Page 6 of Hideaway Whirlwind (Big Boys of Berenson Trucking #4)

Dustin hops back and forth on his feet with the need to use the restroom after Elliott helps the kids out of the truck.

Sliding across the passenger seat, I expect him to take Kendall from me, then help me down, but he lifts us out as a pair.

He stops just as he’s reaching for the garbage bag, and he slowly brings his hand up to my throat.

Though I have all the practice in the world at stifling my reactions, there’s no help for the way my body jolts when Elliott tips my chin up with his thumb along my jawline, his soft touch at odds with his threatening demeanor.

“Never again,” he says when he brushes his thumb down my neck, following the line he traces with his eyes.

My mouth drops open, unsure what to say, but he’s already reaching around me, slinging the garbage bag over his shoulder, and motioning for me to move so he can close the door.

Looking left and right in the parking lot of what appears to be an old motel painted an ugly shade of russet brown in the middle of nowhere, Elliott tells Dustin, “Hold your sister’s hand.

” And even though there are only two cars parked in the lot and zero traffic, he says, “No running in the parking lot.”

About to burst with every step I take, I follow in his large shadow from the edge of the lot to one of the motel rooms on the ground floor.

With a key for the room he must have booked before we woke, he unlocks the door and pushes it open, sweeping his hand to motion us in first. Two queen-sized beds with faded mustard yellow and brown paisley-patterned quilts greet us, the room surprisingly clean, missing the stale stench of cigarette smoke I had been expecting.

Dustin races for the open restroom door at the back, slamming it closed behind him.

Dropping both of our bags and the motel room key on the first bed, Elliott moves back to the front and says over his shoulder, “I’ll grab the food from the truck while y’all settle in.”

When Sydney has taken her turn in the restroom, I sort through the garbage bag for the small pack of diapers and wipes I packed so I can change Kendall. Putting her down on the carpet afterward, I start to ask Dustin, “Will you watch her while—”

Kendall says, “Santa, up,” and reaches for Elliott just as he walks into the room.

I don’t know who is more shocked—me, the kids, or Elliott. Yet he immediately lifts her and sets her on the crook of his arm while Sydney digs through a plastic grocery sack of prepackaged food Elliott brought.

“Santa’s not real,” Dustin announces, clapping his hand over his mouth after having spoiled the secret for Kendall. “Is he?” he whispers, turning his head from Elliott to me and back again, questioning his assertion.

“Santa,” Kendall says around the thumb in her mouth, tugging Elliott’s beard. “Santa.”

“I, uh, I’m sorry,” I say to Elliott, wary he might be offended, since a man his size could do some serious damage with just the flick of his wrist if he lost his temper.

Just because I was able to find some trust in him when he was helping us escape and didn’t take anything from me by force, that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable letting him watch the kids unsupervised, even if it’s for only a few minutes while I do my business.

Elliott nods as if he’s read my mind. “It’s fine,” he says, setting Kendall on the bed beside Sydney, who passes her a pouch of applesauce and a tray of crackers and cheese.

He loops the crossbody strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder and holds a second motel key up in the air, then tips his head to the side at the door in the wall connecting two rooms. “I’m in the next room over.

Knock if you need me.” He disappears out of our front door, and the one next to ours squeaks open and closed through the thin walls.

I pause to press my ear to the adjoining door, listening to the springs shift and groan loudly on the bed he must have lain on.

Quietly, I test the doorknob, ensuring that the lock works as it should and isn’t just for show.

Satisfied with the modicum of security, I leave the older kids to watch Kendall while I use the seventies-style yellow tiled bathroom, audibly gasping when I catch my reflection in the small oval mirror above the sink.

That’s what Elliott meant when he said, “Never again.” He’d brushed the darkening bruises on my neck, swollen and tender from Priscilla’s strangulation.

I lock down my mind, unfocusing my eyes until the hammering of my heart slows and I no longer want to slam my fist into the mirror, shattering the reflection of the woman I’ve become .

Elliott

The shower next door repeatedly turns off and on, washing last night away, and I find no sleep thinking about Teagan’s cheek and neck and the compulsion I had to cup the back of her head and lean down to kiss her bruises.

And with the kids getting a little rowdy after being cooped up in the truck, I eventually give up.

Rolling out of bed in my red sweatpants, I use the desk chair, missing one of its four legs, as a makeshift dumbbell, curling it up and down.

It’s too light to do much good, but it keeps me sane since I won’t leave Teagan and the kids here on their own in order to find the closest gym and get a proper workout in to silence the never-ending noise in my head.

Dustin screams, “Mommy!” when there is a thump on the other side of the wall, preceded by a crash and high-pitched cry from one of the girls, and the shower cuts off abruptly.

Fearing the worst, I toss the chair to the side and throw my shoulder into the door between our rooms, since I heard Teagan testing the lock earlier.

I barge inside just in time to crash into Teagan running out of the bathroom in a thin white towel that hardly fits around her body with sudsy shampoo running down her silky, raven-black hair.

I cup Teagan’s elbow to keep her from bouncing off my bulk and falling while Dustin flips the TV that is almost as big as Sydney off of her legs with an oomph , the device having fallen from the two-drawer console opposite the beds.

Teagan drops to her knees on the thin brown carpet. “What happened, baby?” she asks, spitting out shampoo that runs into her mouth while clutching the sides of her towel together at her ample chest .

I scoop Sydney up in her clean nightgown, her hair wet and combed out neatly. Setting her on the edge of the right bed so I can look over her legs, I kneel and turn them about to check for any cuts or bruises while Kendall hugs her crying sister from behind.

Beside me, Teagan swipes her forearm across her face with her eyes pinched closed against the sting of the shampoo and tries to ask again, “What hap—ow—are you—ow, fuck—sorry—ok?”

“We were playing hide and seek, and I bonked my head on the TV thingy,” Sydney says with a sniffle.

When I’ve assessed that Sydney isn’t seriously injured—though her head is tender and I’m pissed that the TV hadn’t been anchored to the wall like it should have been—I nudge Teagan’s bare shoulder with mine.

“She’s ok. I think the fall scared her more than it hurt her.

Go finish your shower. I’ll watch them, then get some ice. ”

I know Teagan wants to argue by the set of her mouth, but she’s also furiously rubbing her eyes while keeping a tight hold on her towel. “I’ll just be a second,” she says, standing up and stubbing her toes on the other metal bedframe with a howl.

With Teagan biting back more expletives, hopping on one foot across the room, I try not to look at the way the backs of her thick thighs jiggle, especially with her short towel lifting with each hop.

I also try not to think of scooping her up, carrying her into the bathroom, and getting in the shower with her.

Of stripping off her towel and my sweatpants.

Of washing the shampoo out of her hair and eyes before kissing my way down her slippery, naked body to check her toes.

I have to put her and the vision out of my head, because my thoughts are wrong.

Immoral. More than that, it would frighten her if she knew what I was thinking.

What I’ve been thinking since I first saw her bring that chopping board down on the demon’s head.

What’s only gotten more vivid since she removed the outer layer of her lumpy clothes and revealed the delicious way her breasts, belly, and hips curve out from her short frame.

Fuck , I’m a monster.

Not five minutes later, Teagan exits the bathroom and stops when she sees me sitting at the desk with Kendall on the end of my knee, twirling her fingers in my beard.

Sydney is tucked into the left bed with a snack and a small carton of milk, watching a loud cartoon on my phone, while Dustin is doing his best to translate Kendall’s babbling about the presents she wants from Santa .

I thought the kids’ endless noise might overwhelm me—sensory overload—when Russell called to ask this favor of me.

But if anything, it’s a pleasant distraction and reprieve from my morbid thoughts.

Even with the heat turned up as high as it will go in the room—which is to say, not very high—Teagan’s teeth chatter with the cold and her damp hair, dressed only in another pair of thin black leggings and an oversized black T-shirt.

She mouths an apology and silently asks if she should take Kendall, but I shrug.

Hesitantly, she nods, then digs through her garbage bag of clothes.

“Crap, I think I left my jacket at the apartment,” she says with goosebumps pricking her arms. She upends the bag, separating the kids’ clean clothes from hers, but only comes up with another of her T-shirts, a pair of ripped black jeans, and platform combat boots. It’s not enough.

I stand and step through the side door hanging off its hinges, then return with one of my black and gray flannels. I hold it out to her without saying a word, strangely nervous about whether or not she’ll accept my offering.

“Are you sure?” she asks, chewing the skin on the edge of her thumbnail.

“It’s clean,” is all I say, leaving the flannel on the console and moving back to my chair, looking down at Kendall instead of Teagan. I’m all too aware, now, that I hadn’t thought to put on a shirt myself, since I run hot anywhere I go at my size, and wonder if I’m making anyone uncomfortable.

Damnit . I probably am with my belly hanging out.

Old and fat, and most importantly, a strange man covered in some seriously dark tattoos from my collar to my wrists and ankles, holding her daughter on my knee .

It looks bad. Abruptly, I stand and pass Kendall to Dustin, who is now explaining the differences between Motocross and Supercross and how badly he wants a dirt bike when he’s older.

Staring at the carpet, I go back to my room to pull on a white T-shirt, socks, and my running shoes.

Swinging the motel key around on my finger after shoving my billfold in my pocket, I yell to Teagan over my shoulder, “Ice.” I squint in the early afternoon sun, which does nothing to battle the cold front that’s blown in across the lower half of the country.

My breath produces visible clouds in the bitter cold air that I welcome as I make my way to the motel’s lobby for a bucket of ice.

The bored receptionist hasn’t once looked up from endlessly scrolling his phone, not even when I overpaid to book our rooms in cash so I wouldn’t have to use my card or ID, which would be used to track us if anyone is looking.

When he tells me that the ice machine is broken, I make the best of it, sprinting to the closest convenience store.

The four-and-a-half-mile round trip carrying the five-pound bag of ice plus more snacks isn’t easy, but at least it’s rejuvenating in a way, even if I am gasping for air when I make it back, beads of sweat running down my temples and neck.

After checking that my truck is still secured, back in the motel room, I continue staring at the carpet when I dump the snacks and bottles of apple juice for the kids on Teagan’s desk so I can fill one of the plastic grocery bags with ice for Sydney’s head and the other for Teagan’s foot.

I linger at the adjoining door and grunt a goodnight when Teagan finally looks up at me with golden, amber eyes, then prop the door closed as much as I can, shedding everything but my sweatpants since I’m overheated.

The workout did the trick, and so even with the kids making a racket when they argue over who gets which candy, and the sun’s rays shine through the pitifully thin, bright orange drapes, I’m able to shut my eyes and rest for a few hours.

I so fervently wish I didn’t have to sleep alone that my stomach aches, as if a little bird’s sharp, amber colored talons have carved out my desecrated insides.