Unleashed (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) (88 page)

“Which was your favorite museum?”

“National Gallery,” he says. “Ship wrecks and nudes, right?”

It’s dark now, and the whole city looks different. By the time we got around to having a bite to eat, night had already fallen.

The hours just flew by, and while it wasn’t the most talkative time I’ve ever had with anyone, it was fun.

A release, even, to do normal things and not worry about the impending fight, about how everything is riding on one insane bet.

“Where the hell are we?” I ask, peering around but not recognizing anything.

It’s always like that; you know your way around, roughly, during the day, but once the sun sets, suddenly you can’t remember if you walked down a particular street before. The bouncing street lights, different vibe… it’s easy to get lost at night.

I squeeze Chance’s hand. “Are we going the right way?”

“Depends where we’re going.”

“Uh, to the hotel?”

“Then yes.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, turning around. I don’t really recognize anything, and even worse, it drizzled when we were eating in the small cafe, and so the cobbled-stone street was all shiny, further disorienting me.

I really don’t recognize this street. I see two guys walking a bit behind us, and they’ve got their hoods up. Otherwise, the street is pretty empty. A car potters by, but it’s eerily quiet for what I assume is typically a bustling portion of central London.

“Where are we going, Chance?”

“To the hotel. It’s this way.”

“But I don’t remember walking up this street.”

“You were busy yapping away about something,” he says.

“Shut up,” I say, slapping his arm. “I was not yapping.”

“Semantics.”

“What was I yapping about?”

“Fucked if I know, I wasn’t listening.”

“Dickhead,” I say.

I turn around again, though, and see that the two guys are still there.

“I think they are following us.”

Chance turns, and one of them calls out.

“Got a light, mate?”

Chance stops, and I notice that he isn’t looking so carefree anymore. His face has gone hard, and he steps in front of me, and pulls out his zippo.

“Cheers.”

“No problem,” he says.

“American, are you? Tourists?”

I look at the man now smoking his cigarette, and his friend. They look around our age. They’ve got a sway to them, like they’ve been drinking.

“Yeah,” Chance says.