wasn’t free, baby. It’s costing me big time.”

  “Awww.” I wink and shake myself free of his hold. “Sounds like you’ve got more to handle in the shower than a good shampoo job.”

  I feel his engine-rumble laugh everywhere, but when it fades, he’s studying me. “What you told me last night through the wall…about me buying you. I want to make sure that’s just something that gets you hot.” He pauses, resting his tongue on that full lower lip. “If we’re going to play around with it, I need to know it’s a good thing for you. We’re going to be on the same page.”

  Well, hell. It’s true. Knees really can turn to jelly. The familiar impulse to be flippant is checked by the moment itself. By the naked honesty between us. Unable to believe I’m speaking about this without a wall to shield me, I try and remember where this call girl fascination began. “Um. So you remember a few years back, when that politician got caught meeting a girl on the sly in that fancy DC hotel? Everyone was so disgusted, and I-I mean, I knew the man was doing something wrong…”

  His voice is raw. “But it made you hot.”

  Nodding, I blow out an uneven breath. “I guess there’s something about a man’s needs being so overwhelming that he can’t even get through the day without…”

  “Needing to fuck something sweet.” He reaches out and strokes a thumb over my belly button, across to my hipbone. “Never had that problem before, but it’s starting to become one.”

  “Learn to manage it,” I breathe, just as his knuckle finds the V of my thighs, right over that needy spot, twisting with increasing pressure until I gasp.

  He drags his open mouth across my shoulder, up the slope of my neck to stop at my ear. “See you in ten, woman.”

  Still reeling, I force myself out of the doorway and into the room. “Not if I see you first.”

  *

  Sitting in the plush leather passenger seat of Will’s Chevelle as we fly down the open highway should feel like something out of an erectile dysfunction commercial.

  All that is missing is a long, paisley scarf tossed carelessly around my neck and some giant Jackie O sunglasses. With a high angle shot above the moving car, the material would snake out through the window, catching the wind. Viewers would follow that scarf into the car where Will and I would laugh merrily about our carefree lifestyle complete with bountiful boners.

  It doesn’t feel like an erection ad whatsoever, though. Will clearly has no issues in that department. And unlike watching those mandatory ads play in slow motion before a YouTube video starts, I’m immersed in real-time moments. Small towns whizz by with their fuzzy slogans painted on the sides of water towers, sunshine heats the leather beneath my thighs. In the backseat, Southpaw snores in a comforting drone.

  I’m…enjoying myself. Will connects his iPhone and throws on a Miike Snow album, turned to the perfect volume. He doesn’t sing or force conversation. No, he just throws one buff arm over the steering wheel and drives—while I try not to scrutinize him and figure out if he looked through my purse. There’s a concentration line between his eyebrows but no tension in his jaw. His easy demeanor is almost enough to forget I’m playing a dangerous game. As if we’re just some picnic-packing couple taking their dog to the park for some exercise.

  A hysterical laugh tickles the sides of my throat, so I turn toward the window and muffle it with my shoulder. In the glass, Will’s reflection sends me a curious look, before he goes back to watching the road behind a pair of black Ray-Bans.

  It has been over a year since my last “relationship,” and it was only a loose interpretation of the word, just like its predecessors. The men I attract tend to want a mommy more than a girlfriend. Multiple ones, on occasion. So what’s happening right now? This spontaneous adventure to a national park? It never would have happened with those other guys, unless I was the one organizing it. And this girl was too busy, scrounging for paid acting gigs and working the gambling parlor. So dates tended to be of the Netflix and Chill variety, complete with whatever takeout I paid for and picked up.

  I’m walking out on a shaky limb admitting this, but Will keeps proving to be the opposite of those past player and pity hounds. If last night on the balcony is any indication, deep down I’ve been hungering for a man to take physical control of me—without realizing I’ve been harboring the need. I always thought that secret, recurring fantasies of mine were so exciting simply because they were different from my real-life experience, but after last night I know the truth.

  You want to be my plaything, Teresa?

  A shudder passes through me, and Will flips off the air conditioner with a definitive click…and a twitch of his lips.

  Crossing my arms over my hard nipples, I search for something to distract me from thinking about last night. Or from considering doing it again, without a wall dividing us this time.

  Glancing out the passenger window, I jerk a little when I find a man passing in a black sedan—staring right at me. It’s not unusual for drivers to look over at other motorists as they go past or anything, but…there’s something familiar about him. Something about his white baseball cap and smirk triggers my memory, but I don’t know why. Not at first. It takes me a few seconds to piece together where I’ve seen him before.

  Was he standing in the group of men outside the tavern last night?

  I try to shake off the suspicion and chalk it up to being stressed and overly paranoid, but the sedan stays no farther than a few car lengths back for a good twenty minutes before I lose sight of him. Still, Silas’s words ring in my head, making the hair on my arms stand up.

  Oh, and Teresa, don’t be alarmed if I send someone to keep an eye on you.

  “You’re
quiet over there,” Will says.

  I swallow and sit up straighter, praying to God my mind is playing tricks on me. “Um. When we go to Ouachita in the morning, will you leave Southpaw on the leash or just let him run around?”

  Will checks the rearview, affection for his dog clear, and I encounter a surge of guilt for not telling him about the black sedan. That would lead to a full confession, though, and if I’m not crazy…if we’re really being watched…a blow up between me and Will is exactly the kind of thing they’d report back to Silas. I can’t allow that. Can’t allow Nicky to suffer the consequences. “Most of the places we’ve visited require the leash,” Will continues, sliding me a look. “But I tend to ignore that rule and pretend I didn’t see the signs.”

  “You realize no one believes you.”

  “Because I seem so naturally competent?” He flashes his teeth at me in a devastating smile. “Thanks, baby.”

  “Hmm.” Tingles. I have so many tingles. “What has been the best part of your trip so far?”

  “You know the answer to that,” Will responds, voice chafed by gravel. “But if you’re asking my favorite part of the trip involving Southpaw…I’d have to say the people we’ve met. Online and in real life.”

  “Have you posted anything today?”

  Without taking his attention off the road, he unhooks his phone from the USB cord, closes the music app and taps a different one. When he hands me the phone, the Instagram feed is familiar—I might have scrolled through it a few more times than I’d care to share—except for the two most recent pictures. There’s one of me in the field, red dress billowing in the wind as I throw the ball to Southpaw. It’s a great shot, anchored by shadow and structure in all the right places, the dog caught in mid-leap. The field was a shit heap, but Will managed to make it look like a sunshine-soaked slice of Americana. It was only posted three hours ago, but the picture has already received over sixty thousand likes.