by Skye Warren
My toes feel like little blocks of ice, and I shift my foot so that it’s under his huge calf, and then I tuck my other foot under that one. He stirs, pulling me closer, warming me, and it feels good, like somebody on this wasteland of a planet is saying, Let me keep you warm.
I never had anyone rock me to sleep before—my mother was too beaten up or strung out on coke to even recognize me most nights, but maybe this is how it would’ve felt. Calming. Soothing. Like somebody saying, I’m here.
For a split second, I imagine giving in to the comforting weight and warmth of his limbs on my body like I did in the woods, but I don’t—I’m not stupid. I keep myself as stiff and distant as possible. Except for my toes. He’s just so warm.
I wonder if that’s how it was for my mother. Hating and wanting the drugs at the same time.
Until it killed her.
It’s maybe a second later or hours later that I jerk awake—all I know is that I’m losing my battle with sleep. And my eyes are wet with tears. But he’s still holding me, and his heartbeat is steady as sunshine, and he has sandwiched my toes between his heavy legs and they’re finally warm. It’s like I’m tumbling. Falling.
How could I have softened toward Grayson for even a second?
Carefully, slowly, I extract myself from his hold. It’s like a real-life version of the game Pick Up Sticks, where I have to remove my limbs, one by one, without disturbing him at all. I untie my ankle with my toes.
It feels like a ten-foot drop out of the bed. My feet land too hard on the thin carpet. Pain shoots up my shins, a burst of white in the red streak of my thoughts. Escape. Get away.
Only my hands are attached to the bed, tied up with cloth. The bonds are tight but not cutting off circulation. I made my wrists clench, pumping extra blood through them, tensing the muscles without looking like I was doing it, when he tied me up. That way I’d have a better chance of getting out. Now I relax myself, willing my wrists to grow slimmer. I pull at them hard, trying not to yank and wake him, but I’m frantic to get free. He left enough room in the knots that I wouldn’t wake up with bruises, but I’ll have them now.
I twist against the fabric, trying not to think about the way he washed my cut. The way he carried me in the stream. How he could have demanded a lot worse than a hand job. There’s some kind of code he’s following, a twisted form of honor that I find almost endearing.
Except I can’t find him endearing. I can’t think he looks almost vulnerable, sleeping in the dark like a dangerous prince waiting to be woken with a kiss.
I lean in and try to loosen the tie with my teeth, then I pull and twist some more, wincing as the cloth cuts into my flesh. Little by little, I’m getting free.
I almost can’t believe my careful movements aren’t waking him, but I bet he didn’t sleep last night in the prison, all pumped for his escape today. And he fought in that riot. He carried me through the stream, and I may be small, but I’m not light. Then he drove for hours without stopping. He’s been on an adrenaline high for twenty hours, capped off by a hit of endorphins from the orgasm. He sleeps on.
And suddenly I’m loose.
I kneel on the floor, staring at my raw, swollen hands, no longer attached to the bed. I wait for Grayson to snap his eyes open and laugh his dark, gravelly laugh and tell me it has all been a test. But no. He sleeps on, and my heart twists as I watch his chest rise and fall. He’s a horrible human being, but he’s still a human being. That means something to me. It has to mean something, or I’m a horrible human being too.
I find my clothes in the bathroom and dress quickly. My body moves like a train leaving the station—slow at first and then building speed. Then racing. I hold my breath as the lock snicks. The hinges squeak, barely audible over the eager AC. I step into the darkness outside, breathing in that inimitable smell of nighttime and pine, and quietly shut the door.
Safe. Safe. Safe.
My heart beats heavily in my chest, triumphant and terrified. The light is off in the motel office, but I rush down and I try the door. Locked. I wonder if the teenage kid who worked there is staying in one of these rooms or whether he’s left the property. Either way, I’m not planning on banging on any doors to find out. That will give Grayson too much time to wake up and find me.
The road is long and empty both ways. I pick a direction and walk fast. With any luck, I can find help. With any luck, I can be free.
I pass an abandoned farmhouse, but no people are in sight. A truck passes by, but I’m too afraid to flag it down. What if the truck driver is as evil as Grayson? I can’t trust anyone. I stay in the shadow of the trees until the red taillights fade to black. I am alone here, disconnected.
It’s like with every passing mile, I am farther and farther away from safety—and farther from myself. From being human. I’m turning into this other type of being, one who jerks off criminals in crappy motel rooms. One who wants to be kissed in a getaway car.
I need to get away from him, away from this. It doesn’t matter if he kills me. I understand now why he had to escape prison. Even the threat of death won’t keep me locked down.
I follow the line of trees in case I need to use them for shelter, but I don’t go deep inside. The woods couldn’t protect me last time. They’ll only cut my skin. They’ll only make it easier for him to track me down. No, I’m going to walk until I reach people. Civilization. Safety.
Buildings appear like a mirage, and I almost can’t trust them. A small town. It’s like heaven. I walk faster.
By the time I reach the town, blue and purple hues streak above the horizon. Dawn. I’m running out of time. Cars are parked diagonally in front of old-time shops. A pharmacist. A lawyer’s office. Who can I trust? I hear the rumble of a truck. It could be anyone. It could be him. An uneven sidewalk trips me, and I fall, gasping at the jolt to my knee. I scramble up; I have to keep going.
My breath is loud in my ears, every puff an explosion. And then I see it down the street. A police station. A little police station with only a single cop car parked in front of the building, but it’s enough. If I can get there, I’ll be safe. Grayson won’t be able to touch me inside that building. Or will he? Will a small-town cop be able to stand on his own against Grayson? But he’s my only hope. And he’ll have a gun and probably a partner. He’ll have training. He’ll have backup. Grayson has nothing but his fierce will and ingenuity—though I have to admit, those things have gotten him further than anyone expected.
I imagine the crunch of gravel behind me, and I take off running, afraid even to look. There’s only now. No later. No future. No being open and honest and vulnerable with anyone else—not ever again.
My lungs burn. My legs are screaming in pain. It feels like my own body is holding me back. He’s gaining on me. I can hear him. Feel him.
I dart between cars in a parking lot, heading toward the little police station, and it’s like running through a fun house. Pale clouds are reflected in windshields. Endorphins twist my vision until everything looks wavy and strange.
The door to the station opens before I can reach it. Blue uniform shirt. An older man, graying hair. And a gun. God, yes. Finally. It’s wrapped up in black leather and tucked beneath his belly, but that’s fine. This man—this gun—is going to make things right.
“Help me,” I say in a burst of breath. “Please help me.”
The cop’s hand goes to his gun. He doesn’t pull it out; he just holds his hand there as he moves away to inspect me, gaze snapping down my body and then up again. “Miss? What’s happened? Are you okay?”
There’s a hint of suspicion in his voice; he doesn’t like that I ran up to him like this. It makes me laugh, half with freedom and half with hysteria. “He’s after me.”
With dark brown eyes set deep inside folded lids, he scans the street, the cars.
No one is there.
“Ma’am, are you in trouble?” the cop asks. “What happened?”
“It’s him. He escaped from a prison—the Kingman Cor
rectional Facility. There was a riot and… His name is Grayson—Grayson Kane,” I say, recalling how proudly and painstakingly I typeset his name above his vignette in that stupid journal, making the margins just so.
The cop’s gaze turns sharp. “Kingman Correctional?”
“He was back at the motel, but I escaped. I thought he was chasing me.”
The cop scans the empty horizon, and finally his eyes fall to my red, swollen wrists. “Come inside.”
Relief fills me as I step into the cool office. The smell of stale coffee mingles with lemon-scented floor cleaner, making my stomach lurch. The cop introduces himself as Sheriff Dunham. He points to a swivel chair with pilling fabric.
“Sit down while I call this in.”
I follow his instructions, my hands shaking in my lap. I’m not sure why. This is a good thing. Now I can go home to…a room with bare walls? A string of endless classes? The only meaningful thing I’ve ever done is The Kingman Journal, and even that is tainted with what Grayson did.
My gaze goes back to the door, and I recognize what’s twisting my stomach: fear. Part of me thinks I’m safe now, but the other part of me remembers that Grayson did the unthinkable. He escaped from prison. He can do anything.
Sheriff Dunham grunts in response to whatever the person on the phone is saying. The conversation takes a long time, and my nerves begin to rise. The sheriff isn’t watching the door while he’s on the phone. He’s watching me instead.
He murmurs something that sounds like assent, and a chill runs through me, like the cold sound of chains. Like the heavy double-barred doors clanging shut in the prison.
Apology glints in his eyes, faint enough to tell me he won’t be swayed from what he’s about to say. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m putting you under arrest.”
My mouth gapes open. “What?”
His expression firms. His eyes harden, as if no regret had ever lurked deep inside. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest. Aiding and abetting a felon.”
* * *
I never imagined I’d be looking at the bars from the inside of a cell. The funny thing is they look the same from the outside, round black cylinders, impenetrable and forbidding. In the prison, they’d been a reminder that I wasn’t as safe as I thought I was. The sight of them that first day had slammed into the sense of security I’d worked so many years to build.
And now that I’ve been locked in a small-town jail, they shatter that security completely.
I refuse to sit on the mold-blackened cot or go near the toilet without a lid. It smells foul, even if you flush it. So I stand in the only corner left, huddled, miserable. And angry.
My mother was arrested countless times. She’d told me things designed to help. Don’t fight; you’ll only wear yourself out. Be nice to the guards, and they’ll be nice to you. Make your wrists tight when someone’s slapping cuffs on you, so you have a chance of getting out of them. She assumed I’d end up as lawless and beaten down as she was.
I never thought she’d be right.
The sound of shuffling comes from outside. The phone rings, and I hear the low tones of the sheriff. He must be talking to the cops near Kingman—or maybe even the FBI. They’re probably giving him credit for catching a dangerous criminal like myself. A hysterical laugh threatens to escape me. I force it back down, because once I start, I might not stop.
I told them the name of the motel where he was. They thought I was lying.
Footsteps click-clack, slow and steady from the front offices back to the single cell where I wait.
I glare at the sheriff as he stands outside the bars, holding a bottle of water.
“You thirsty?”
I glare some more. I’m horribly thirsty, but the thought of accepting help from this man makes my stomach churn, even though I know he’s only doing his job. He’s not allowed to decide who’s guilty or innocent; he just puts them in jail.
“They won’t be here for another six hours, so you may as well have a drink. Go ahead. You hungry? You look a little pale. You’re entitled to a lunch. We usually send out to the bagel place—”
It’s lunchtime already? “I’m not hungry,” I snap. Though I should be. I feel a little feverish, actually. “I didn’t help him,” I say, my jaw clenched so tight I can barely get the words out. I know it’s useless to argue with him, but I can’t help it. Something about being innocent, about being unjustly accused, makes my blood turn to lava. I was the one held at gunpoint and dragged across the state. I’m the one with bruises on my wrists. Now I’m the one locked up behind bars.
He sighs. “If that’s true, then they’ll sort it out.”
I think he believes me, but I still have to stand in this cold, dank cell. I still have to accept a bottle of water like it’s a scrap of bread and I’m a stray dog.
And I want to believe that they’ll sort it out, but how did they even tangle it up in the first place? “What’s the evidence against me?” When he doesn’t answer, I push. “They must have evidence to get an arrest warrant, right? They can’t just take one out without any kind of proof.”
Something flickers in his eyes, almost like worry. He knows something isn’t right here. “It’s not for me to know the details, miss. I’m not involved in the investigation.”
“You seem pretty involved to me,” I shoot back.
He doesn’t meet my eyes again. He sets the water bottle on the floor and moves away. “I’ll check in later,” he says before returning to the front.
How can they hold me here? I’ve done the right thing for so many years. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. I tried to be the good student, the good girl. The unfairness of it rises like bile, sharp and acidic. I think about Esther. Does she think I helped him escape?
How can anybody think that? I barely know him.
But that’s not quite true. I do know him.
A dark stain spreads at the base of the water bottle, turning the dusty concrete black. Condensation drips down and adds to the pool of water. I let my mind drift as I watch the drops fall and slowly dry.
Now that I’ve stopped running, now that I’m safe—at least I’m safe from him—I feel sleepy. All the tension that was holding me up leaves me, and now I’m boneless. Shaky.
Shadows lengthen across the dingy cot and the gray mottled floor. I don’t want to contemplate using the toilet, so I don’t want to drink too much. Half the bottle and I’m done.
But God, I’m so tired. And hot.
I curl up on my side. The concrete feels cool on my cheek, and it’s probably more sanitary to touch than the cot. I tell myself I’ll take a little nap.
The next thing I know, I’m startled awake by a crash. I shoot up from where I lay.
Above me, there’s a dark shape. Sunlight streams around it, giving it an unearthly halo. The clink of keys.
“I told you not to run.”
Grayson. He sounds pissed.
I scramble back and hit the wall.
He opens the cell door and stands above me, looking down, his expression black.
“How did you get in here?” I look around. Try to listen for signs of life. “Where is…”
“Don’t worry, nobody’s dead. Yet.”
I don’t know who he’s threatening—me or the cop, or maybe the whole damn world. He’s capable of anything.
“Up.” Something flashes in the gloom, and I realize he has a gun in his hand. I stiffen. “That’s right,” he says with a sparkle in his eyes, still seeming to track my every thought. “You ready to be good?”
“What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?”
“I’ve had hours to tell everything I know—what your friend looks like. The license plate.”
“Did you?”
“They didn’t question me yet, but—”
“Didn’t think so.”
“But you didn’t know that!”
He gives me this look, calm and sure. It’s as if I’ve been out there buffeted by wild
ocean waves, and he’s a strong, solid rock outcrop. He’s sharp in places too—maybe touching him will rip me open. I don’t know how to feel.
“Why?” I whisper.
He kneels, putting himself at my level, and something like concern flickers in his eyes. “Because I had to get you out of here.” He closes his hand around my upper arm and pulls me up. “I’ll always come for you. You’re mine.”
Twenty-Two
~Grayson~
Abby sleeps, curled up where I set her in the passenger seat. It would make my life easier if she never woke up, but I can’t stop looking at her, worrying over her like a damned mother hen. God, she needs water. And food. She seems feverish, but that could be exhaustion. Her wrists are raw from where she pulled against the ties. I should’ve heard her. I should’ve stopped her.
I’ve been doing a shit job of taking care of her.
That’s unlikely to change much, but there is one place I can take her. I take the back roads past closed-down shops and empty trailer parks, keeping a careful eye on her. Sometimes I touch her, just to make sure she’s breathing, that her pulse is there.
Her face looks peaceful now, but it makes my gut clench to remember her in there, caged up like an animal.
Why the fuck did they arrest her?
I tried to get an answer out of the sheriff, but I suppose I didn’t give him enough time. Doesn’t matter. I already know it’s the governor. He just keeps fucking me over—framing me for killing that cop. And now he’s framed Abby.
It’s like he knew she was important to me.
I make a quick call on a pay phone when we stop for gas, then hop back in and keep right on going, even though my eyes feel full of gravel.
A small-town sheriff doesn’t mean anything to me, but they’ll bring in the FBI on this. I’m supposed to be much farther away by now, but Abby’s escape attempt set me back. I’ve been awake for forty-eight hours except for those two or three hours in the motel. This isn’t the kind of exhaustion a Mountain Dew will fix; it’s the kind that will get me killed.