Thunder.

  His bike sounds different, too. He must've made some changes to better fit with his nickname, because now it's loud as hell.

  Maddy quickly turns away from me, hiding the emotion that had been on her face just moments before. "Time's up."

  But I'm not ready to let go of things just yet; I take a step closer, so close that I can feel her breath on my face. I brush a strand of her hair out of her eyes and tuck it behind her ear.

  "Thanks for a great morning, Maddy. Don’t ever forget: I’m in this for you. You are what’s important to me.”

  She smiles softly, her cheeks turn a light shade of pink. "I know. I’m grateful. And thanks for talking with me about my paper. I don't get that opportunity, except in class. No one else really cares to listen. But explaining things to you, answering your questions, just talking to you... it helped me figure something out. "

  My eyes widen. "Something about your paper?"

  I don't see how that could be possible—math and I mix about as well as water and motor oil.

  “Not about my paper."

  The door to the lighthouse opens and Thunder enters, killing the moment. He laughs loud enough to match his road name. "I ain't interrupting, am I? Should I get out of here and do a long ride around the block?"

  Maddy shakes her head again, and a few stray chestnut hairs brush my face.

  Slowly, she steps back and gives me one last smile.

  "Not at all. Jackson was just leaving."

  I grunt and turn, nodding hello to Thunder as I head to the door.

  "Oh, and Jackson..." Maddy's voice brings me to a stop in the doorway. "Thanks for all your help. It really was enlightening."

  "Bullet, you helped Maddy the genius out with her homework?" Thunder says, incredulous.

  "He helped me get closer to answering a very important question," she says cryptically. "Take care, Jackson."

  "Holy fuck, Bullet's a genius, too," Thunder muses. "A genius who likes to get shot. How do you reconcile that?"

  "I won’t be the only one who gets shot if you keep talking like that, Thunder,” I reply. “Take care, Maddy. I’ll see you in sixteen hours.”

  Then I step outside and climb on my bike.

  It roars awake in a way that sounds more alive, more vital, than it has in a very long time.

  When I get on the road, I smile, crank the accelerator, stand up on my bike and let loose with a whoop that echoes for miles.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Madison

  The days pass in silence. Shifts rotate. My thesis develops, grows, refines until something that exceeds even my exacting standards sits glowing in a twelve-point pixelated font on my laptop screen. But the best thing of all is that, every sixteen hours, I get to spend eight with a man who, despite all my smarts, every scrap of logic I can muster, every attempt I make to remind myself of the very obvious fact that he is, at best, a fatal complication to my future, cuts through every argument I can muster with a smile, a glance, or a stray touch.

  I know I said I wouldn't; I know I shouldn't; I know I can't; but I can't stop myself—I love him.

  Love him because he cuts through all my resistances without trying.

  Just by treating me the way he does, how none of the other men in my life do: like I matter.

  It's a shift change.

  Days into what I've started to call my 'lighthouse sabbatical' and Jackson has just arrived to take over from the always-taciturn Rook, who hasn't said a single word since he arrived beyond telling me to sit, be quiet, and raise my hand to be acknowledged if I have something urgent to say. Needless to say, it's been eight hours of working solely on my paper and feeling like I'm back in elementary school detention.

  "How was she, Rook?" Jackson says as he comes through the door, carrying a duffel bag that, if I know him, contains some takeaway from one of my favorite restaurants in Costa Oscura—either a little Vietnamese joint called 'Let's Pho-geddaboutit' which does New York-Vietnamese fusion sandwiches and a Matzah ball Pho that is out of this world, or an Italian restaurant called Bella Notte that does divine Neapolitan-style pizzas—along with a cooler of cold-brew coffee, cold beer, chilled wine, and probably a moisturizing face mask or two, because the air in this lighthouse is just wreaking havoc on my skin.

  "Not terrible," Rook answers, coolly flipping a page in the newspaper he's been reading for the last few hours.

  "Aw, Rook, thank you so much. You know, I feel like we've really bonded this last shift," I say. "That may be the kindest thing you've ever said to me. I'm really touched."

  "Cherish it."

  "Oh, I will. Can I give you credit on my thesis paper? Your kindness and support means the world to me. None of this would've happened without you here to inspire me to focus solely on my paper with your glowering, menacing silence."

  I'm trying to be sarcastic, but even talking about my thesis paper puts a smile on my face. I'm just three days away from being able to send it in to my professor, days away from being done with this long journey, and I am so excited and proud of that fact.

  "Glad to be of service," he grumbles, giving me a grim look over the top of his newspaper. "Bullet, are you ready to take over staring at this girl?"

  My eyes drift to Bullet; his have been on me this entire time.

  "Ready. You can go, Rook,” he says.

  "'Bout damn time, Bullet. You were five minutes late this shift. That's five extra minutes you owe me, so I'm going to take that extra time with my Eliza later. Thunder can cover for me."

  "Whatever, Rook. It's just five minutes.”

  "Five extra minutes without her feels like a fucking lifetime, so don't you 'it's just five minutes' me. You're lucky I'm in such a good mood this morning that I felt like covering for you. Next time, you won't be so lucky. Next time, I am out the fucking door as soon as my shift is over."

  "Feeling chatty this morning, Rook?" I say. That might've been the longest string of words I've ever heard him put together.

  He snorts at me. "Go back to playing your video games, girl. See you in sixteen hours and five minutes. Try to stay out of trouble until then."

  I roll my eyes at the grump. "Bye, Rook. Love you, too."

  Bullet's phone rings, cutting me off and stopping Rook in his tracks before he can leave. Bullet snatches his phone out of his pocket, frowning at the screen.

  "It ain't Thunder," he says.

  "Who is it?"

  “Only one other person it could be.” Bullet holds the phone to his ear, coughs, and speaks in a low, grumbling voice. "Yeah?"

  I catch the faintest hint of the voice on the other end of the line, and flinch as if someone screamed in my ear.

  "Alexander Covington," Bullet says. Immediately, a chill runs through me. It is fear and excitement; this is the moment that has dominated my future for days upon days, the lynchpin upon which my life hangs. "I was wondering if you were going to work up the guts to call. I hope that the number on the ransom note didn't scare you too much."

  Alexander's voice rises on the other end of the line. Though I can't make out the words, I can make out the intent; I've heard him use that voice with some of his men before when things didn't entirely go his way. If I shut my eyes, I can picture his contorted face: the angry veins that throb in his forehead and throat, the eyes that bulge with rage, the tongue that spits the most degrading, dehumanizing words at everyone he considers his lesser—which is anyone without the last name Covington.

  "Cool it, Alex," Bullet says.

  My eyes go wide.

  For ego's sake, Alexander never goes by 'Alex.' I made the mistake of using that name once and it provoked an ages-long tirade about why he would ever want to reduce his already perfect name.

  I hear a click.

  It’s not the phone being hung up, but the sound of Alexander's jaws clacking shut.

  A second of silence falls.

  Bullet smirks. "Are you done stewing in your britches, Alex? Are you ready to talk? Because I have something valuable that you want. That's why you called, right? Or are you just wanting to have a conversation with a grown man who won't take your bullshit?"

  My heart jumps in my chest, and I give Bullet a warning look. I know my fiance; there's only so much you can provoke him before logic, reason, and cost-benefit analysis goes out the window. Thankfully, I've never seen that point in person, but I've heard rumors about it. Heard things his bodyguards have said when they think I'm not listening. I have no desire for Bullet to run into that version of my fiance, especially in a negotiation as delicate as this one.

  A look over at Rook reveals similar thoughts clearly on his face. He doesn't have the same emotional stake in this hostage situation as Bullet or I do—he also probably doesn't have the gift with words to even have a negotiation that goes beyond a few sentences—but I debate trying to politely, and quietly, suggest Bullet hand the phone over to him.

  Alexander answers with a few muttered syllables.

  "Why don't we get down to business, Alexander?" Bullet says.

  A few words of assent come through the phone.

  "You've read our demands. I'm guessing you have the money together and now you'd like to know how to pay. Is that right?"

  Something I can't make out comes through the line.

  Bullet's eyes narrow. He frowns. "Did I hear that right? Say that again."

  Alexander says something.

  Bullet's frown deepens.

  "You're joking," he says. "You're fucking joking."

  Alexander's voice rises through the receiver just enough that I can make it out. Triumphant. Mocking. Gloating. "I've done the math,” he says. “I have people for this, you low-life scum. People far smarter than you, or even that know-it-all bitch I'm engaged to. They tell me that the bump in public opinion and sympathy that I'd receive by being a victim of a tragic crime is considerable."

  "Are you really fucking saying what I think you're saying?" Jackson says, incredulous. "You will not pay? You want us to kill your fiance?"

  I'm not breathing. I'm hoping this is a joke. That it's just one of Alexander's pathetic power plays, some tragic tactic to regain the upper hand. It has to be.

  But Alexander's answer comes through loud and clear, and his tone is anything but joking—it is confident, cocky, exultant.

  "I'm saying that my fiance has often annoyed me with her pathetic behavior. I'm saying that I love money more than I love her. So if you want to do me a favor and kill that bitch, go right ahead."

  Jackson's mouth hangs open in surprise.

  My heart wants to hammer through my ribs and run away, probably to hide somewhere far from here, where it won't have to deal with feeling like my entire world is coming apart.

  Everything hinges on what happens next and Jackson looks entirely dumbstruck at Alexander's response. He was supposed to agree to our demands. He was supposed to pay the ransom. He was not supposed to tell my kidnappers to murder me.

  I have to act.

  I have to save this negotiation.

  There's only one thing I can do—I grab my pen, my notepad, and I write.

  Only a desperate gambit can save us now.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bullet

  While I stand there stunned that this upper-class dickwad could so easily choose money over Madison, a note gets shoved into my hand. I read it.

  Blink.

  Read it again.

  It's fucking brilliant.

  "So, are you going to kill her for me, you pathetic gutter-dwelling savage?" He says.

  "Guess I will kill her for you, Alexander Covington," I say. "Just to be clear, that's who I'm talking to, right?"

  "Yes."

  "That your full name?"

  "Are you a fucking moron? Yes, this is Alexander Aurelius Covington. Now, are you going to spare both of us the time and aggravation and do what you said you were going to do?"

  I read the note again and chuckle in anticipation of dropping Maddy's brilliant bomb on Alexander. "Sure, Alex," I say, leaning into the name and chuckling again at the frustrated scoffing noise he makes. "I'll kill her for you. Save you that money that you so very much care about. There's one thing you should know about first: I've been recording this call. All of it."

  "So?"

  "So, when I kill your fiance, as you so desperately want, I'm going to leave her body right in front of city hall with a copy of this recording taped to it. I'll also send it out to all the newspapers and news stations on the West Coast, as well as CNN, the Times, NPR, the Washington Post, the works. Everyone will learn that you put your wallet above the life of the woman that you told everyone—in public, even as recent as that ridiculous TED Talk you gave—was your intellectual inspiration and most loving supporter. What do you think that will do to your popularity then, Alex? You think it'll have an impact? I bet it might affect the Covington Corporation's stock price, too."

  His intake of breath is audible.

  "Don't."

  I laugh again. "You made your bed, Alex. It's too late."

  I go silent, waiting, relishing the sound of the prick stewing in his impotence.

  "Please," he bites.

  I savor that word coming from his lips and have to bite back the urge to insult him, make him beg, the way he did to me all those years ago. Doing so could ruin everything we’ve worked for—he’d know it was me in a minute—but it would almost be worth it. "Please what?"

  "Please don't kill her. I'll pay."

  "Oh, you'll pay?" I say. "What changed your mind?"

  "Fuck you. You know why." He pauses, stewing, maybe snapping his fingers quietly to fetch a butler to change his diaper, or whatever rich man-babies like him do when someone teaches them a lesson. "I want proof of life."

  I pause, my eyes naturally going to Madison. She has such a gorgeously smug look on her face. She knows she helped me bend her fiance over a barrel and smack his pasty rich ass. "Proof of life? I sent you the fucking video. What more do you want? Another video of me with her? I wouldn't mind putting my hands on her gorgeous body. She sure has a great ass on her. I would love to see her work it over my cock."

  With each word out of my mouth, I can hear Alexander nearly having a seizure on the other end of the line. To a prick like him, I can kill Madison as long as she's not worth anything to him, but the second she's costing him money? Yeah, I better not touch the merchandise.

  "Don't. Just let me talk to her for a second, please."

  Please. He used the 'p' word again. He must be broken.

  "You want to talk to her?" I say, my eyes looking at Madison for an answer.

  Hers go wide. For a second, I fear she'll say 'no.' Not that I'd blame her—if I were her, there's no way I could pretend to be so scared that I'd be eager to get back to Alexander Covington. I could literally be roasting in hell, and if Alexander called to ransom me, but wanted to talk to me first, I'd say 'New phone. Who dis?'

  Finally, Maddy nods and I hand the phone over to her.

  "Alexander? Is that really you?" She says, somehow making her voice sound both warm and excited to talk to that festering anal sore. "Oh, I've missed you so much."

  He says something then that leaves a look of unease on Maddy's face. I strain my ears, but a lifetime of being around motorcycles and the occasional sound of gunfire means my hearing isn't nearly as great as Maddy's.

  She notices me trying to listen.

  "So you don't have the money right now. You need time to get it together? Well, why not just talk to your father? Oh, I see," she says, then pauses while the mumbling noise coming through the receiver tells me Alexander's going on some long-winded explanation of the financial system to his fiance, as if she isn't a fucking expert in the subject. "I see. Yes, I understand what liquid assets are. Yes, I understand it can take time. No, I'm not questioning you." While the call goes on, I see Madison's formerly triumphant mood change to one of pain, anguish, and degradation. That motherfucking asshole doesn't deserve her. He doesn't even deserve to live on the same continent as her.

  The berating continues while I watch, silent.

  A glance to my left shows Rook with a look of fury blooming on his face, matching my own.

  Finally, Madison meekly says, "Yes, Alexander. I understand. Sorry for questioning you. I'll give them back the phone."

  I take it. Without waiting for him to speak, I say, "You have our demands. You need time to get the money, fine, but if I even get a hint that you're trying to fuck with us, we will execute your fiance and rain hell down on you and your precious reputation. You have two—"

  That patronizing cockface, he cuts me off.

  "—Three days," he says, brusquely. As if this is some fucking board meeting and he's whipping his cock out to everyone else at the executive table, waving it around, and no one can say a damn thing because his daddy owns the fucking place. "That's how long you'll need to give me if you want your money. Do you understand?"

  I blink. How fucking dare he try to take control of this phone call?

  "Do you understand the consequences of what will happen if you try to pull any shit?"

  "Do you understand it takes time, even for the ultra-wealthy such as myself, to put together the amount of cash that you are asking for? This isn't like when you get paid for your fucking temp job and walk up to the teller to cash your fucking paycheck so you can buy yourself some cheeseburgers at McDonalds. This is real money. More money than you'll ever see in your lifetime. Do you comprehend that? Because if you're too stupid to get it, we are going to have a problem."

  I breathe deep and look over at Madison for support. She has a look on her face like she knows exactly what I'm going through. I'm sure she does. How the fuck did she put up with this guy for four years? Was she waiting for the marriage to go through so she could kill the motherfucker in his sleep and take his money?

  She smiles at me and mouths the words, 'Be calm.'

  'I hate this guy,' I mouth back.