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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Tessa

I don’t know why I was still insisting on taking so many jobs. I genuinely didn’t need the money. Between what Rook was paying me and what I’d already stashed away, I had more than enough to run if I ever needed to again.

Even if the thought of that now created an unexpected stomachache. For reasons I was choosing not to let myself think about too much. Because I knew what conclusions I would come to. And they had a lot to do with something I couldn’t let myself acknowledge.

That I was falling for my supposed-to-be-fake husband.

So, yeah. Maybe work was just a way to keep my mind from going there. Or to limit my time with Rook, so those feelings didn’t continue to grow.

Though I could make a solid argument for all the working being because I could .

I’d gone from a childhood where no one gave a damn about me enough to pay me any attention at all, let alone try to control what I did. To an adulthood where everything I did and said and where I went was strictly controlled.

I hadn’t been allowed to work.

At the beginning, I’d deluded myself into thinking it was because I was so loved, because I had a man who wanted to take care of me, because he didn’t want to ever see me have to trade my time for some paltry income when he had enough to provide for both of us.

It took an embarrassingly long time to realize it was never that way.

Sure, for some men, maybe that was the case. But I would wager for just as many, if not more, it was an assertion of control. It was a way to keep a woman under their thumb. It was a way of preventing her from ever being able to leave, no matter how much shit he piled on her, how much unhappiness she had to learn to bear.

That was certainly my experience. It felt wrong not to take advantage of the freedom that allowed me to trade my time for money. Because with that money came freedom. I would never again be forced to endure unhappiness or abuse simply because I had no means to escape with.

Even if an idealistic part of me I hadn’t been aware still existed didn’t believe Rook would ever do anything that would make me want to run for my life.

It was just important to me to have the money.

And that damn ambition was what would be my undoing.

I had no idea, of course, as the order came through on my app. It was just one of many.

Soda, chips, beef jerky. Typical guy stuff. Did the obscure strawberry frosted sugar cookies—with the sprinkles—give me a weird little flip in my stomach? Sure.

But I convinced myself that they were obviously popular enough that they were being sold in this tiny little town in California, that there was no reason to feel weird about getting them in an order.

Even if the smell of them in my car had me feeling like I needed to pull over and throw up.

I even rolled down the window to try to stop my mind from wandering back to endless nights with that scent on the breath of a man as he screamed at me, as he belittled me, as he told me what he expected me to do to him. Then having to do it.

The quicker I could get the order dropped off, the sooner I could get back to the apartment, strip, and wash the icky feeling off my skin. Then for good measure, I could get lost in Rook for an hour or two.

My memories of my life before were never further away than when I was in his arms.

And after a little trip down memory lane because of the cookies, I really needed the comfort I always felt when he was near.

That thought alone had me feeling a little more focused, a bit less anxious, as I took the turn into the mobile home community near the end of town.

Since I’d started doing deliveries, I’d actually only gotten two in the mobile home park. And both times to the same home right near the entrance.

It was odd to feel so lost in a small town I’d gotten to know so well.

“Who laid out this place?” I grumbled to myself when I accidentally pulled into a weird little alcove that I thought was a through street.

The GPS on my app was no help, telling me to turn into what was clearly people’s backyards and a little communal playground that people had set up.

Eventually, it started telling me I’d reached my destination when I hit a row of mature trees.

Figuring the home must be behind them, I pulled around them.

Sure enough, set back a ways from the main road was what had to be the oldest mobile home in the park, looking like something straight out of the seventies with what had to be a white-with-brown-trim color scheme back when it was new. Time had muddied and sun-bleached it. A mysterious green was creeping up the side and I worried about the occupants since I was pretty sure that was some kind of mold.

One of the windows was boarded up.

It didn’t occur to me that anything might be weird about that window at first.

I would be beating myself up about that in no time, though.

As it was, I took the bags of groceries out of the passenger seat, thinking about nothing but getting home. And avoiding the swarming hornets coming from an alarmingly large nest hanging under the eave a few feet from the front door.

I was having a flashback to stepping on one of the damn things when I was a little kid and how my foot had swelled up so badly that I couldn’t walk on it for two days. And since my mother was on the outs with her dealer, she’d been too busy detoxing to do anything for me. I’d needed to crawl to the bathroom and the kitchen to get myself anything to eat.

Even if I had Rook to take care of me now—and I knew down to my bones that he would—I really didn’t want a repeat of that pain.

I was so distracted by trying not to get stung by the notoriously ornery flying beasts that I didn’t realize I’d forgotten my phone until I’d put the bags down on the front step and reached for it to take the proof of delivery photo.

“Damnit,” I grumbled, annoyed that I would have to pass the hornets not just one, but two, more times before I could leave.

I didn’t even hear the door.

Nor the footsteps on the steps.

I didn’t have time to try to run.

Or even scream.

A hand wrapped around my waist as another slapped down on my mouth.

I was lifted up off my feet, leaving me to do nothing but pedal my legs in the air helplessly.

“Did you really think I’d let you leave me?”

That voice.

God, that voice.

I’d prayed I would never hear it again, that he would never find me.

I should have known better.

No one knew this man as well as I did. The woman whom he’d claimed as his own.

Randy “Rubble” Jones.

President of the Iron Wolves bike club.

A man who made me so miserable that I’d packed a few things while he’d been asleep one night, stole all the money in his wallet, then snuck out of the club in the wee hours of the morning.

My heart had been pounding so fast, my stomach sloshing so hard, that I only got about a block away before I had to stop to throw up.

That same feeling rose up my throat as I felt the hot breath in my ear as Randy dragged me backward.

The old me never would have fought, would have tried to cower and beg and placate.

The new me didn’t even know that woman anymore.

I dug my nails in as hard as I could, raking them across his hands and forearms, getting a sick sort of satisfaction in the way he yowled in pain.

“Just giving me more reasons to bring you to heel, T,” he snarled as his arm tightened so hard around my middle that my ribs screamed and it felt impossible to draw a proper breath.

My gaze whipped around wildly, praying someone would see. But those damn trees blocked the whole view of this trailer from the rest of the park.

A pathetic little sound rose up in my throat, but I tamped it back down, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

My body jostled as I was pulled up the stairs and into the home. I was met immediately with the scent of a long-closed-up house: old dust, mold, and musty carpets.

The screen door slapped against the frame, and Randy’s leg rose to kick the door shut.

“Got her, boys!” he declared, getting a chorus of hoots and whistles that made my blood run cold.

Enduring Randy had been horrific enough. But because he was the president, and I was his property, he’d kept me to himself. As a show of dominance, I guess.

There wasn’t much comfort in my old life. But not being groped or abused by the other bikers had been the only positive.

But now that I’d run, that I’d forced Randy to come get me, I didn’t know if the same rules applied. Would he let everyone abuse and use me as punishment? Would he laugh as I screamed and cried?

No.

No, I couldn’t let my mind go there.

He’d said he wanted to bring me to heel. And from what I’d seen about how he treated other women who displeased him, I really didn’t think he’d bother to try to break me again if he didn’t intend to keep me as his.

Not that I intended to let that happen.

I mean, this was a mobile home, not a fortress. It was an ancient one, at that. And had clearly been abandoned for years. Hell, I could probably kick through a wall of the damn thing if I was left alone long enough.

The floor groaned as Randy stormed across it, pushing open a door with his shoulder, then dropping me down hard on a bed that reeked of dirty linen and old cigarette smoke.

“I’m gonna give you a few minutes to think about what’s gonna happen when we get back to the club,” he said, moving back toward the door.

He turned back at the last minute, shooting me a smirk.

“You should really watch that lead foot of yours, T.”

The goddamn ticket.

That was how he’d found me.

With that, though, the door closed.

Not a minute later, metal music screamed from a speaker.

To cover the screams he was expecting, no doubt.

But he didn’t know me. Not anymore. Never at all, in fact.

I wasn’t going to scream.

I wasn’t going to beg.

I wasn’t going to be sent to my room to sit and worry about what punishment he was going to inflict on me when he came in some untold time later, reeking of weed and whiskey, shirt smelling like perfume, dick smelling like another woman.

I was not the girl who’d been trapped by circumstance and design.

I was someone with her own life, her own money, her own sense of self-worth.

I was someone with a man who cared about me, who would be looking for me, who would protect me.

I just needed to get to him.

I climbed off of the bed, feeling filthy from just touching it, and looked around the room I was in.

It was a small, maybe eight-by-ten space with orange shag carpet and tobacco-stained walls.

The nightstand was littered with old lighters, an ashtray, and a pack of smokes.

Most of the light in the room came from the camping lantern set on the other nightstand.

Because the window had been boarded up.

I rushed over toward it, grabbing the wood at the edges, trying to pull it free. But it was no use. Randy had nailed it on too well.

My fingers felt around for one of the nails, prying it free with my fingers, though I wasn’t exactly sure what I intended to do with it.

Stab him in the eye when he got close?

The thing was, even if he was down, I would have the other bikers to get through.

From what I could see, he had three of them with him.

Why hadn’t I seen the bikes outside?

Or, maybe even more pressing, why hadn’t I heard them rolling into town? They would have needed to drive right past the apartment.

Had I gotten so used to hearing the members of Rook’s clubs driving around that I stopped looking to make sure it wasn’t my past riding into town to drag me back to hell?

It was possible.

Even if I was kicking myself for being so distracted by a man that I somehow forgot to be on guard from the one I’d been running from.

I dug my nails around another nail, thinking that maybe if I could just loosen one corner, I could pull the whole damn thing off.

But as the cheap wood splintered into my fingertips and my nails broke and my skin bled with no luck on another nail, I turned around, leaning back against the wall with a quiet whimper.

My fingers throbbed.

But it would be nothing compared to what Randy would do to me if or when he got me back to the clubhouse.

I scanned the room again, trying to formulate another plan.

There was a bag sitting on the ancient faux wood dresser. A plastic one, so it wasn’t from California.

My stomach twisted as I made my way over, half-curious, half-terrified about what I might find inside.

I pulled the items out one by one, placing them on the dresser surface.

Duct tape.

Zip ties.

And adult diapers.

It was a long drive back to New Mexico. And they clearly couldn’t let me out at rest stops to use the bathroom.

I squeezed my eyes closed, overcome with how monstrous someone had to be to think of something like that, to be so hellbent on getting me back to the clubhouse that he would force me into fucking diapers.

I didn’t think the items would help me escape at all. But I could certainly thwart his plans.

I reached for the zip ties first, opening the package, then taking each of them out, linking them together and tightening them all the way, creating a long, useless chain.

I tossed that to the floor and went for the duct tape next, not sure if it could be any use to me for escape. So I just unraveled it inch by inch, rolling it into a ball until I reached the hard cardboard center.

Sure, Randy could just send one of the guys out to town to buy more. But it would delay things.

And maybe by then, Rook would be searching for me. Maybe seeing strange men in town buying duct tape and zip ties would raise a red flag. Especially if they were dumb enough to go around town sporting their cuts with the New Mexico rocker on the backs.

I didn’t tell Rook a whole lot about that old life. But I did tell him I was from New Mexico. And knowing him like I did, he would remember that.

If all I could do was bide time until rescue, then so be it.

But I wasn’t giving up on escape.

This was clearly a home that had been abandoned suddenly. Someone skipping town. Someone dying with no heirs.

It was a time capsule full of everything the previous tenants owned.

While I didn’t give Randy a lot of credit, I was sure he would have removed any guns or knives if he’d found them. But that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be items around that I could use to defend myself.

In all the time I’d known Randy, I’d never known him to go without a weapon at all times. A gun at his waist, a knife in his boot, something.

So if I could just… incapacitate him when we were alone, I could find the weapon and use it against the other bikers.

The me who’d crept across the clubhouse floor while the men slept, body shaking so hard I swore my bones clanked together, would never have considered violence against the men who’d enabled their president to keep her captive.

This new me?

I would rip their throats out with my teeth if I needed to.

I was not going back.

I’d rather die.

If that was my fate, at least I’d known a few months of freedom, a few weeks of affection toward and from a good man.

But I was going to fight like hell to get back to him. And if that happened, I was going to finally drop my walls. I was going to tell him all about my years under Randy’s thumb, how he’d broken my spirit, how he’d left me no choice but to run away and live in my car in hopes of a new life.

And when I was done with that story, I was going to tell him what I’d barely been able to admit to myself in those quiet moments before sleep when I was wrapped up in Rook’s arms and satisfied from lovemaking.

That I was pretty sure I was in love with him. That I didn’t want our marriage to be of convenience anymore.

I wanted a life and a future with him.

With those thoughts chasing away some of the terror in my mind and body, I reached for the top drawer of the dresser, pulled it open, and searched inside.

Maybe I’d been giving Randy a little too much credit.

Because I found my road to freedom right there in the goddamn top drawer.