“’Bout nineteen hours.” I look in the rearview again and catch the stricken look on her face.

“I am so sick of being trapped in cars. Why do you insist on driving everywhere? It’d probably take a couple of hours on a plane, max.”

She’d fucking love that—me trying to herd her through TSA. Her screaming about my holding her captive. Me getting my ass thrown into jail. I reach behind me, shifting so I can grab my gun from my waistband. “I don’t know of any airlines that will let me take this as carry on,” I tell her, holding up the Glock I stole from my father when I was twenty-four. The night Laura went missing.

Sophia tries not to react, but I see her eyes go wide in the mirror. I’m used to being around guns now. Something feels off if I don’t feel the weight of the Glock at the base of my spine at all times. For Sophia, a weapon like that is something to be afraid of. For me, it’s a necessary accessory that enables me to get through my day without ending up dead.

“You should be careful with that,” Sophia tells me, angling her body so her back’s half turned to me. Looks uncomfortable. I laugh, returning the Glock to my waistband.

“You think I don’t know how to handle a gun?”

“My dad’s an anesthesiologist. He’s sat in on so many surgeries where guys have been shot in the feet. In the thighs. In the junk.” She seems especially pleased with that one. “All because the assholes tuck their piece into their pants like a G. So fucking stupid.”

I’ve heard her curse before, but this time it actually registers—the Widowers have plenty of groupies, women who aren’t exactly what you’d call ladies. The language on some of them could rival any of the club members. It’s not that I think chicks shouldn’t swear, but there’s something about Sophia. It’s just seriously entertaining when she does it.

“What the hell are you grinning about up there?” she snaps. I forget that since I can see her, she can see me in the mirror, too.

“Absolutely nothing. Just enjoying the scenery.” Ironic, since we’re staring at scrub and dirt and not much else for miles.

“You’re just like them, y’know? The men my dad used to come home talking about. Reckless. Selfish. People like you don’t give a shit about anybody else.”

“I might be those things, Soph, but just to set your mind at ease…I’m not stupid enough to blow my own balls off just because I shove my gun down my pants.”

“Oh, I feel so much better knowing that.”

“I’m glad.”

“You’ll excuse me if I choose not to believe you, though. You don’t strike me as the intelligent type.”

“I don’t?”

“You probably didn’t even finish high school.”

The irony of this statement almost has me wheezing. “Oh, sweetheart…”

“I’m not your sweetheart. And don’t call me Soph, either. I don’t like it.”

I hold my hands up. “All right. Whatever you want, One Eighty-One.” She kicks the back of my chair, lashing out hard enough that I actually feel the dig in my back.

“You’re a son a bitch,” she growls. “I’ve never met anyone as infuriating as you.”

Cade told me to flirt with the girl to get her on side, but at this rate I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t claw my eyes out instead. I just can’t help but bait her, though. The opportunity is just too good to pass up. There was a time when the old me would have knocked the new me out stone-cold for even talking to a woman the way I talk to her. But life’s a roll of the dice, and people need to evolve to survive. That guy doesn’t even exist anymore. I buried him under the dirt floor of a barn somewhere between San Antonio and Floresville, Texas.

“Just thank your lucky stars you’re not riding with Raphael Dela Vega right now.” I tilt the rearview so I can’t see her anymore. We can’t carry on like this. The whole point of this trip is to win her over to our side, not to alienate her even further. I’m gonna have to implement the age old practice of thinking before I speak. Trouble is, I’ve never been very good at that.

******

SOPHIA

Yeah, the guy’s a douche bag, but he’s right: I am glad I’m riding with him and not Raphael. And the more time I spend with him, the more I can read him. Rebel’s not the type of guy I’d ever hang out with voluntarily back home, but despite the way he looks—the tattoos, the hard set to his jaw, the ice in his eyes—I get the feeling that he’s not a violent man by nature. And it makes no sense that I believe he’ll release me once we’re done in Alabama, but I do believe it. More fool me. I could be setting myself up for a devastating disappointment, but what was I supposed to do? Hang around their clubhouse and potentially get gang raped by a bunch of bikers? Not happening. I’d rather take my chances with Rebel. At least there’s only one of him.

Two hours pass, and neither of us says a word. I think about my family, about Mom, and Dad, and Sloane, and how they’re definitely going out of their minds by now. I feel terrible. My heart is still aching with the pain of it all when Rebel pulls off the highway and kills the car engine.

We’re in the middle of nowhere, no buildings in sight as far as I can see. I can think of no good reason why he’d pull over here, and yet he has. Panic flares through me. “What are we doing?”

Rebel twists in his seat, throwing his arm over the back of the passenger chair so he can look at me properly. He runs his hand through his hair, brushing it back, the action an absentminded one. I find my stomach twisting in a most unnatural way—a reaction I do not appreciate.