Dominate

by Godwin, Pam

  “I’m sorry.” Dean turned onto the main road, following the directions on the map. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

  Sand turned into pavement, but the desolate surroundings remained unchanged.

  She stared out the window at the vista of buttes. “How’s the Wagner case coming along?”

  “We got a lead on the location of a meth lab.”

  For the remainder of the drive, they talked about work. A neutral subject. Familiar ground.

  When he pulled up to the motel, she looked around and panicked. There was nothing around. Not a car or a restaurant or another building in sight.

  She didn’t intend to stay here. Not where Dean knew her location. She needed to get to the next town over, where she had options and could hide out for a few days.

  He turned off the engine. “Are you sure this is where you left your truck?”

  “It’s the closest motel to the mechanic.” She grabbed her bag and opened the door. “Thank you for the ride.”

  “I’ll come in with you.”

  “No need.” She stepped into the wretched heat.

  He reached across the seat and caught her elbow, stopping her. “Let me take you to dinner. There’s nothing here—”

  “No.” She wrenched her arm away. “I’ll see you in a month, Dean. Drive safe.”

  She shut the door on his response and strode toward the motel office.

  Inside, the scent of tobacco smoke attacked her nose. A young blonde woman sat behind the desk, flicking ash from a cigarette, her gaze glued to her phone.

  Rylee turned toward the window and watched Dean pull out of the lot. She didn’t move until his truck vanished beyond the horizon.

  “Need a room?” the girl asked.

  “I need transportation to the next town.”

  “Can’t help you there, babe.”

  “You can’t call me a cab? Or a vehicle for hire?”

  “Nothing like that comes out here.” The girl snorted without looking up from her phone. “You’ll have better luck using your thumb out on that road.”

  Rylee glanced at the highway, which hadn’t seen another car since she’d arrived.

  Shit.

  Desperate, she grappled for options. “When do you get off work?”

  “In six hours.”

  Double shit.

  She couldn’t wait that long. She needed food, a shower, a bed, and a million other things to formulate a plan, and she needed to do all of it in a place where no one could find her.

  Tommy might’ve let her go because he didn’t want to shoot Dean. But he would come for her now that the detective was out of the way.

  The girl lowered her phone and toyed with one of her short blonde ringlets. “I have a one-hour lunch break.”

  “When?”

  “Right now.”

  Exhilaration coursed through her as she dug through her duffel bag and removed a wad of cash. “I’ll pay you two-hundred dollars to drive me to the next town.”

  “Okay.” The girl shrugged a shoulder. “Sure.”

  Yes! Mind spinning, she turned toward the cash machine in the corner. “Does that work?”

  “Last I checked.”

  Perfect. She would withdraw enough cash to get her by for a few days and destroy her credit card. “Do you have a trash bag?”

  “Umm…” The blonde’s eyebrows knitted. “Yes?”

  “I need that, too.”

  The duffel bag would stay here, and only the things she needed would go in the plastic bag. Things that couldn’t have been bugged.

  If Tommy or anyone else was tracking her, she was going to make it as hard as possible.

  CHAPTER 17

  For the next three days, Rylee holed up in the shittiest motel room in Texas. Restless, overstrung, and nearing her wit’s end, she paced the stained carpet and chewed her nails down to nubs.

  When she’d paid for the ride here, she had the girl drop her at a corner store a mile down the road. There, Rylee had bought a range of everyday items, including a cheap, prepaid smart phone. After paying in cash, she carried it all on foot to this smelly, dilapidated, out-of-the-way motel.

  By the time she’d checked in, her body throbbed everywhere, a reminder of the beating she’d taken in the desert. Her immediate concern had been taking care of her basic needs—shelter, water, food, hygiene, pain-killers, sleep.

  So much sleep.

  God, she’d needed that rest. After asphyxiation, extreme thirst, starvation, and unthinkable stress over the past week, she slept through most of the first two days. She never wanted to wake up.

  But she couldn’t hide forever.

  The prepaid phone burned in her hand as she paced the room. She hadn’t stepped outside once since arriving. Hadn’t called Mason or Evan or any of her colleagues. Hadn’t logged into her email at home or the systems at work.

  The television stations reported no major news. A web search on Paul Kissinger turned up exactly nothing. As if he didn’t exist. She didn’t know who had hired him or why. She didn’t have names, physical descriptions, eye-witness reports, behavioral habits, a motivation… Absolutely nothing to profile.

  She had no plan. No solution. Not a single goddamn thing to go on.

  Desperate, she’d pulled up an internet browser and typed random search strings.

  How do I identify who’s stalking me?

  What types of devices are used to track cars?

  Can bugs be hidden on a person?

  If I’m being followed, what should I do?

  Every answer led to the obvious course of action. Call the cops. Ironic, considering her occupation. She wanted to call her colleagues but didn’t know who to trust. Dean had already helped her, so contacting him was the most logical option.

  She wasn’t ready to do that. Maybe paranoia was getting the best of her, but something about their interaction in his truck made her scalp tingle.

  If only she had family or a close girlfriend to call, someone she could ask for help.

  She had no one.

  She was utterly, completely alone.

  What was happening outside her little bubble? Was Mason looking for her? Was Evan still collecting her mail? She knew in her bones that Tommy was out there somewhere, hunting her right now.

  She’d worked herself into a corner with nowhere to go. Her cash was dwindling. Her panic was rising. She was running out of time.

  The only thing she’d achieved by coming here was healing her body back to full health. But if Tommy found her, when he found her, he would hurt her all over again.

  It was horrifying that someone had monitored her for six months. But even more frightening was the thought of Tommy crashing through that door.

  The fear he instilled in her was crippling, and she fucking loathed him for that.

  Stepping to the covered window, she inched the curtain aside, just a sliver, and scrutinized the empty parking lot. The setting sun created shadows across the cracked pavement and arid wasteland surrounding it.

  Nothing in sight for miles. No looming danger. The world went on without her.

  As if the past week had never happened.

  Maybe she was delusional. Overacting. Wasting her time here. Hiding for no reason.

  She released the curtain and yanked down the neckline of her shirt. Stroking her thumb over the curve of her breast, she traced one of the dozens of bite marks that covered her body.

  Tommy had positively happened. He was real. His rage, passion, and intensity had been as authentic as hers, and if she didn’t do something soon, he would show up here more furious than ever.

  Mason still lived in El Paso, a three-hour drive away. She could call him, and if she detected anything suspicious in his voice, she would have time to ditch the phone and put distance between herself and this town. She would steal a damn car if needed.

  But was it worth the risk?

  Just to ask why he’d reported her missing?

  She really needed to know.

/>   Moving to the bed, she sat on the edge and dialed his number from memory.

  He answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “Why did you file a missing-persons report on me?”

  “Rylee.” The relief in his sigh chafed her nerves. “Thank God. I’ve been worried sick. Where are you?”

  “Answer the question, Mason.”

  “Tell me where you are. If you’re in trouble—”

  “I’m on vacation. So imagine my surprise when Dean Hodge showed up, looking for me.”

  “Why did they send him? I hate that sleazy creep. He has a hard-on a mile long for you.”

  “You know what’s creepy? The fact that you know everyone I work with, even though we’ve been divorced for ten years, and I have a restraining order against you.”

  “The restraining order expired.”

  “I’ll file another one.”

  “On what grounds? I love you, Rylee. My life is a goddamn meaningless pit without you. How long are you going to make me pay for a mistake I made when I was a kid?”

  “You were thirty-one when you cheated on me, and as you already know, my grudges last forever. Why did you call my place of employment and report me missing?”

  The sounds of his breaths rasped through the phone for several seconds. “Your neighbor contacted me.”

  Shock chilled her spine as she lurched to her feet, heart racing. “My neighbor?”

  “Evan Phillips. He said you were acting scared and disappeared.”

  “That’s not at all what happened.” Her lungs crashed together as she raced to the window, obsessively checking the parking lot. “If he was so concerned about my whereabouts, why didn’t he call the police himself? Why would he call you?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that question.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. He’s collecting my mail. I told him I was leaving and where I was going.”

  “Because you’re fucking him.”

  “What?” Outrage whooshed through her veins and rang in her ears. “Are you watching me, Mason?”

  “I keep tabs on you. Always have. I can’t let go, Rylee. I refuse to give you up.”

  She waited for an itch, a tingle of sentiment, and felt nothing.

  Should she ask him about Paul Kissinger? If he didn’t hire the man, the question would raise flags and needlessly involve him. If he were already involved, he would lie.

  Because he was a dishonest, dirtbag cheater.

  She had a remarkable gift for attracting the worst of the worst men.

  “Tell me why you think I’m sleeping with Evan.” Her voice rose several octaves, all patience gone. “Tell me right fucking now!”

  “When he called me, I asked him outright, and he confirmed it.”

  Was Mason lying about that? Was he jealous enough, obsessed enough, to hire a man to watch her fuck her neighbor?

  “I hate it.” His voice took on a bitter edge. “I hate every second you spend with other men because it’s another second you’re not with me. I hate that I had the entire world in my arms, in my bed, and I lost it all. I only have myself to blame. I lost you because I’m an idiot. You were the only woman I’d ever been with, and at the time, I thought…”

  “You needed to play the field? How was the grass on the other side? Was it greener?”

  “No. God, Rylee. No one compares to you. You’re stunning beyond words, and every year that you age, you only look younger and more gorgeous. You’re hard-working. Intelligent. Compassionate.” His tone deepened. “A hellion in bed. But most of all, you were a devoted and faithful wife. You gave me one-hundred percent of your love, and I squandered it like a fool.”

  She’d never told him about the bridge. They’d never discussed the affair or anything that happened after. This was the longest conversation she’d allowed him to have with her since the divorce.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “I’m wherever you’re not, and it’s going to remain that way. If I see you again, I’ll file another restraining order.”

  She hung up and tossed the phone.

  A tremor started at the base of her skull and worked its way down her spine. Within seconds, she was shaking. Fighting tears. Shivering in a cold sweat.

  “Fuck you, Mason.” She swatted at the moisture that leaked from her eyes, her voice soft, deadened. “Fuck you.”

  Outside, nightfall descended. She sat on the bed until the room went dark. She didn’t turn on the lights, didn’t want to draw attention to the room from anyone who might drive by.

  She couldn’t go home.

  Maybe Mason had lied about Evan’s phone call. Maybe he was telling the truth, and Evan was…what? Stalking her? Trying to control her life? She was a criminal psychologist, for fuck’s sake. Her entire job was examining criminal behavior and diagnosing mental health conditions. How could she not detect red flags with the man she’d been sleeping with for the past year?

  She just couldn’t. It didn’t fit Evan’s personality.

  He has hundreds of photos of you on his personal computer.

  Was that a criminal offense? No, but it made him a suspect. If he was capable of involving Paul Kissinger, Dean Hodge, and her ex-husband in some unknown scheme, he was capable of tracking her phone if she called him.

  Contacting Evan was out of the question. Not until she had more information.

  And she couldn’t rule out the most threatening possibility.

  Tommy had a nefarious history with a list of enemies that stretched from Canada to South America. Her connection to him was the emails. How someone could discover that she was reading them was beyond her technical understanding. She’d had access to the Tommysgirl account for ten years, yet Paul had only been watching her for six months.

  All of this buzzed through her mind as she lay in the dark. Every creak and bump made her jump. Even the silence rose the hairs on her arms.

  After failing her marriage, she’d given up her reliance on people. She stopped depending on and trusting in all men. Avoiding relationships protected her from repeating the unspeakable pain she’d experienced on the bridge. Being alone had kept her safe for ten years.

  But she didn’t feel safe right now.

  And she’d never felt so alone.

  That night, she didn’t sleep well. The next day brought more of the same—eating, napping, and chasing her thoughts in circles. Her supplies were running out, and the room was only paid for through one more night.

  She would have to check-out tomorrow and call Dean.

  Or hitchhike to another country. A far more appealing option.

  Hours after dusk on the fourth night, she turned on the shower and set out clean clothes. While the water warmed up, she stepped out of the bathroom and into the dark room. From the nightstand, she grabbed the butcher knife she’d taken from Tommy’s house.

  Keeping the lights off gave her a false sense of comfort. If someone wanted to find her badly enough, a dark motel room wouldn’t deter them. But she refused to cast a moving shadow on the curtains and make herself an easy target.

  Showering in a motel room conjured the most terrifying murder scenes put on film. Psycho, Evil Dead, Friday the 13th, A Nightmare On Elm Street. She tightened her hand on the knife handle, working herself into a stupid panic.

  A demented serial killer wasn’t going to sneak in and slash her in the shower.

  Steam drifted out of the bathroom, and her feet remained rooted to the floor. She couldn’t bring herself to undress.

  Come on, Rylee.

  With a calming breath, she crept toward the external door, checked the flimsy lock, and reseated the swing bar latch. Both were secured. But she didn’t feel secure.

  She shifted to the window and peered through the crack between the curtains. Expecting to find the parking lot empty as usual, she jerked at the sight of a car.

  Parked next to the office, it sat empty. A middle-aged man stood inside at the front desk, wearing a suit that looked wildly out of place. />
  Her blood pressure skyrocketed.

  He wasn’t a local detective. Not in a full suit. He didn’t belong here.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  The clerk stood, bending over the desk, and pointed at Rylee’s room.

  Trembling, reeling into gasping hysterics, she stumbled away from the window.

  He was coming for her.

  She spun and raced toward the bathroom, operating on impulse. A hot mist fogged the mirror and hung in the air as she yanked the shower curtain closed. Keeping the water running, she backed out of the bathroom and shut the door.

  The gap beneath the king-sized bed allowed just enough space for her to fit. She squeezed herself into the hiding spot, her cheek against the carpet, which reeked of maple syrup and cigarette smoke.

  Once every inch of her was out of view, she lay on her stomach, chin to the floor, angled toward the foot of the bed, with her fingers slick and clammy around the hilt of the knife.

  No amount of knocking would convince her to come out and open that door. If local law enforcement wanted to talk to her, they could send a guy who looked like a small-town detective during daylight hours.

  The wait was petrifying, the silence deafening. Perspiration beaded on her brow as her panic-stricken heart tore through her chest, searching for a way out.

  She didn’t detect approaching footsteps. Didn’t hear a fist against the door. When the hush broke, it detonated in a spray of splintered wood.

  The door swung open, pieces of it scattering the floor inches from her face. A bullet had done that. Without the report of gunfire.

  His weapon had a suppressor, like something out of a fucking mafia movie.

  He was going to kill her.

  She slapped a hand over her mouth, smothering the burst of her breaths as she slid the knife across the carpet in front of her.

  The intruder strode in, making a beeline for the bathroom. Shiny dress shoes blurred by. Soundless footsteps. Determined. Deadly.

  If she slipped out of hiding now, he would shoot her. Not that she could move. Ice encased her joints. Tears leaked from her eyes, her dread so cold and heavy it pressed her into the floor.

  He stopped at the bathroom door and quietly opened it. Then he stepped back and fired into the cloud of steam.