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34

MAVERICK

The players had their hour to hide.

In the trailer, it had gone quiet.

Hector, who looked like he was sleepwalking, had disappeared for a while and, through some magic on his part, got the generator running again. That was one of his superpowers, to fix whatever gear was broken. So they had electricity, at least. Though, the generator was making an odd noise, a kind of strangled sound every few minutes. And the lights kept flickering.

Tavo and Angeline had gone to fix the cameras. Which seemed like a bad idea, given the circumstances. But just try to stop Angeline from doing what she wanted to do. She was a force.

Outside, the sky was growing ever darker, and the pressure in Maverick’s sinuses told him that the barometric pressure was dropping fast. They’d handed out the tracker tiles to each of the hiders, explaining that it was just for safety and that they would not be tracked unless there was a problem. They were asked to put the tiles in the bottom of their packs, and they’d agreed. Cody had given him a look, and Mav wondered how long it would be before he ditched the device. Whatever. Wild Cody was the least of his worries.

“All set,” said Hector faintly, looking at his computer screen. “The blue one is Cody. Malinka is pink. And Adele is purple.”

They had fanned out around the property.

He put a hand on his friend’s thick shoulder, feeling the tension there. He really hoped that Hector wasn’t going to start crying again. Maverick just couldn’t handle it.

“Mav,” said Hector, spinning in his chair so that they were facing each other. He looked different somehow, his eyes serious, dark. “Tell me what’s really going on.”

Hector and Mav had been friends the longest, growing up next to each other in identical split-level homes on the same suburban street. And of all the crew, they were the least alike. There was something grounding about that, the lack of competition. With Tavo, and even Alex, there was always all this jockeying for who was smarter, stronger, faster, more daring. Hector was the one standing on the sidelines, waiting with an ice pack. He didn’t have to prove anything to Hector.

“I’m scared, Mav,” said Hector, when Maverick stayed silent, struggling for the right words. “Things aren’t right. We both know it. Haven’t been for a while. Not since Chloe.”

Hector’s wide-open, nonjudgmental gaze made Maverick want to tell him everything, everything that had gone wrong since Chloe Miranda stepped into his life. That was the thing about Hector: ever since they were kids, he always just knew what to do, what to say. Maybe he’d have some magic fix for all of it, something that Maverick couldn’t see because he was in too deep.

Something the old woman said rang back to Maverick. The bill will come due.

Didn’t Maverick know, even before they’d come here, that it was true?

* * *

Maverick had been drunk the next time he saw Chloe. Like piss-in-your-pants, blackout drunk. She appeared as if out of an icy vision, a figure sauntering out of a blustery Reykjavik night as he stumbled from the rowdy bar up the quiet street toward the hotel. Hector and Tavo had both hooked up. Alex wasn’t with them. And Maverick had been about to get lucky with a superhot plus-size model named Giselle—and what had happened? What words had come out of his mouth so that her smile froze, then dropped? Her eyes went cold. And she slid out from under his arm, excused herself to the bathroom and never came back. What had he said? It was a rare night when Maverick went back to his hotel room alone, slipping along a slick sidewalk, snow falling.

A woman shimmered and wobbled on the path ahead of him like a mirage. He squinted in the dim light; it had been dark since three in the afternoon and would be until after ten the next morning. The sun was only up for about six hours in the Icelandic winter. There was something so weird about that; he felt like they were on the moon. Angeline and he had had their first fight. She wasn’t answering his calls.

“Not looking too good there, Mav,” the woman said, coming closer. He knew her. “Can I help you get back to your hotel?”

He struggled for her name. He pointed at her. “Heeyy.”

“Don’t you recognize me?” she said, just the slightest edge to her tone.

“Sorry,” he said. “I lost a contact. Can’t see a thing.”

Which was bullshit because he had perfect vision. What was her name? One thing was for sure: girls you’d slept with really got pissed when you forgot their names. And he knew he’d slept with her, and that her skin was smooth and warm, her body tight and lithe. That he remembered.

“It’s Chloe, silly,” she said. “Man, you’re really drunk.”

Oh, shit. He and Chloe had met in Aspen, hooked up again in Cabo before he met Angeline. There had been lots of texts and voicemails, some of them angry. Now here she was in Iceland, where the cold was so bitter it actually hurt, snaking its way under Maverick’s Patagonia puffer, biting at the skin on his face. And that vodka, cool and smooth, had gone down a little too easy.

“Yeah,” he said. “The vodka here. Damn.”

She laughed; it was sweet, understanding. “It’s no joke.”

She came up beside him, and he dropped an arm too heavily around her shoulders, nearly toppling them both. “Easy there, tiger,” she said with a laugh. She was strong, held his weight. “Let’s get you back to your room. Your hotel is right up there. Got your key?”

He fished it out of his pocket and handed it to her. The street, which had been packed with tourists all day, was deserted, shops and restaurants shuttered. At the entrance to the Tower Suites where he was staying on the top floor, the doorman held the door and gave him a knowing look. That old song—who sang it?—about how you can check out when you want, but you have to stay forever, played in his head, eerie and distant.

Then they were in the elevator, making out, the cold forgotten in the warmth of the indoors, the heat of her mouth on his, her hand reaching between his legs. When he closed his eyes, he imagined it was Angeline. And part of him thought he should stop himself, because he knew he had to be a better man to be worthy of the woman he loved. But this girl, the one right in front of him, was so good, and he was so weak against the wave of his own desires.

They stumbled giggling up the hall, crashed together into the door to his suite. She swiped his key card, and they fell inside. He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around him. He carried her to the bed and laid her down. They shed their heavy coats, their clothes. He lay on the bed beside her, the room spinning. He did not want to pass out, not yet.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, straddling him. “So much.”

Wow, she was hot—abs ripped, tits high and tight, hips full, that honey hair cascading over her shoulders, mouth glistening. He remembered their nights together then—Aspen, Cabo. Also, all the texts. The phone calls and angry voicemails. It was a swirl of pleasant and unpleasant. Hot sex, then scathing reproach.

Probably not a good idea to sleep with her again. But then he was inside her and the sight of her on top of him, breasts bouncing, head back in pleasure…ah, it was good, very, very good. And Angeline had been super nasty with him, hung up on him, hadn’t answered when he called her back.

“Mav,” Chloe breathed, pressing herself deeper, deeper. “I need you so bad.”

That’s how he remembered his night with Chloe. Anyway, that’s the last thing he remembered before a black curtain fell. When he woke up again, she was sitting in the chair over by the window, crying. The city lights behind her glittered, and she was curled up into a protective position, legs pulled into her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. There was a little blood on her lip; it was swelling and faintly purple.

“What? What is it?” he asked, sitting up. The room was spinning horribly. Why was she crying? “Did you fall?”

She shook her head, drew in some shuddering breaths. “You. You hit me.”

“No, no,” he said. He looked at his own hands, unmarked, as if they didn’t belong to him. He’d never hit a woman; he had too much respect for his mother. Would never.

“I’m sorry,” he said. It must have been accident, him flailing in his sleep. “I’m so drunk. I don’t remember. Should we call for some ice?”

She got up, backing away as if she was afraid to turn away from him. She was still nude, her body toned and tan. She gathered up her clothes, keeping her eyes on him.

“I’m leaving,” she said.

“Wait,” he said and struggled to get up. And the speed of his movement was too much. He ran for the toilet, emptied out the contents of his stomach in a revolting rush of chemical scarlet. Red Bull and vodka. Never again. He knew he wasn’t his best self when he drank like this.

When he managed to crawl back to the bedroom, Chloe was gone.

He remembered a blissful feeling of relief.

When he woke up in the morning to Tavo pounding on his door, he wasn’t sure whether he’d dreamed it or not. A glance at his phone revealed two calls from Angeline. His head was pounding. He made it to the door, let Tavo in.

“What happened to you? Man, you look like ass.”

“You guys bailed on me.”

“Bro code,” said Tavo. “If you can get laid, do it. Your bro will find his way home.”

“Fair,” admitted Maverick.

“You didn’t hook up?” There was something about the way he asked it. A little surprised, maybe disappointed? Mav wasn’t stupid. He’d seen the way Tavo looked at Angeline, like a kind of lovesick kid. Tavo would love it if Angeline dumped Maverick; he’d move right in.

“Nah,” Mav said. “I flirted. But, you know, I’m all about Angeline. Even if she currently wants to kill me.”

Tavo nodded, his eyes drifting to the mess of Maverick’s bed. “Must be serious.”

Reaching down, Tavo extracted from the twisted sheets a red lace thong, held it up, raising his eyebrow.

“Huh,” said Mav, sheepish. “How’d that get here?”

“You didn’t hook up with Chloe again, right? She’s trouble. You know that.”

“Brah.”

Tavo lifted his hands. “Okay, man. Whatever. We gotta get back, right? Wheels up at noon?”

Maverick agreed, and Tavo left casting him a look that Maver ick couldn’t read. Maverick puked one more time, then ordered a huge greasy breakfast from room service, got in the shower, and tried to feel human.

When he got back to the phone, it was full of text notifications. Chloe.

Hey look, last night. It wasn’t cool.

The next text was just a picture, her bloodied and swollen lip. Another: big purple fingerprint marks on her arm.

What? No. He did not do that. He grappled for memories of the evening. All he remembered was pleasure, her soft skin, her breath in his ear, his cock in her mouth. He’d been accused of a lot of things in this life, most of them true. But not this. He would never, ever physically hurt a woman. Never.

I’m keeping these pictures.

I have to give this some thought. I have to decide what to do next.

Then there was a notice that he had a PopTalk message.

Chloe.

He clicked on her video message. She stared intently into the camera, her lip puffed up, looking swollen and painful. “You owe me, Mav.”

The thing about PopTalk messages was that they disappeared right after you watched them. No replay, no record, no screenshots. It was just there, then gone.

You owe me, Mav.

“Mav, are you with me?” said Hector now, still waiting for his answer.

He wanted to spill it all, everything that had happened since that night. But it was so ugly, he just couldn’t get it out. If Hector hated him, Maverick wouldn’t know what to do.

“We’ll be okay,” he said again, patting Hector on the shoulder. He pushed away everything about Chloe, about Alex; it was behind a thick concrete wall inside him. “We always are, right?”

Hector looked like he was about to say something else, then just nodded. There was something odd about the way he looked at Maverick.

“Yeah, man,” he said. “Sure.”

Maverick adjusted his body cam and geared up. As soon as Tavo and Angeline got back, they’d go find the hiders. He couldn’t do it without them.

Where were they?