Of course, when he comes back in he’s taking the lid off and examining the contents. “Tramadol, babe? Are you in a lot of pain? And what the hell is this, anti-depressants?”
“Losing a fucking leg can bring you fucking down, you know?” I wish I could get up and stomp around the room, but I can’t. I’m unable to make any show of temper other than raising my voice at his invasion of my privacy and thumping my hands down on the seat cushions. And then the perfect solution hits me, “Look; this whole thing’s stupid. Just leave me alone, and I’ll remove myself from the equation altogether. It’s not like I’ve got anything to live for now.” And what isn’t a new idea seems the perfect solution all around. I wouldn’t be a burden to anyone and Ethan wouldn’t be able to use me as a bargaining chip.
Horse moves so quickly, one moment he’s standing by my suitcase, next he’s leaning over me, a menacing look on his face. His hands are gripping my arms so tightly it almost hurts, and he shakes me. His face glows red; his lips have thinned as rage blasts off of him. I reel back as he shouts, “Killing yourself? Is that what you’re talking about? You’re fucking alive, and you want to throw that away?” I swear my teeth are rattling and that my arms will bruise as he holds me with such a firm grip. “You’ve got a chance to live; others aren’t as lucky as you.”
Well he doesn’t have to tell me that! That’s something I know only too well. I glare at him, feeling heat welling up inside me.
Suddenly he lets me go, but his intense eyes don’t leave mine. “I never want to hear another sentence like that out of your fucking mouth again! You’re coming with me, and I’m going to keep you safe. And I’m going to be taking charge of your medication.”
“You can’t do that.” My eyes blaze at him, fire I thought long forgotten returns. It’s my lifeline, my choice he is taking away. Why the fuck can’t I have the chance to put an end to my suffering once and for all? Whether I take the easy route out or not is up to me, surely? I’m not sure I’d actually go that far, but I’d like the option to be there. And maybe then I wouldn’t be so alone.
“Watch me!” Angry Horse, I decide, I definitely don’t like.
“I wouldn’t argue with him, sweetheart.” There’s something about the tone of Cut’s voice that tells me it’s best to beat a hasty metaphorical retreat.
Cut’s intervention kicks my brain into gear. I realise something else is going on here. It can’t be me he wants to protect so fiercely, but maybe it’s something else? Someone he couldn’t save, perhaps? Had someone close to him ended their own life? My features relax as sympathy takes over. Looking up at Horse I tell him quietly, “I’m sorry, Horse, but sometimes, it’s just so hard, you know?”
He stares at me, the expression in his eyes shuttered and haunted, then gradually his hands loosen, “Some have it worse, babe.”
I’ve been told that before, been told how lucky I was not to lose both legs or be completely paralysed. But somehow I don’t think Horse means it the same way. I decide not to argue.
“You want me to take her and her stuff in my van?” Cut’s practical suggestion breaks the tension in the room.
“Yeah, I’m on the bike.” With one last lingering look at my face, Horse turns away and gives a chin lift to Cut who starts busying himself folding my wheelchair.
“I’ll need that…” I start to point out.
“I’ve got arms, haven’t I?” Not wanting to get on the wrong side of Horse again, I don’t argue his suggested mode of transport. Nor do I get into a debate when he goes into what was the dining room but which has been converted into a downstairs bedroom, returning with some of the winter clothing I keep there. I watch as he empties armfuls of jeans and sweatshirts into the case and note he’s neglected to bring the plain white knickers and bras I wear nowadays. But I again I keep my mouth shut as he zips up the now full suitcase which Cut, having returned, picks up easily in one hand. Taking my crutches under his other arm, he disappears outside again. Finally, I purse my lips and say nothing as Horse pockets my prescribed medication.
Then, with a gentler look, he comes over to me. “Anything else you want to take, babe?”
This is all happening so fast my brain can’t keep up. I haven’t got a clue. I try to think, “Er, my bag, phone and iPad.”
“Your iPad got a sim in it?”
I shake my head.
“Well, you can take that, but we’ll have to get you a new phone. Don’t want anyone to be able to trace you.”
He slips the iPad into the pocket of my suitcase, passes me my handbag having taken out the phone, then moves closer, his features gentling, and a small smile appearing on his face. He reaches out his hand and softly caresses my cheek, his blue eyes gazing at me intently. He breathes in deeply then lets the air out as a sigh. “It’s all a bit much for you, isn’t it, babe? But don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you. You’re going to be safe. Trust me.”
I lean into his touch, welcoming the comfort. His kindness brings tears to my eyes, “Horse, I’m not normal, you’ve got to realise…”
“I’m not fucking blind, babe. Don’t worry. You’ve got special needs; I can see that. I’ll help you every step of the way.” Then, without saying anything else, he picks me up in his strong arms and takes me out of my house and away to God knows where.
Goodness knows why I should trust a man I only met today. But he’s saved me already when he chased Hargreaves out of my house, and unlike Ethan’s henchman, I sense no threatening aura coming off him. And Zoe had sent him to me; she wouldn’t put me in the hands of someone who’d do me wrong, would she? So without making any further protest, I let him carry me out of the home where at least everything had been adapted for me, and into an uncertain future, hoping to God I’m doing the right thing.
Cut drives me to Horse’s home, a flat in a block on the outskirts of Guildford. Parking outside he switches off the engine, and warns me we’ll have a bit of a wait.
“Where’s Horse gone?” I ask Cut, not really caring, but wanting to break the silence.
Cut taps his fingers on the steering wheel as if he’s impatient to get to something else he needs to be doing. Which makes me think, while I don’t like the way Horse is pushing me around, I should be grateful they dropped everything to help me today.
“He’s gone to see his partner, Josh. He’ll be dropping his bike off so Josh can put it in storage for him.”
At that moment a van pulls up behind us, emblazoned with the emblem of a local garage. I take a moment to admire the decal painted on the side—it’s a beautifully painted picture of cars and bikes. Watching in the side mirror, I see Horse unfold himself from the passenger seat and go around to the driver’s side.
His voice is loud; I can hear every word. “Thanks for this, mate. I’ll let you know when I’m coming back.”
I can’t hear the response, but then Horse continues, “Yeah, it will probably September as usual.”
September? Doing the quick calculation in my head, I realise that’s seven months away. Surely he isn’t taking me somewhere for that long? I’ll lose my job for sure—not that I want it. But, fuck it, months? I thought a few days, and I’d been back home. Realising I need to know just what I might be letting myself in for, I resolve to start asking him some questions as soon as I can.
Then it’s all down to business. Cut sorts out my stuff, while Horse takes me in his arms again, and carries me up to his second floor flat. While I worry about the weight strain I must be putting on his back; this is the easiest mode of transport since I came out of hospital. Not very independent, though. My physio wouldn’t be pleased.
My earlier assumption that Cut’s got something better to do is proved right as he hangs around only as long as it takes to say goodbye, and then the two men pull each other in for a one-armed man hug, accompanied by back slaps which would probably knock me over if they tried that on me. As Cut wishes him good luck and hopes that all goes well—well, that’s what I interpreted from the man speak—he comes
over and takes my hand. Still bemused at everything that’s happened to me, at last remembering my manners I thank him for his help, which he dismisses with a wink and a wave of his hand, then he leaves, and I’m alone with this mountain of a man.
Men have never intimidated me before. Shit, in my previous life I’d go after anything that attracted me, anytime, anyhow and anywhere. I used to amuse Zoe with all my conquests—I loved sex. Why should I be ashamed about that? Never felt the need to tie myself to any one relationship; just enjoyed sampling as many of the various goods as I could. Now desire has completely left me and instead of causing my lady parts to quicken, my breathing speeds up, and my palms start sweating. I’m trapped in a wheelchair and unable to fight if any man wants to take advantage of me. Was I stupid agreeing to come here?
Horse looks down at me. I shift uncomfortably at his gaze, he’s not said anything since Cut left; he seems to be waiting, but for what, I don’t know. I start feeling scared. As I’d been before I wouldn’t have said no to putting him through his paces in the sack, but now? Nope, not even a flicker of desire; if he makes any approach I’ll have to make sure he knows that isn’t on the agenda. Unless he uses force, of course, I’m in no state to be able to press a refusal.
It’s awkward, trapped in my wheelchair in the home of someone I don’t know. Wanting to break the silence, I ask, “So, what happens now?” Twisting my hands in my lap, I hope he’s not going to ask for more than I’m prepared to give.
He lifts his chin and narrows his eyes as if he can read my fears then, raising his head, his hands come up to massage his neck. “I’m pretty confident I’ve got everything squared away, but I’m waiting on a call to confirm it. Might take a couple of days so we’ll hang out here until I get the okay. For now, I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking hungry. Want some Chinese or something?”
I don’t have much of an appetite nowadays; food is something I eat by rote, just enough to keep me alive. Even that holds no particular pleasure for me anymore. But he’s a big man and probably needs feeding, so I shrug, “If you want.”
Horse nods, asks whether I’ve any preference—I don’t—and places the order. It’s going to take about an hour to arrive. He puts on the TV, and I manoeuvre my chair until I’m in front of it then settle in to watch programmes about motorcycles I’ve no interest in. I’m more concerned about what’s going to happen to me, and whether Zoe got away safely.
The news comes on.
“Hey, Horse! Look!” My finger points to the screen, and he comes to my side. Together we watch as the newscaster makes his announcement, letting the nation know that Zoe Baker has gone missing and that her partner, Ethan St John-Davies has put up a bloody quarter of a million pounds reward about information as to where she’s gone. There’s even a frigging picture of her! Minus bruises, of course. It must have been taken on a good day.
Oh my God! Two hundred and fifty thousand fucking pounds. That’s hard for anyone to resist. What if Horse. Cut or their mate Josh, who he’d told me helped Zoe escape, decide to drop her in it for that amount of money? My heart starts pounding as I glance warily at the huge man standing beside me.
“Fuck! Christ, I hope she got away safely.” Horse smooths back the hair that’s flopped down over his forehead. He’s frowning and half mumbling to himself, “Her disguise was quite good―even Josh didn’t recognise her at first. Hopefully, it’s enough to keep her out of his clutches.”
The words I overhear cause tension to leave me in a rush, and I sigh with relief. If nothing else proved this man had good intentions, what he’d just said did, and it filled me with warmth. That amount is one heck of an incentive to turn Zoe in. I cross my fingers and, though not particularly religious, send up a quiet prayer. Anyone who watched that news item would be on the lookout for her now, I can only hope she’s got a good enough plan to keep her safe.
While we wait for the phone call he’s expecting. We talk a little, but neither of us shares much, I’ve only just met the man, so I’m not going to tell him the story of my life, and he’s obviously a private person and doesn’t let on much about his. We spend the evening watching TV, then, when there’s nothing on to interest us I try to read a novel on my iPad, Horse flicks through car and motorcycle magazines, as well as some more artistic ones which make me ask him how he earns his living. When I find out this huge man built like a brick shit house is an artist it surprises me. His hands look too big for finely detailed work. Seeing my interest, he gets out a portfolio of some of his work and I’m amazed. What a talent he has!
The one thing he still refuses to let on is where he intends to take me. The only answer I get is a sly smile and the response that he’s waiting to check it’s going to work out before he lets me in on the secret. I’m starting to feel wary, and worried about what he’s got planned. If it was, say, a cottage in the Outer Hebrides why wouldn’t he tell me? Sure, it might be a bit cold this time of year, but that I wouldn’t much mind. It’s not like I go out much so wouldn’t bother about being snowed in.
I go to bed in his spare room; my fears relieved when he showed me to the spare bed. But perversely, part of me is upset he’s made no move on me, yet more confirmation any desirability I had as a woman has gone. Men don’t see me any longer, they see the chair, and that’s an immediate turn-off.
It’s three in the morning when Horse gets the call. The walls are thin in this modern apartment, and his voice is loud. So I can hear his side of the conversation easily, though it doesn’t make much sense to me. I hear my name mentioned, then Horse, replying, ‘Yep’ several times. The call seems to end abruptly, with none of the lingering goodbyes women tend to use.
The light goes on in the sitting room. After tossing and turning for a while and realising Horse is still apparently up, giving up on sleep for the night I decide to go and join him suspecting the call might have been the one he was waiting for and he might have news for me.
He’s sitting on the couch with a laptop open in front of him and looks up; one eyebrow raised in question as I wheel myself in. “You alright, babe?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I heard you on the phone.”
“Sorry,” he grimaces, “These walls are like paper. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
I shrug to show it doesn’t matter.
“Well I might as well tell you now, everything’s been sorted.” As he glances towards me, his eyes are twinkling, and one side of his mouth is turned up, “You’re coming with me to Tucson as soon as I can get the flights. I’m booking them now.”
Tucson? What? I open and shut my mouth a couple of times and swallow. The only Tucson I know is in the States. Surely he can’t mean he’s taking me there? My brow creases in consternation as I ask for clarification, “You’re not talking about that place in, where is it now…” I break off realising I have no fucking idea where exactly it is.
He looks up, a boyish grin on his face, “Arizona.”
My frown deepens, “Ari-fucking-zona? Why the heck would I want to go there?” I’d have preferred the Outer Hebrides.
“To be safe,” his reply is a simple one. “It’s far out of St John-Davies’ reach, and I’ve got friends there. I can promise you’ll be well protected.”
“But,” I wave my hand at my chair, knowing I’m going to have to point out the obvious, “I can’t go on a plane like this!”
“Of course you can!” Horse suddenly stands, and comes over to me, his hands on the arms of my wheelchair. “What the fuck d’you mean you can’t? Christ, woman, you can do anything you fucking want to!”
Of course, I fucking can!
Which is why, somehow, just forty-eight hours later, I find myself being wheeled through London Heathrow airport towards the departure gate for a direct flight to Phoenix, Arizona. Horse has made me wear my prosthesis, and my crutches are attached to the back of the chair. He’s organised and, despite my objections but to my relief considering my limited finances, paid for the tickets and everything, even arranging for hi
s mate Cut to take us to the airport.
The crowded airport is just as overwhelming as I expected. Either people address Horse and expect him to speak for me as though I lost my mind as well as my leg, or they go to the opposite extreme, leaning over their desks and making sure they speak to me slowly and clearly as if I’m deaf. As we go through check-in and passport control, I start fuming. And getting through security? I had to take off my flipping leg as well as having the other one x-rayed due to the number of metal pins in it! At Horse’s insistence they took me to a private area to do it, but even so, unstrapping my leg in front of strangers and watching them examine it was an embarrassing start to the journey. Once they let me through, Horse was waiting with my bag and a sympathetic look on his face. For a moment his hand rests gently on my shoulder.
Although I know which city we’re heading to, I still haven’t been able to get Horse to tell me anything more than we’ll be staying with some of his friends. His evasion suggests there’s something about the situation that I might object to if he came clean. But however much I’ve pressed him; he won’t tell me a darn thing he doesn’t want to share. I suspect he doesn’t want to get into an argument.
If I were a normal person I’d be excited to travel to the USA―it’s something, when I had two working legs, I’d always wanted to do. But at the moment the very thought of the practicalities involved in an eight-hour flight worry me. Not being a normal person I deliberately forewent my second cup of coffee this morning, and haven’t drunk anything since I arrived at the airport, despite Horse’s encouragement. When making the booking Horse informed the airline of my disability, and confirmed that he’d be the companion the rules require as I’ve got limited mobility. But I’m still worried. What the fuck happens if I need to go to the loo?
Toilets on planes are tiny at the best of times, how would I be able to manage? I can’t balance on crutches sufficiently to be able to walk up the aisle; if there were the slightest bit of turbulence, I’d fall over. Christ, my bladder feels full just with the worry of the realities that the majority of my fellow passengers would never consider. It’s not the first time I’ve cursed my predicament. And Horse wonders why I’ve considered ending it all?
Turning Wheels (Satan's Devils MC #1): A Blood Brothers Spin off Page 6