Page 102 of Savage Roses
Dad sets up camp in a chair by the window, insisting he’ll keep watch through the night.
“They’ll never stop trying,” he claims, peering through a narrow part in the curtain. “They’re trying to track you down as we speak.”
I hum in answer, completely spent and depleted after the last twelve hours. If the Neptune Society were to bust the door down and raid our motel room, I couldn’t put up a fight. I can barely hold my head up.
“It’s time we talk about Salvatore, Delphi. That you finally know the truth about him and his family,” Dad says suddenly. A grim expression sprawls onto his face. “I know this is not what you want to hear… but it’s for the best that he’s gone.”
“No,” I whisper, feeling shaky. I sit up on the bed. “You’re not doing this to me. Not right now. How dare you?”
“You think you love him. You think he loved you. But if you only knew the truth—”
“HOW DARE YOU?” I howl in an eruption of anger, jumping up. “I’ve just lost him and you think now’s the time to bring up your pathetic feud?! How could you… I should’ve known… I shouldn’t have left with you. I’d rather be out there alone being hunted down by the Neptune Society than deal with you and your pitiful vendetta!”
“It’s important that you know Salvatore was out to hurt you. His whole family is involved, Delphi. Leandro and Lucius and Vol—”
“He’s dead—DEAD!” I scream over him until I’m lightheaded and swaying on my feet. Angry tears stream down my face and my breathings out of control. “I wish it were you. I wish it were you instead of Jon. Why couldn’t it have been you?”
I don’t feel bad for the harsh words. After all the lies, all the deception, and pain he’s put me through, he doesn’t get to try and manipulate me about Salvatore. Mere hours after I’ve found out he’s likely dead.
The lightheadedness goes nowhere. The room begins to feel like it’s shifting. I sit back down on the bed.
Dad finally takes the hint with a resigned sigh. “Suit yourself. You refuse to know the truth. Just… just get some rest.”
Even if I wanted to stay up, if I wanted to leave out of protest, I’m physically unable. I’ve reached my limit. My body won’t allow it as my head touches the lumpy pillow and I’m out cold for hours. The last thing I remember is Dad at the window, peeking out with a creased brow at the parking lot. What seems like the next moment, I’m groggily rolling over to an empty motel room swamped in shadows.
The only clue it’s morning comes from the light peeking through the edges of the curtains and the space beneath the motel door.
Where’s Dad?
I sit up, yawning, my body sore.
A few hours of sleep has me feeling significantly more put together, though on the inside I’m a volatile wreck over everything that’s happened.
Crawling out of bed, I wander into the bathroom for a quick shower. Dad hasn’t returned by the time I emerge a few minutes later, wearing the same sweater and jeans I left the safe house in. What could be going on? Where could he possibly—
The key card for our door lights up and the door itself flies open. Dad darts inside and slams the door shut. He’s panting, sweat staining his v-neck sweater and beading along his brow.
“They’re here,” he huffs. “They’ve found us.”
“What? How?”
“There’s no time. We have to get out of here. Come. Now.”
I don’t have a chance to grab anything. I flee only a few steps behind him with the same speechless shock that had seized me yesterday when the safehouse was under attack. We dash across the cratered parking lot at the same moment the familiar white vans screech onto the scene.
The Neptune Society wastes no time letting us know they’re not playing games; as we make it to the car, they open fire, narrowly missing us.
“I should’ve known they’d find us here,” Dad pants, jamming the key in the ignition. “We should’ve left earlier, but I was trying to let you rest.”
“Rest? When we’re being hunted by some extremely powerful club of elites? You should’ve woke me up!”
“No time for arguing. Hold tight.”
I grip the overhead handle as Dad stomps his foot on the gas and we spin out of the motel parking lot.
There seems to be no rhyme or reason to where we’re going. We’re hustling down a street with a sign that reads 45 mph, doing an easy 65.
We cut cars off and run a red-light to honks from a semi-truck that narrowly avoids colliding with us.