TAG (16 page)

He looks saddened by what I’ve said or didn’t say, or maybe by the look on my face. I drifted off in my own memories for a minute and I’ve left him standing here staring at me, waiting for a response.
“I can see you’re tired. I’ll sleep on the chair. You can have the bed.”

His statement snaps me out of my despair. “You can sleep in the bed too.” I lift one of my bags from the floor and place it down on the bed, preparing to search for my toothbrush, while also trying not to draw attention to any meaning behind what I’m saying. We’re just
two
adults and neither of us would be able to sleep in that chair. “You already know the touching rule, so we’ll be okay,” I say, forcing a
smile through the awkwardness I’m creating.

“No, really. It’s okay. I’ve slept in the sands of the Middle East for months at a time.” He looks down at the wooden chair and wiggles it around, checking its sturdiness. It’s not sturdy.

“Actually sand sounds a lot more comfortable than that chair,” I say with a raised brow.

He laughs at my remark and must realize it’s true. “You do have a point. Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind?”

“It’s fine. I trus
—
“ Whoaaa.
What the fuck was I just about to say? I don’t trust anyone. No one. Trust no one, Cali. No one
.

My cut off word is a clear indicator of having second thoughts about what I just suggested. And by the disheartened look on his face, I’m pretty sure I’ve made him just as uncomfortable as I am. “I’ll be right out.” He squeezes by me with his bag, struggling to
close himself into the bathroom.

I can be an adult. It’s just a bed, plus we were sitting closer in his
truck. I pull off my sweatshirt and long sleeve shirt, leaving on just a black racer-back tank top. I guess this is as comfortable as I’ll be getting tonight. I climb into the far right side of the bed and pull the covers up to my neck and turn onto my side, facing the door. The
bed feels like a slab of concrete and the pillow feels like nothing more than a sheet. Oh well.

I hear the bathroom light switch off and Tango’s bare feet pad against the shaggy carpet. I was about to yell at him for walking across the floor with bare feet, but when the moonlight shines over him, I see he’s wearing socks. I can also see he’s shirtless and
wearing jogging pants that hang low around his waist, accentuating the lean muscles that curve and twist in just the right places around his hips. Even with hardly any light, I can now see he has twice as many tattoos as I
do. There’s one reason he was unaffected by them. Normally, I’d be intrigued to know what each one stands for, but if I continue staring at every one of his bulging muscles, I might do regretful things. I roll onto my back and fold the pillow beneath my head for added support.

“Sleep well, Cali,” he says.

“You too,” I mumble. The bed shifts heavily from his weight, and I think we’re both quick to realize the bed is not big enough for both of us to fit on it comfortably. He shifts to his side and curls his pillow up in-between the bend of his arm. I turn over onto my side
to give him some space. Now we’re butt to butt and probably both staring at the wall
with the same question running through our heads:
how did we end up at this point in just a week?
I don’t even think I know his real name. I doubt it’s Tango. I’m sure the ID he showed me was fake, just like mine. That should be a rule or something
. I’m making it an official rule
right now.
I
will not sleep in a bed with a man unless I know his real name.
There.

I sit up, realizing I forgot to brush my teeth and take my pills, and I clamber out of the bed, searching around in the dark for my
bag. When my hand sweeps over it, I pull it up to my chest and bring it into the bathroom. After I manage to close the door behind me, I flip the light
on. The mirror in front of me has a huge shard missing and a crack running through the center. Someone must have gotten pissed and
punched it. That’s what it looks like, anyway.

When I face my dreaded reflection, I come to terms with how horrible I look. My hair is still damp from the rain, and it’s knotted into a mess—a disaster at best. My mascara has left streaks down my cheeks, and I have bags under my eyes. It’s clear I have to sleep
tonight. I unzip the bag and immediately notice it’s not mine. I want to pull the two
ends shut, trying to be respectful, but I can’t help seeing his phone light up in the bag. I also can’t help that I see the words,
love you
flash across the screen. I pull the bag back open wider and take his phone into my hand. I press the power button, hoping the text
message reappears, just
to confirm I’m not crazy, but it doesn’t. It asks for the password. God dammit. He’s in a fucking relationship and he’s sharing a bed with me, not to mention the other flirtatious exchanges between us, especially coming from his end.

I dart back out of the bathroom and drop his bag on the floor.
“Grabbed the wrong bag,” I say, as if I need to explain.

He chuckles and says, “Yeah, they’re both black and it’s dark in here. It happens.”

“I think you might have gotten a text. I felt your bag vibrate.” Or I saw your phone light up with the words,
love you
. Same thing.

He doesn’t say anything, but he climbs out from under the sheets and stumbles over to where I dropped his bag. He fumbles through it, but I realize I no longer have a reason for standing here
watching him. I
pick up my bag and bring it into the bathroom. I swallow hard and suddenly realize I have fucking feelings for him. Otherwise, I
wouldn’t
feel a pit growing in my stomach at the thought of him having a girlfriend or worse, a wife. He isn’t wearing a ring, but he’s a bodyguard so he probably can’t wear one. I should have just asked for a replacement guard when I had the chance. I knew this was not
going to end well.

I shove my hand into my bag and wrap my fingers around the pill bottle. I twist the cap off and drop a couple into my palm. I throw them back into my throat and lean over to hang my mouth under the running faucet. I breathe in slowly, convincing myself that
this shouldn’t bother me. There’s no reason for me to be upset. He wasn’t sent to me to be my knight in shining armor. He was sent to keep me alive, and he’s doing that, while also trying to keep himself alive.

I flip the light off and squeeze back out through the small opening of the bathroom door. I drop my bag against the wall and then slide under the covers on my side of the bed. I will not ask him
about the text message. I will not let him think I care. I do not care. I do not care.

I
so
do care.

TANGO

BIPOLAR MIGHT BE
a logical explanation. This chick shifts her mood more often than I can keep up with. Maybe I’m safer keeping to myself until she warms up to me a bit more. Although, I swear I can sense the anger radiating off of her back. We’re both trying hard
to stay on our
own sides of the bed, but this thing is tiny and not meant for two
people. I’m on my side with my arms tucked awkwardly under my body. But I know if my hand so much as sweeps near her, I’ll be reminded of the ‘no touching’ rule, except it might not be so friendly while she’s trying to sleep.

My phone lights up on the night table, reminding me I have an unread message. I look at the display and the normal pain in my chest grows and then subsides just as quickly. I want to respond. I
want to tell her I’m okay and I love her too, but it will just make it harder on her. Frustration sweeps over me like it does every night at this time.

***

I’ve been tossing and turning for an hour. She’s sound asleep and I wish I was too. I should be tired. I am tired. So why am I staring at the curves under her shoulder blades and the tattoo wrapped
around the back of
her arm? Her skin is so smooth, flawless. And the scent of her hair is pungent in my nose—flowers or some girly shit. Whatever it is will make lying like this all night a little easier, or harder I suppose. I want to wrap my arm around her small waist and pull her into me
and stay like that until morning. Then I remember the fist print I’ll likely wake up with. This girl is making
me
feel bipolar.

CALI

It’s as if there’s a wall between us—I didn’t shift an inch all night, afraid of what would happen if we touched. It’s clear now that I can’t let anything like that happen. He’s with someone. I wonder what she’s like. I wonder if she’s pretty or anything like me. I wonder if I’m his type, or if he’s really just using me to save his own
life.

As soon as my lids fully accept the morning glow, I roll out of the bed. I lift my bag from the floor and bring it into the bathroom. I crank on the shower faucet and let it heat up before stepping in,
desperately hoping for hot water.

Thank God. There is one decent feature about this motel room—the water pressure and heat. I suck in as much steam as my lungs will hold. I hold it in until I feel the comforting stretch across my ribcage, and when I blow it out, the relief is instant. This whole text message deal was just a wakeup call. I know damn well I shouldn’t have been looking at him the way I was. I know damn well I shouldn’t have almost trusted him. He keeps breaking my barrier down, and I
almost let him in. I have to be stronger than this.

I
am
stronger than this.

I pull the thin towel off the rack outside of the shower and wrap it around myself tightly, taking the comfort I desperately need.

I manage to dress in the small space between the toilet and the door and pull my hair up into a ponytail on top of my head. I zip together my bag and step out of the bathroom. Tango is standing in front of the window, stretching his arm behind his neck. The view of
his half-naked body forces the numbness within me to resurface. And the thought of wanting what I can’t have drives into my head like a nail.

He turns around to face me. His short hair is spiked in different directions. It’s a mess, a hot mess. His skin has a glow, giving the appearance of a good night’s sleep. “All set in the bathroom?” he asks, his voice croaks, an after-sleep sound that shouldn’t be turning
me on.

I nod my head and plop down at the edge of the bed to pull my boots on. He walks past me but stops at the corner where the wall meets the bathroom. “Everything okay? You seem kind of quiet.”

“Just not a morning person.” But I am the type of person who falls for the wrong people.

“There’s a shock,” he laughs. With that, the bathroom door
closes and the water squeals through the pipes. He’s in there . . . naked, and it’s all I can think about. I’m fucked.

I whip my phone out and shoot Sasha a text:

We’ll be driving through Western Texas. Let’s meet. I’ll call you when I’m close. I think I’ve fallen for my bodyguard. I know. It’s a long story, and I think he has a girlfriend. I need you to slap me.

XO - Cali

I see the little dots flickering under the message I sent, telling me she’s responding. Her response is taking forever, considering how nimble those little fingers of hers are on a keypad.

OMG, Cali. I am going to slap you. You just made my day.
Can’t wait to see your stupid ass.

Luv Ya - Sasha

The bathroom door opens and Tango comes out, dragging the scent of some amazing man shampoo. His hair is wet and glistening under the dull orange light above. I need that slap now. And hard.

“Ready to hit the road?” he asks.

“Yup.” I pull my elastic out of my damp hair, hoping to let it dry before I lean on it in the truck. I can see my falling black waves catch his attention as his mouth parts slightly and his chest pauses between constrictions. He has a girlfriend. He shouldn’t be looking at me like that.

He clears his throat and grabs both of our bags.

“I can grab mine,” I say, taking my bag from his hand. I walk ahead of him, leading the way back to the front office. The office is locked, being so early in the morning, so Tango drops the key in the mail slot.

Once in the truck I prop my feet up and pull my sunglasses
down over my eyes, which has become my now normal position. It annoys him, I think. But I’m not sure I really care about that right now.

Before putting the truck in drive, I can see Tango looking at me from the corner of his eyes. He slaps his hand over my knee and
says, “Get your feet down. You’re scratching up the dash.”

I turn my head to the side before moving. I give him an unfazed, emotionless look. “Sorry,” I mumble.

“I know what will cheer you up,” he says. I refocus my attention
out the windshield. No, you don’t. Well, unless you tell me you
don’t really have a girlfriend texting you, telling you she loves you. Or I’d
settle for the truth—being that you’re using me to find my dad as a
way of saving your life. Besides that, nothing will cheer me up right now. “Let’s grab a coffee before we hit the road.”

I guess that does make me a little happy. Why can’t I just be in a relationship with coffee? Coffee doesn’t bring drama.

“Oh, by the way, since we’re moving onto what could be a death mission, I want to stop in Pecos on the way,” I say.