Page 8 of Rio (Redcars #3)

FIVE

Lyric

Every time I woke up a little worse—or at least, more drugged up—I said the same thing to whoever would listen. Don’t tell anyone I’m here. The fear was real—bone-deep, blood-deep. Don’t write it down, don’t use your phones, don’t speak my name where it could echo. It will find me.

And every time, someone different was there. I started mixing up their faces—Robbie, Jamie, someone else I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell who I’d pleaded with and who had sat there, nodding, calming me as if I were a scared animal. Where the hell was my backbone?

They all told me the same thing: I was safe. For now. Not forever. Not even tomorrow. Just right now .

None of them were cruel. They helped me, watched over me through the night, brought water, meds, and more blankets. But each of them had questions written all over their faces—Who was I running from? Why did I know Kessler? Was I a threat to them? What had I done?

All the names on my watchlist had been exposed: an ADA, a senator, and federal agents, all blamed on me for the release of information, but I hadn’t fucking done it.

K: What the fuck did you do!

K: Fuck, Lyric. You idiot.

K: You’re burning its world. It’s going to kill you.

I had to figure out how to convince Jamie that I was the good guy here—anything to stay alive a little longer. This wasn’t a game; this was me throwing myself on their mercy and asking for help, and I had to figure it out fast because, sooner or later, they were going to expect answers.

I’d understood the risk of trying to find Jamie, knowing they could hand me over—although they seemed to want to talk first. No one mentioned the bounty, but it felt as if it were a matter of time. I could see it in their eyes.

And now it was Rio’s turn to babysit.

Hovering in the doorway and staring right at me.

He was big. Tattooed arms, dark eyes, darker hair.

His skin was warm-toned, golden in a way that made him look sunbaked, carved from heat and hard labor.

He was wearing overalls, pulled to his waist, with the sleeves tied loose around his hips.

The red T-shirt he wore clung to his chest, worn soft and thin, with a faded logo.

Redcars was where I’d ended up, so I guessed that was what it said.

He was a man who exuded power and could easily have snapped my neck.

My hand went to my throat without thinking, fingers brushing the bruises blooming there as ugly, living reminders.

When I glanced up, Rio was watching me. There was something in his eyes—something I couldn’t name.

Regret? Fear? It passed too quickly for me to pin it down.

He carried two mugs in one hand and a plate stacked high with cookies in the other. He walked over as if nothing about this situation was strange, and without a word, he placed a coffee and a single cookie on the side table next to me. Then, he stared at me.

“Cream? Sugar?” he asked, abrupt as a slap.

“Black,” I said. Though, whether I could drink it was another question entirely. My skin was itchy, and I felt warm, my head still a mess.

He didn’t answer, but nodded once, as if that were acceptable. Then: “Eat the cookie. Drink the coffee.”

I tried to sit up, pain slicing through me, and my vision whited out, so I gave up, slumping back against the pillows, breath stuttering.

I hated it—I couldn’t run if I couldn’t even walk, for fuck’s sake.

A quiet curse followed—Rio, low and grumbling—and then, he was there, helping me up.

One arm around my back, the other steadying my arm.

He smelled of motor oil and soap. Sweat and leather. Something else beneath it all—anger, maybe. Or adrenaline that never fully left his system. The kind of scent that said I could hurt you —but for some reason, right now, he didn’t.

He held me steady until I was upright, then gestured at the mug.

“Later,” I managed.

My body felt like a roadmap of pain, and I catalogued each stop.

Head—throbbing, maybe a five. Throat—burning, swollen, a nine at least. Ribs— sharp and unforgiving every time I breathed too deep.

That was a solid seven. Back—aching from the angle I’d been lying in, a dull, consistent five.

Everything else blurred together in a haze of discomfort, making my skin crawl and stretch too tight.

This wasn’t like any of the other times I’d been hurt. This was heat and infection.

I didn’t say any of that. Just kept my hand curled near the coffee, pretending as if I might drink it soon. Rio didn’t move, didn’t sit, didn’t speak. Instead, he watched me as if I were a puzzle he didn’t want to solve, but had to anyway.

Eventually, he pulled out the chair in the corner -- the one angled as if it had been dragged there on purpose -- and dropped into it.

His body sprawled as if he was a big cat pretending it wasn’t ready to pounce.

He stared into his coffee; hands wrapped around the mug as though it were the only warm thing he trusted in the room.

I might’ve thought he was relaxed if I hadn’t seen the tension threaded through him. The stubborn tilt of his jaw. The way his fingers flexed every so often, as if they were remembering something that didn’t go down easy. This wasn’t a man at rest. This was a man waiting—coiled, quiet, dangerous.

Just like me .

He wanted me to tell him everything, but my head ached, a deep, dragging pulse behind my eyes.

What I really wanted was an hour’s sleep without pain or questions.

Then maybe I’d have the strength to think my story through, to hide the bad parts.

Win them over so they gave me a place to stop and think.

So, I gave myself time. I reached for the cookie. My hand trembled, and I fucking hated that. I nibbled the edge. My lip burned instantly, and I flinched. Reached up. The skin was split. I didn’t remember that happening.

I remembered the car crash. I recalled the gun.

My body reminded me of the bullet slicing into my side—hot, tearing, shock more than pain.

I remembered making it the last thirty miles or so, and I remembered Rio’s weight pinning me to a wall -- brutal, like being caught under a landslide -- his hands around my throat.

But the split lip? That detail escaped me.

It felt important somehow. The things I remembered versus the ones I didn’t.

The memory gaps weren’t clean—they had jagged edges, as if something had ripped them out too fast. My bladder protested that I needed to move, and I felt nauseous, so I replaced the cookie on the plate.

Time to pull every scrap of sympathy from Rio I could find.

It wasn’t an act. Not really. Just the only card I had left.

“Bathroom,” I said, my voice scratchy.

Rio flicked a glance at the door. “It’s right out there.”

I tried to swing my legs off the bed, but the catheter tugged in my arm, pain flared through my ribs, and I gave up far sooner than I should have, with a curse and, then, a whimper.

“Need… piss,” I managed.

Rio walked over to the bed with his mug still in hand. He set it on the table by mine, and I saw the flicker of confusion cross his face.

“Not in… Mug ,” I croaked, horrified.

His brows lifted a little. “Wasn’t offering it. I’ll help you,” he said.

That shut me up because it was the first thing he’d said that wasn’t a command. It was almost… gentle. Not soft. Never soft. But something like understanding flickered there, quickly buried. Had he bought my neediness?

Rio stepped closer, unhooked the drip from the stand, then bent and scooped me up as if it was nothing. One arm under my knees, the other behind my back. Honeymoon style .

I hated the squeak that came out of me, but there was no helping it.

The shift in position sent pain lancing through my ribs and made my head spin.

But more than that, it was the shock. The sheer heat of him, the strength in his arms, the fact someone so steady was handling me as if I weighed nothing. He hadn’t even hesitated.

My heart hammered. Not fear. Not exactly.

Just… too much. I wriggled, he tightened his grip briefly, I yelped, he cursed, but somehow, in all of that, we were at the bathroom door.

I catalogued the new part of this building that I was being shown.

At least one floor up, and I’d checked for an exit, but there was nothing apart from the stairs and a door leading to the fire escape.

Even now, too weak to stand—I was checking routes out of here.

The window. The angle of the chair Rio had dragged closer.

I wasn’t ready to bolt. I wouldn’t make it on the stairs.

But that didn’t stop me. It never stopped me.

Survival had forced me to learn things I never imagined I’d need to know.

It was always running in the background—calculating, preparing for the moment I could run.

“I’ll hold you,” he said as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

I’m not pissing with him holding me. “No,” I muttered, horrified .

He snorted. “Whatever, princess. Can you stand?”

He set me down carefully, letting go, and I immediately pitched forward, my knees buckling under me like wet paper.

He caught me, arms steady, not even grunting at the effort, and then—as if it was no big deal—he held me.

One arm around my waist, the other braced across my chest, keeping me upright.

I was in a pair of boxers and a too-large T-shirt, and I could feel the heat of him behind me, solid and unyielding. He stood there, supporting my weight, while I awkwardly fumbled to fish myself out. My hands shook. My body ached. The humiliation sat heavy in my chest.

I hoped—prayed—that the whole situation would make my bladder shy.

It didn’t.

I pissed like a racehorse.

And still… he held me.

Not a word. Not a joke. No judgment. Just an unwavering, patient presence.

When I was done, he didn’t let go as he waited for me to tuck away, then guided me to the sink, his hand firm on my back.

He turned the faucet on, squeezed soap into my palm, waited while I washed, then handed me a towel. Dried my hands for me when I started swaying .

Then, without asking, he scooped me back into his arms, the same as before. No hesitation. No effort.

A wall of heat and strength, carrying me back to bed.

“Thank… you,” I said before my breath caught as he laid me down and re-hooked the IV.

He adjusted the pillow behind my head in silence and pulled the blanket up as if it were routine, and his expression didn’t change.

Stoic. Controlled. And I wondered if anything I said would make a dent.

But I saw something flicker in the way his eyes moved, the way his jaw twitched, the way he hesitated a second longer than he needed to.

“Thanks,” I said again, quieter this time, meaning it.

Still, no reaction other than the faintest shift in his expression, not quite a frown, not quite a smile, before he turned and walked back to the chair in the corner.

And that was all I was getting. No smile, no thanks, no reassurance. Maybe, that was his version of care—stoicism wrapped in action.

Silence wasn’t something I could worry about. Not with the way my body ached, not with how heavy my limbs were getting. Thankfully, the younger guy—Robbie—appeared like a ghost, knocking and offering a quiet smile, holding out more medication.

I took them without protest, swallowing them with juice, the effort enough to make my eyes water. And then, I was sinking. Not into fear or doubt, but into the weightless haze of sleep, the only thing I could do with a body covered in bruises and a mind teetering on the edge of too much.

The last thing I saw was Rio, back in that chair, staring at me as if he could read my mind. I hoped that he couldn’t because then he’d see me for the man I’d become, and he’d kill me where I lay for millions of dollars.

I woke to voices. An argument, maybe. It filtered in through the fog of pain and meds, a muffled tension that made my skin crawl. I kept my eyes closed and tried to relax into the ache. Easier said than done.

“We need to talk,” Rio said, his voice low and rough.

“No one knows he’s here,” another voice shot back—Jamie, I thought. He sounded defensive, on edge. “You don’t get to decide what happens to him on your own.”

“Would be easy to make him disappear,” Rio said. Cold. Flat. Just logistics .

A job.

A third voice chimed in, softer and more measured, with a polished cadence that made me think of suits and control. The tall man. Kieran? Or something like that.

“If he has anything to do with Kessler, we need to know.”

There was a pause. Long. Heavy.

I had nothing to do with Kessler now—unless I counted trying to stay alive and away from him. I thought that part of my life was a bad dream I’d finally clawed my way out of. But hearing his name, hearing the doubt in their voices, it twisted inside me.

“And if he is, then we get the information we need, and if he’s a danger to Robbie, then I’ll kill him,” Rio added calmly.

I held my breath. My heart thudded hard in my chest, and I wondered if they could hear it—if the sound of my fear was loud enough to give me away. I stayed as still as I could and prayed the blanket would hide my shaking. The voices didn’t stop. If anything, they grew louder.

“I knew him,” Jamie insisted, and I could hear the tension rising. “From way back when he was a stupid kid obsessed with gaming, same as me.”

“You knew someone online,” Rio snapped. “You don’t know him . You knew a handle, a screen, a fucking picture or whatever.”

“Avatar,” Jamie interjected.

“What the fuck ever, J. That’s not the same.”

The third voice—Killian—was sharp. “It doesn’t matter who you think he is. If he is linked to Kessler’s LyricNight system and has information Kessler would kill to protect, then we need to find out.”

“Then, we need to fucking ask him,” Rio fired back.

“The LyricNight AI system is connected to human trafficking, tech siphoning, and that’s only what we’ve uncovered so far. So, we get answers,” Killian said. “And then if it turns out he’s involved with Kessler? You make a decision as to how we get rid of him.”

“And if he’s not?”

There was a pause, colder than the rest.

“With a contract on him, he’s putting the rest of us in danger just by being here.”

“Not here with my family. He needs to go,” Rio said.

“No!” That was it. My whole body locked tight. Something twisted in my chest, and I sat up, too fast, the world tilting with the effort. My voice was hoarse but loud. “Please… No! ”

I don’t want to die.

The room went silent, and all three men stared at me.

I felt so fucking sick, hot all over, something was wrong with me, and I closed my eyes.

After all this running and hiding, this couldn’t be how my life ended.