by Jewel, Bella
And so I run.
17
Her
I run for months. Well, it’s actually only four weeks, but it feels like forever. Every time I crash in a new location, he finds me, and he always leaves a note.
Most of the time his messages are playful—You’re not good at this, are you? I like those pajamas. I'll see you tomorrow.
And sometimes his words cut to the heart of me—When this is over, you’re mine.
The dictatorship isn’t as offensive as it should be. Nothing about this seems as offensive as it should be. Yet again, I’ve become a willing participant in his game.
I fall asleep each night with growing anticipation. I wake every morning to heart-pounding excitement. I search for his messages like an attention-starved fool, and each and every time I find one, my stomach soars.
At least it had, until five days ago.
That was when I extended the playing field and fled to a small bed and breakfast in Eagle Creek. He didn’t follow. There hasn’t been one note. Not a single word.
He’s either lost interest, or something or someone made him stop.
“Are you thinking about him again, pet?”
I glance to my right, at Betty, the elderly lady who owns the bed and breakfast. She’s kind enough. Smart, too. But her intuition is on-point, which makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. If she didn’t cook like a master chef and feed me like I’d been homeless all my life, I would’ve cut and run after my first night.
“I’m not thinking about anyone.” I rest my elbows on her porch railing and glance out at the glowing lights of Eagle Creek. It’s nice here. Quiet. Which makes it difficult to dodge thoughts of Hunter.
“Have it your way.” She moves to stand beside me, taking the same stance—elbows on the railing, her gaze straight ahead staring out into the night. “You’ve lost your hope, though. I can see it in your eyes.”
Damn woman can’t even see my eyes at the moment. It’s dark out, and I’m not looking in her direction. Still, she’s right.
What if Hunter has grown tired of playing?
The answer shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t even ponder the question. Only I do. On repeat. All day. All night.
“Who needs hope when I can smell blueberry pie?” I shoot her a glance and raise a brow. “Hmm? You’re going to feed me again, aren’t you?”
She chuckles, her face gaining a mass of enviable laugh lines. This woman has experienced a lot of joy. Every single one of those wrinkles is a testament to her happiness. “I certainly will… If you promise to try to find that hope you showed up here with.”
I sigh and turn back to the night. “It wasn’t hope. It was a game.” A silly challenge I spent too many nights playing.
“I know hope when I see it, and yours wasn’t the type to revolve around a career or family. It was the type of love-filled hope that can only be inspired by a man.”
Love?
Now that is a word capable of slamming the brakes on any conversation, as far as I’m concerned. “Did you get lost in the liquor cabinet again?”
She snickers. “Maybe. But I’m right, aren’t I?”
“My life is too complicated for love. Or hope, for that matter.” In my chest, there is a void where both emotions should be. An abyss. “It’s just not for me.”
“With that attitude, I’m sure you’re right.” She pats my shoulder with a gentle hand. “Now, how about that pie?”
“Yes, please.” I’ll agree to anything that will get her meddling insight out of my life. “Want me to make the green tea?”
“No, I’ve got it.” She starts for the front door, the aged wooden planks creaking under her steps.
This place feels like a home. The constant delicious scent of food, the warmth, the conversation, and the inbuilt security of a German shepherd guard dog in the back yard and the tiny yap-yap Maltese inside. I didn’t even bother setting up my camera here. Nothing could escape the attention of the canines.
It would be a great place for me to stay a while. To find that clarity and focus I need. But no matter how homey it is, I can’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that I need to be somewhere else.
I want to be somewhere else.
I’m sure it’s as simple as missing my apartment. And not having Brent nearby in case I get smothered with loneliness. I owe him rent money, too, which I really need to resolve. I never even got back to my apartment to fetch my belongings from the trash.
Or maybe I have to stop kidding myself and admit I’m growing insane without an update on Hunter. I need answers, and I want the good night’s sleep I’ll finally get once I have them.
I don’t know if he’s lying in wait, about to strike. I don’t know if he’s hurt or if he found someone else to play with. I don’t know if Torian gave up on my so-called information.
“Betty.” I walk after her and pull open the front door. “Do you mind if I use your phone?”
Brent will know something.
Maybe Hunter is still hanging around at the bar or scoping out my apartment.
“Are you calling that man of yours?” She raises her voice from the kitchen down the long hall.
“Of course. You know I always listen to your advice and jump to respond.”
“You’re a horrible liar.”
No, I’m not. At least not when I want to be.
“Go ahead and use it,” she calls “Just throw a few dollars in the jar on the table if it’s long distance.”
“Thank you.” I stride for the small wooden stand beside the staircase leading to the second floor. The corded phone sits crowded among pens, paper, the money jar, car keys, receipts, and mail. It’s the only place in this house that isn’t immaculate.
I dial Brent’s number from memory and lean against the banister while I wait. When the call connects, I straighten and stare down at the one-stop dumping ground of knickknacks as I picture his face.
“Atomic Buzz,” Brent mutters.
My stomach tumbles at the sound of his voice. “Hey. It’s Steph. How are you?”
The lengthening silence makes me wince. I can’t blame him for not speaking to me. I’ve been a selfish bitch who only thinks of herself.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I know I left without a word, and that I’m late with rent money.” He doesn’t have a generous bank account like I do. And still, he’s never been anything but generous to me. “I shouldn’t have checked out without telling you. But I’m going to try to get back there to fix you up for what I owe. I just—”
“No. Don’t.” He cuts me off. “Forget it. I don’t need it.”
My chest squeezes. We both know he’s lying.
“Please, Brent. I know I should’ve called sooner. I had to get out of town real quick. I didn’t mean to fuck you over.”
“Like I said, forget it,” he growls at me. My only friend. My only connection to kindness and support.
“I get that you’re angry. I deserve it. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I’ll travel back into Portland tonight.” I’d have to find a ride available in the early hours of the morning for safety’s sake. I can’t go back now. It’s only a little past ten, and people would be out and about. But I can return to Portland to make the delivery. No problem. “I’ll get there after you close and slip the money under the door.”
“I said don’t.” His tone is gruff. “I don’t want to see you here again. Do you understand? Don’t—”
His words are lost to rustling over the line. I hear a grunt. A muttered curse. Then more rustling.
“Brent?” I lower my gaze to the thick maroon carpet and stare blankly as I focus on sound. “Brent?”
“Forget what he said, pumpkin,” another voice croons in my ear. A voice I can’t pinpoint. It isn’t one of the bar regulars. It isn’t Hunter. It’s someone else.
“Who is this?” I demand. “Put Brent back on the phone.”
“Your bartender friend is unavailable right now. I think it’s best if you c
ome here and speak to him in person.”
I swallow over the throb building behind my sternum. Someone is threatening Brent to get to me, and the stupid son-of-a-bitch tried to protect me. Save me.
“Are we clear?” the man asks. “Get back here now. No weapons. No cops. You’ve got an hour.”
The call disconnects, leaving me with nothing but white noise and building panic. I drop my arm to my side, and the receiver slips from my fingertips to fall to the floor.
Is this Torian’s doing? Or someone else?
I focus on the mess scattered across the small table. The pens. The receipts. The car keys. I have to get to Atomic Buzz, and I can’t wait for a driver.
I shoot a glance down the empty hall, toward the sound of clattering plates and the clink of cutlery. I have to leave. Right now. I can’t go upstairs for my few belongings. I can’t say goodbye. The knife attached to my bra will have to be my only protection, because I don’t want to ponder the danger it will put Brent in if I bring a gun.
I place my hand over the BMW car keys and clench my fingers around them.
Then I walk from the house and don’t look back. Not even when the dogs start barking announcing their intuition of my betrayal.
The shiny black sedan is parked in the carport, the moonlight reflecting off the dark surface. I click the lock release, slide inside, and reverse out of the driveway, like stealing a car comes naturally to me. But it doesn’t.
Remorse eats away at my chest. My lungs ache. I can picture the joy in Betty’s features evaporating. The woman who provided me with a safe haven is now being punished.
“Goddamn it.”
I drive to Portland, the miles passing as I break every speed limit. I reach my street and drive past the bar. It’s almost eleven, well within open hours, but the lights are out and the closed sign hangs on the front door.
I continue forward, pretending someone’s life isn’t resting in the palm of my hands, and turn down a nearby side street. I flick off the headlights, inch into the darkness of a suburban driveway, and park behind a family wagon.
Whoever lives here will wake up to find Betty’s BMW. They will have to report the incident, and get the car towed to be able to move their own vehicle.
The plan isn’t foolproof, but it’s the best I can come up with to get Betty’s car back to her safe and sound, and as soon as possible.
I get out, lock the car, and creep toward for the street. I walk a block and a half until I reach the alley that leads to the back door of Atomic Buzz.
I don’t have a plan. I don’t even have confidence. All I have is the necessity to help someone who always helped me. Brent offered me his apartment years ago, when he had planned to move in there himself. He shared his life with me, when I never even told him my name. He gave me patience and generosity. He gave me friendship and solace.
It’s time to repay the favor.
I inch across the back wall of the businesses along the alley and blend into the shadows. I take cautious steps, walking on the tips of my sneakers. I watch for litter and glass, making sure I don’t make any sound when the crunch of a distant footfall comes from the street I just walked out of.
I slink deeper into the darkness and don’t move. Another step approaches and another, becoming faster, harder. I shoot a glance over my shoulder to find a man running toward me, tall and broad, dressed in black with a baseball cap pulled low to cover his face.
Fuck.
I don’t think. I sprint.
I make it ten steps before he hauls me off the ground by an arm around my waist while a hand slams across my mouth to cut off my scream.
“Shh,” he whispers. “It’s me.”
His hard body presses into me. I recognize the scent, I remember the warmth, and for a second I feel safe.
My traitorous body relaxes, and Hunter removes his hand, tugging me toward the wall of the building. My chest hums at the reunion. I’m stupidly relieved to see him. Happiness wouldn’t even be a stretch.
“What are you doing here?” I cling to the little hope that comes with his familiar face.
“I heard what was going on.”
“And you’re here to what? Thwart my efforts or help?”
He tugs me toward the opening to the alley, the streetlights exposing me to anyone who may be in the area.
“There’s no helping this situation,” he whispers. “If you go in there, they’ll kill you.”
“Who’s they?”
“Torian and his men.”
“Aren’t you one of his men?” I ask.
“I’m a contractor. Big difference. He wants the information—”
“Then I’ll tell him to his face that I don’t have the name he needs.”
“And he’ll tear you limb from limb until you change your mind or die in the process.”
My pulse pounds erratically in my throat. “Why is that your concern?” He gave up on me days ago. He cut and run.
“Quit the shit, Sarah. This thing between us isn’t over.”
Sarah.
He knows my name. My real name. The one I haven’t uttered in years.
I release a silent breath of a chuckle, because if I don’t, I’ll crumple.
“It took a while, princess.” He reaches for my hair, stroking the stray strands from my cheek. “But I finally figured you out.”
I jerk away, unwilling to succumb to his allure even though that’s all I’ve wanted to do for the past few weeks. “You’re lucky, because I still know nothing about you.”
“All you need to know right now is that I’m here to help. I’m going to get you out of here.”
I frown. “What about Brent? How will you get him out?”
His lips press tight, and it’s all the answer I need.
“No.” I step back, toward Atomic Buzz. “I’m not leaving him.”
“He’s as good as dead, and you know it.”
His comment slaps me across the face. Hard. I keep moving, hoping to distance myself from his words. From everything. I refuse to believe there’s no way out. “I won’t lose him, too.”
“Shh.” He follows, gripping me around the waist in a one-armed grab. “He’s already gone.”
“They gave me an hour,” I argue. “I’ve still got time.”
“To do what? Beg? Plead? They’re not going to give a shit when you don’t have the informant’s name.”
I keep shaking my head. I won’t believe him. I refuse. “Then I go down with him.” I couldn’t die with my family, but maybe this is an honorable alternative because I sure as hell won’t let another person die because of my decisions.
“Like hell,” he growls, all protective and animalistic. He wants to help; that much is clear. I just need to convince him to do it my way.
“Please, Hunter.” I grab his jacket, curling my fingers in the leather. “Help me.”
His brows pull tight, and I see the conflict he tries to battle.
“Please.” I clutch tighter. “I’ll do anything.”
He lifts his chin as if accepting my terms and steps back to retrieve a phone from his jeans pocket. “Let me send a message to Decker and see if he can get his ass here.”
Decker—the guy from the highway. I don’t trust him. Then again, I don’t have the luxury of trust at the moment.
“Okay.” I nod, my hope building.
He presses buttons, then places his phone in his jacket and meets my eyes with a sad smile. “I guess we have to wait and—”
A bang splits the air. A pungent, ear-splitting gunshot that travels from the vicinity of Atomic Buzz.
I suck in a breath, but the air doesn’t penetrate. I can’t breathe. I gasp, trying to cling to positive thoughts, which flitter away in the chilled night air.
“We need to get out of here.” Hunter steals my hand and pulls.
I hear him, yet the words don’t sink in. They’re distant. Faded. Everything is a mile away while I stand here in solitude, bathed in sorrow and drowning in guilt.
“Sarah.” Hunter gets in my face and clutches my arms. “Look at me.”
He’s there, right there, and still, I can’t focus. All I can see is Brent. Dead. Because of me. Because of what I’ve done.
“I n-need to get in there.” I move to walk around him, only to have his hands grip tight.
“It’s too late.”
“No.” I push at his chest. “He might not be dead. He could be hurt. We have to call the police… An ambulance.”
He gives me a shake. “It’s too late.”
I waiver like a rag doll in his grip. I can see the truth in his black eyes. I can see the pain and brutal honesty of what has happened.
“No,” I whisper. Then louder with a thump against his chest. “No.”
His eyes widen and he spins me, hauling my body against his to drag me backward down the alley. I can’t protest, not in movements, only in words. “No. No. No.”
He claps a hand over my mouth, holding me tighter. I tremble, my limbs shaking violently as shock takes over.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “But we can’t stay here.”
Why not? My life no longer has value. All I do is hurt people. And although I may not have been responsible for Dan’s death, Brent’s blood is on my hands.
“Why?” I plead. “Why would they do this?”
“It doesn’t matter right now.” He speaks softly in my ear, in full control even though destruction follows our every step.
He takes me from the alley, where I finally find my feet, then holds my hand as I jog beside him. I’m not thinking. I can’t. Otherwise, I’d be moving in the opposite direction. Toward Brent. Toward help. We go around a corner, onto the street I used to walk down to get my groceries, and he stops beside a car I’ve never seen before.
“Tell me you won’t run back to the bar.”
I meet his eyes, those deep, penetrating eyes that now hold a wealth of sympathy.
I shake my head. “I shouldn’t leave him.”
“He’s already gone. You know that as well as I do.” He implores me with a look filled with so much conviction I want to fall to my knees and sob. But I won’t. I don’t cry anymore. I haven’t in ten years.