Part Fourteen - Part One

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I really need to stop thinking about Scott.

But how can I, when he peels off his shirt and wraps it around his waist? The sunlight glints off his back muscles, making every flex and shift mesmerizing.

We trudge through what feels like hours of relentless heat, my legs on the verge of collapse. Scott suddenly stops, and I glare at the back of his shirt.

"Hey Squirrel," Scott's voice carries a note of urgency. "You might want to see this."

I step closer, my brow knitted in confusion, and join him. Before me stretches a vast, sun-scorched plain, almost like a desert.

"No way," I say, shaking my head and turning to walk back. "I'm not risking heat stroke!"

Scott grabs my wrist, his grip firm as he spins me to face him. "We can't just turn back. How are you going to find your way home if you do? Look," he says, rubbing his temple in frustration, "there's a place over there. They might help us."

I cross my arms, skepticism etched on my face. "That's what you said last time, and we nearly got shot!"

He meets my eyes with a steady gaze, his hands gently cupping my face. "We can handle this," he says with quiet conviction. "I believe we can."

Reluctantly, I follow him into the blinding sun, grumbling under my breath. I untie the hoodie and use it to shield my face from the scorching rays.

My breath comes in heavy pants, and Scott glances back, his concern evident.

"You alright?" he asks, brows knitted.

I nod, even though my legs feel like lead. "Yeah," I reply, meeting his gaze. "Just keep moving."

To my surprise, he keeps pace in front of me. I touch my burning cheeks, feeling the intense heat. Just as I'm about to complain about the walk, Scott's voice cuts through, "over there!"

I follow his outstretched arm, spotting a bar-house in the distance. It's bustling with activity; heads and bodies move through the windows.

"Think we can go in?" I ask, spotting a man revving a Harley-Davidson. "They're bikers. They might not be friendly."

Scott chuckles, and I scowl. This is serious, but he seems to treat it lightly. "We're not looking for trouble," he says, brushing off my concern. "We just need directions. They'll know the way out."

I sigh in resignation. As the bar-house looms closer, I grab his hand, and together we jog toward what might be our salvation.

The row of bikes parked outside the bar makes my stomach churn. Music thumps from within, and I force a smile despite the nerves tightening in my chest.

Tattooed men and women spill out of the bar, barely noticing us as they huddle around a table, engaged in an intense arm wrestling match.

Scott tugs at my hand, but I pull back, shaking my head. The scowls on their faces say enough; approaching them could be a bad idea.

Ignoring my protests, Scott drags me inside. The chatter and clinking of glasses hit me like a wall, mingling with the stale scent of beer.

I scan the room, taking in the sea of tattoos—one guy even has them creeping up his face. I shiver. This place feels like a scene from a nightmare.

"Ustedes están perdidos?" A voice cuts through the noise. I turn to see a man with bright blue eyes and olive skin, his stubble giving him a rugged edge.

"Sí," I reply, sitting on a bar stool next to Scott. "We're lost and have no idea where we're going."

The man raises an eyebrow, pausing his counter-wiping. He focuses solely on me, ignoring Scott. "This is a very dangerous place," he warns with a deep Mexican accent, "especially for someone as young and beautiful as you."

What?

My cheeks flush, and Scott shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat. I glance at him; his jaw is set tight. "We need directions out of here," he says firmly. "Seriously, it's been five awful days."

The man's expression turns cold. "Do I look like I want to help?" he snaps, making Scott frown.

"Please," I say, leaning closer to the counter. "My mother's probably worried sick. We wouldn't ask for help if we didn't need it."

The man's stern look softens, and he grins, revealing a row of white teeth. He ducks behind the counter and emerges with two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila.

"Looks like you need this," he says, handing us the glasses.

I shake my head. "No thanks," I say, trying to smile. "We don't have any money."

His blue eyes lock onto mine, and a strange flutter stirs in my stomach. "It's on the house," he says, nodding. "No worries, amigo."

I take the glass, throw back the tequila, and grimace as the burn lingers. Holding my fist to my mouth, I complain, "uh, no thanks. That was awful."

Scott downs his shot without flinching. The bartender rolls his eyes and pours another round.

I gape at Scott. "Okay, you alien, how did you not flinch?"

He laughs. "I've been to enough college parties for this to be like water," he says nonchalantly.

"You're an alcoholic," I tease, laughing. I turn to the bartender. "I'm Zayn, and this is my friend, Scott."

The bar noise swells, and motorcycle engines roar outside. I down the second shot, waiting for the man's introduction.

"Alejandro," he says, extending his hand. I place my hand in his, and he lifts it to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "Nice to meet you, Zayn. I'm the owner of this bar, and don't worry, I won't ask for your hand in marriage."

I laugh, cheeks warming as I meet his gaze. "The pleasure is all mine."

"Seriously, baby," Scott cuts in, startling me with the pet name. "Why does everyone like you?"

Is there a hint of jealousy? Scott's hand rests protectively on my waist. I search his eyes and find only jealousy staring back.

Alejandro's gaze feels like it's burning a hole in the side of my head.

"I don't know. Maybe because I'm approachable?" I reply through gritted teeth. "And friendly. Not a know-it-all."

"That's a burn," Alejandro comments. We both look at him, and he raises his hands in surrender. "What? It's true. This one's feisty. I like."

Scott shakes his head. "No, you can't possibly like my boyfriend," he says, turning my head to glare at him. "That wouldn't be fair, now would it?"

I open my mouth to protest when a deep, Mexican voice cuts through the noise. "And what do we have here?" he pauses for dramatic effect. "Americanos."

I turn to see a heavily tattooed man with dark glasses, flanked by two hulking figures who resemble his bodyguards. The chatter around us dies down instantly, and every pair of eyes in the bar is now fixed on us.

I cough, feeling the weight of their gaze, and awkwardly wave a hand. "Hi, we were just passing through."

I crane my neck to look up at him. He stands about seven feet tall, sporting a gray beard and a ring piercing his right eyebrow.

The man on his right is chubby with thick arms, while the man on the left—the one I dub my worst nightmare—looks like he stepped out of a horror movie.

The tall man nods to the chubby one, who steps forward and grabs my upper arm.

"Hey, hey now," I stammer, trying to stay calm as he yanks me into a headlock. "Let's all be rational adults and talk this over, okay? Sound good?"

"Shut up," he growls into my ear, making me flinch.

Scott jumps up from his stool, knocking it over, his face a mask of fury. He charges at the man tightening the headlock around me.

The chubby man takes a step forward. Scott's jaw tightens, and he points at me. "Let him go," he demands, voice low and steady. "We're not looking for trouble. We're just passing through."

Scott might not be in the best position to make demands right now. I bare my teeth as the pressure against my throat intensifies.

"I don't want to cause any trouble," Scott repeats, his voice strained. I roll my eyes, even though I can barely breathe.

Alejandro sighs and shakes his head. "Fernando, please," he pleads. "They're not like the ones before. Let them go. No harm has been done."

Scott turns slightly and points at Alejandro. "That's right. I like this guy," he says, then faces Fernando. "Listen to your brother."

Fernando laughs, spinning a dagger between his fingers. "Nobody likes a smart mouth," he says, running his finger along the blade. "You're in our territory now. And I don't like it when people trespass."

Alejandro shakes his head, frustration evident. "You'll regret this, brother."

"I don't regret anything," Fernando replies coldly, turning back to us. "Papi, Rodrigo—give them a slow death, will you?"

The man behind me chuckles darkly, pulling out a pocket knife. He brandishes it in front of my face, dragging the sharp edge along my cheek. "This is going to be fun," he whispers into my ear, and I instinctively jerk my face away from the blade.

Without warning, Scott's fist connects with the chubby man's face, sending him reeling backward into a table. The impact sends the table crashing to the floor, and the room erupts into chaos.

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A/N:

some drama huh?