Page 24 of No Hope of Rescue

I nod in the dark.

Suddenly, I’m beyond tired. The thermal packs, though set low, will keep our cores warm until dawn. Having Savi nestled in with us provides even more radiant heat. Easing myself down further, keeping on my good side, I slip an arm around Riley’s waist again.

Now, though, she’s shoving my hands into gloves. I let her do this without comment. Despite the smell of wet leather, the warmth under the oilskin is like a drug. I can hardly keep my eyes open.

But Riley’s just getting started, pumped with cortisol.

“What do you think they’re looking for?”

“Dunno.”

“Do you think they’re drug dealers?”

I’m having trouble focusing.

She lies there a few moments, long enough for me to reach the edge of unconsciousness. Then: “As soon as the storm breaks, let’s check out the crates—we need to see what’s in there.”

“K.” I try to rub her hand again, but gloved, all I hear is the dry zip of outerwear.

“What if it’s something else? What if it’s cocaine?”

I can’t follow Riley’s conversation with herself. The one phrase that suddenly echoes in my brain is, She’s too good.

Stirring, I try to say something, but only a moan escapes, and then Riley scoots again, the covers tented over our heads so that she’s nearly facing me. I open one eye, catch a glimpse of her blonde hair in the dark, then feel her hands on either side of my face.

“Brock,” she whispers.

Slipping into sleep is easy right now, and a sigh follows the moan. In the warm darkness, in some time and space I can’t fathom, soft lips press to mine. Pressure. There’s a smell of lilac and stone—Riley’s smell. A final sigh escapes, eclipsing all worry and pain, and I surrender, nearing unconsciousness.

As the pressure of warm lips disappears, a name is mumbled by someone. “Crystal.”

Chapter Seven

Riley Delgado

When the men left and we were lying on the floor, Brock’s bare hand on my chest, my heart was thudding so hard I’m sure he could feel it. He probably thought I was scared.

I am, but not of violent men—I’m paralyzed by my fierce but damaged heart.

When he kissed the back of my head, I wanted to cry.

I fell in love with Brock Weston the day he hoisted me from that pinnacle in Garden of the Gods. I think only Carter knows, and as close as they are, I’m sure he’s never talked to his brother about me. Carter has never spoken to me directly about how I feel about Brock either, but I catch him staring at me sometimes as I hold my baggage close.

I’m one of Brock’s best friends outside of his family, and a woman, so when Crystal dumped him, what little he said, he said to me.

But under his hand, my heart thudding hard in the dark, smelling him, feeling his hard, warm body next to mine, was surreal. When I pulled his gloves on, I shivered as our palms touched. Three years of never touching him except in a brief goodbye hug has left me raw, every nerve on fire. Lying in his arms while spasms of uncontrollable trembling peeked and ebbed has left me worn out, muscles aching.

Now, hearing his heavy breathing, the inhale and exhale ragged as he fights pain, the arm draped loosely allows another quarter turn to fully face him.

With every question I ask, he drifts further away. His voice is gravelly, and with the mumbling, I can hardly understand him.

I lift the oilskin just enough to see his face better. His eyes are closed, lips parted. I lift a finger to his cheek. Another shuddering breath. A small movement of his head and the hood pushes back, revealing a tangle of thick black hair. He moans softly in his sleep.

I take his head in my hands, so close, and feel his breath. I breathe him in but keep my eyes wide open and kiss him.

His lips are full and firm—and fiery, which I wasn’t expecting.

It’s a chaste kiss, brief, but something I’ve always wanted to do and may be the most daring thing I’ve ever done. I pull back to see his response, gently stroking his cheeks.