“Of course. It’s a really long drive from New York. You both must be dead on your feet,” Carl says.

I squirrel away yet another scrap of information that I might need later. Rebel’s father and his employees think he calls New York home. They probably think he’s some big city hot shot, living it up in some high-rise penthouse apartment or something, when the ironic truth is that he lives in a secluded cabin in the middle of the desert. About as far from New York as you can get, really.

I still can’t get over the name. Jamie. He didn’t look surprised when Carl called him that—like he was expecting it to happen and couldn’t care less. I think I know him better than that now, though. He’s secretive. Every small fragment of information I know about him is hard won. And he still never told me how old he was. I have to be close with my guess of twenty-nine, though. He certainly doesn’t look much older than that.

Carl squeezes my hand again, smiling warmly. “Well, all right then. I’ll go and move that beast of a car before your daddy sees it, Jay. Your room is still where it’s always been, son.” He slips back outside, pulling the door closed behind him, leaving Jay and me behind. I curve an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to speak.

“Louis James Aubertin the third,” he says, his mouth pulling down at the corners. “My grandfather refused to call me Louis, though—hated my father—so he called me Jamie. Or Jay.” He reaches out absently, touching his fingertips to the petals of a bunch of flowers sitting on a small pedestal at the base of the stairs. “It kind of stuck,” he says. “My father refused to call me Louis anyway. Said I wasn’t strong enough to carry the name.”

I give him a small smile, not sure how I’m supposed to react. “Louis James Aubertin the third. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it? I prefer Jamie.” I don’t know why I say this. It’s not my job to make him feel better. I owe him nothing, but…I don’t know. It’s so hard to explain. Every single hour I spend with him leads me away from hating him, and feeling…what? God, it’s too complicated to even try and put a name on it.

“Thank you,” he says, his eyes resting on me. They seem less hard. Less fierce, somehow. “I prefer Rebel, though.”

“Why Rebel?”

A small crease forms in between his brows. He stares at the flowers, stroking his fingers over their delicate petals, being so, so gentle. “Jamie was before. Jamie was an honorable man. Rebel…” He looks at me, wearing a small, almost sad smile. “Rebel does what he has to. Come on. We need to make ourselves scarce.”

“Why?”

“Because the very worst thing you can do to my father, besides be me, is interrupt him during dinner. Better we see him tomorrow than disturb him while he’s shoving food into his fucking face.” Rebel holds out his hand. Such a strange thing to do. It’s as though being here, around Carl and his impeccable manners, has changed him slightly. I take his hand, feeling conflicted. This situation is bizarre, to say the least. I don’t remember the last time I felt this confused. A part of me wants to go back on my word and tell anyone who will listen that I’m here against my will. But another part of me is beginning to…is beginning to trust the man now guiding me up the wide staircase, toward god knows what.

He hasn’t hurt me.

He hasn’t lied to me as far as I can tell.

He hasn’t abused me in any way, aside from being incomprehensibly annoying when the mood takes him.

For the time being, and for the sake of my sanity, I’m choosing to believe that he’s still an honorable man. That after all of this is over and we’ve driven back to New Mexico, he will let me go.

Rebel doesn’t let go of my hand when we reach the top of the stairs. He walks briskly down a long, well-lit hallway that branches off to the left, hurrying, as though he doesn’t want to linger. I realize why when I look at the walls.

Photos of him. Everywhere.

Photos of him in a football uniform. Much younger. Unsmiling. Photos of him in a graduation gown, cap perfectly straight on his head. Still unsmiling. Another picture, with another diploma in his hand—I see the name of the institute printed on the mounting of the picture, and my head starts spinning. “Massachusetts Institute of Technology? You went to MIT?”

“I did,” he says. He doesn’t stop walking. The muscles in his jaw are jumping like crazy.

“Wow.” We pass more and more photos. Images of Rebel, sans his tattoos, shirtless and holding trophies, swimming trophies, still unsmiling. As we near the end of the hallway, the photos on the wall change dramatically. They’re not of Rebel the over-achiever. Rebel the sporting hero. They’re of Rebel the soldier. I try to slow, to look properly, but he tightens his grip, walking faster. “Will you—will you just stop!” I rip my hand free, backing up a few paces so I can look at the walls properly.

For some reason, my heart is hammering in my chest as I take it all in. The first picture of him is in a dress uniform, buttons shining brightly, hat placed firmly on his head. Unlike in his other pictures, there’s a quiet sense of pride lurking in those cool blue eyes of his. He looks so young. Just a baby. “How old are you here?” I whisper.

Rebel sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. His expression is tired as he joins me in front of the photograph, his chest so close to my back I can feel the heat of him radiating into me. “Fifteen,” he says. “I went to a military school.”