Nico (The Mavericks Book 8)

seemed compelled to keep doing what she was doing. It had occurred to her that maybe she would be better off to put her words onto paper and to write books that incited people to reconsider their actions and to rethink their places in this world. And she’d made a concerted effort in that direction.
Australia had never been part of her new plans, until she had been coerced to go. She’d been so adamant against coming. She was tired and worn out from her schedule, wanting to just curl up in her cave. But the organizers had already promoted her presence here, saying that, due to a communication mix-up, she had to honor it. It was a long trip from California to Sydney, and she felt she had no choice.
However, she should have stuck to her guns and said that she had never agreed to come. It was their problem and not hers, and what a crappy way to force people to show up for their event by promoting them and then saying it was their fault? She even wondered now if the organizers weren’t part of her kidnapping.
After a lot of emails back and forth, she’d gotten quite disgruntled and unhappy over being pressured to show up for something she hadn’t agreed to. She knew she’d been deceived, and, by showing up, the con had worked, and that just made her even angrier because look at where she was now. She’d also come alone instead of with her assistant, Maggie. Considering Charlotte’s circumstances, she was grateful for that, except that they would have stayed in the room together, and maybe her assistant could have put out the word. On the other hand, her assistant would likely be lying in this truck beside her.
Charlotte was happy Maggie had stayed home. She was a good person; she didn’t need this. She had a bum knee and lots of stomach issues. She was also on the back side of sixty and had already slid well into her grandmotherly type of role, whereas Charlotte herself had just crossed over the thirty-three-year-old mark, with no children or even a boyfriend or future husband in sight.
And maybe that was her fault. When Rowe had died, she hadn’t wanted to try marriage again. She’d been a devoted wife, but he had gotten ill very soon after their marriage. Medical bills had been a huge issue, and they couldn’t afford the best in the way of treatment. The bank had offered a loan to help, but Rowe needed specialized treatment for a particular brain cancer and not enough funds were coming in their direction, not even with a bank loan.
So, instead of being a happy wife, starting a family, and becoming a mother, she’d ended up as an overly tired and very inexperienced nursemaid. She had done so willingly, but it had taken its toll on her. By the time Rowe had passed away, his regrets and apology still in her ears, she’d been so exhausted that it had been almost a relief. And, of course, the guilt had eaten away at her, keeping her stuck in the same time and place mentally for a lot longer than it should have.
He had died six years ago, and she’d still not moved on. Maybe it was out of guilt because she hadn’t been able to save him. She was an anthropologist and had always loved cultures that had come and gone before her. After Rowe’s death she’d finally turned her attention to bringing awareness to the current world and how much change was needed. She’d known that her time being an activist was over and that she would return to writing books that would hopefully open up people’s eyes and make them think and listen a little more.
As the planet slid into a climate crisis, she understood on a more global scale just how much people were damaging Mother Earth and its inhabitants. It was no longer just about the cultures of the people who had gone before them but it was also about the cultures of today who were inhaling the resources without care, multiplying and breeding well past the point of capacity, so that the planet itself was under siege.
She knew if she even started writing books on this subject that, for every two people in front of her, one would think she was a fool, and the other would call her a saint. That’s how divided the people were, particularly in her own country. It made her sad. But, in a way, she was also glad she wasn’t bringing children into this. She couldn’t even guarantee the planet would be here in eighty or ninety years to see any of her own children grow up. Of course she’d be long gone by then, but what kind of an attitude was that to take? Take what you wanted and then die? That wasn’t her style.
But this? … Her future might be only a byline in a newspaper article and then buried, gone—forgotten. How sad.
She glanced around again at the four walls of the truck and the men down at the one end, playing cards. At least the one guy had put out his cigarette. The other one though? Looked like the tip of his cigarette hung with an inch of ash still attached to the end of the filter. But then she didn’t even know if he inhaled his cigarettes or if it was just more of a habit to light them. He’d live longer if he gave it up, but she’d be happy if he’d drop dead right now.
She shifted and moaned at her aching arms and legs. They were at least tied in front of her with duct tape, so she could roll onto her back and stretch her shoulders ever-so-slightly, but the band around her mouth was painfully tight. Her throat was dry, and she could hardly even swallow anymore. She kept trying to work the saliva in her throat to stop her from