Hiding in Plain Sight

by Hornbuckle, J. A.

  "Mama, quit," I remembered saying. "I don't care I ain't no virgin. I don't want no husband."

  She went still as stone next to me, but I kept my eyes on the grease-popping pan.

  "You don't mean that, honey," she finally breathed. "How you gonna get out of here without one?" She moved closer to me, although she kept her head down, out of sight of my brothers who were filing into the kitchen and planting their lard-asses at the table. "Baby girl, we ain't got nothin' without them. No way of gettin' out 'cept for them. Don't throw away your life!"

  "I ain't throwin' away my life, Mama! Geez, stop bein' so dramatic," I'd whispered back fervently, pissed off as hell hearing the same old bullshit, the same old way.

  A woman was nothing without a man.

  No. My mama's belief was that we were nothing unless we snagged someone else to save us.

  But it was nothing I subscribed to; not in any way shape or form.

  A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.

  I read that once when I was studying for a paper due on the Women's Liberation movement. At first I didn't know what it meant, and I thought about it a long time before its meaning became clear. A fish without a bicycle was crazy. So the saying that a woman without a man, being able to live a good, happy life that didn't include one was just as crazy.

  When I got it, finally understood what the author had been trying to say, it hit me at a heart-deep level. It became something I vowed to remember; to keep in the front of my mind.

  Especially with someone like Bayco.

  Even if he was going out of his way to help me.

  Even if he was going to trade in his motorcycle to hide me better.

  My eyes again focused on the floral print of the cheap curtains in front of me.

  He was only helping me, not liberating me. He couldn't save me because I didn't need saving.

  Nope.

  He was just a means to an end, someone who helped me get from point A to point B.

  But I couldn't help but think that I was gonna have to keep reminding myself of it going forward.

  *.*.*.*.*

  The next day was a long one on the back of the bike, but he'd assured me we would be in North Platte by late afternoon. His plan was that we would stick around for a couple of days to take care of his business and complete the plan of changing the way I looked. The first step, changing my hair color had taken hours the night before. My hair was long and it was thick.

  "Have you ever done this before?" Bayco asked as he re-read the instructions. I was trying to muddle my way through them myself and glanced up when he spoke.

  "Uhm, no. But it doesn't sound that hard," I replied.

  "That is what scares me," he said with a small dimple flashing, before scooping up both boxes of the hair dye and moving to the bathroom. I followed right behind, pulling at my bottom lip. I knew what he meant about being scared when things sounded easy. Experience had taught me that nothing was as simple as it first looked.

  Case in point?

  That damn car.

  Closing the lid on the toilet, I sat down, idly wondering about the rest of my clothes and suitcases we'd left in the trunk.

  "Do you think they've found the car yet?" I asked, watching him as he began to mix the potion from the boxes.

  "I do not know. But since your pursuers were on the main road of the town…" his voice trailed off.

  "Yeah," I agreed. Other people may not have found the car but somehow, someway, his people had got wind of me and where I was.

  Bayco's eyes roamed over me as he shook the bottles to mix the ingredients together. "How much do you like your shirt?" he asked.

  I glanced down at my purple, baby doll t-shirt. "Uh… it's okay, I guess. Why?"

  "In case it gets ruined with the color, are you going to be upset?" he asked. I hadn't thought of that. I knew hair color stained when that Julie girl at school tried dying her hair black, determined to be our small town's only Goth-girl. She'd managed to get the color on her forehead and neck, making her look like something from a zombie movie. The long gray streaks had taken a long time to fade.

  "I'm okay with it getting on the shirt. Just keep it off my skin, all right?" I offered, glancing up at him. I got a shy grin in return. With the dimple.

  "I have never done this before. I cannot promise anything," he said, his beautiful eyes twinkling.

  Right.

  I grabbed his wrist as his hands moved to my hair. "Wait. Uhm. You're sure this is a good idea?" Because I wasn't. I'd always counted my hair as one of my best assets.

  He just looked at me, taking in my upturned face as he considered my question. "We must change the way you look. Your hair is very distinct, very recognizable. Either we change the color or we cut it. Or both." His eyes moved to my hands, which were now stroking my long locks.

  "It is too beautiful to cut," he murmured, his gaze following my fingers.

  I swallowed deeply. Yeah, well. I guess if given a choice between coloring or cutting, I'd have to go with door number one. I settled myself on the seat of the closed toilet and told him to just get on with it.

  As it processed, the color changed to blood-red and looked god-awful on the white of the motel's hand towel as I used it to blot the excess from my forehead and ears after he had applied the muck over the whole of my head.

  "How long do I need to keep this shit on for, again?" I asked, coming out of the bathroom.

  Bayco looked up when I spoke, but his eyes got caught on the towel in my hands. Or, more specifically, at the spots of hair color staining the towel. His face paled and stilled completely as his eyes lifted to my head. He didn't blink but he did begin to move. He'd been sitting at the end of the bed, elbows on knees as he used the remote to flip through the channels of the TV. But one look at the stained towel and my head, had him crawling backwards until he hit the headboard, his back almost glued to it.

  He was breathing really fast, and I could smell the sharp tang of his sweat as it overtook the smell of the hair gunk in the room.

  What the hell?

  "Are you okay?" I asked. Something was really wrong. He'd gone from this strong, protector kind of guy to a man who was literally shaking as he cowered against the headboard. I knew it had something to do with the towel I was holding. Or maybe it was with me and all that disgusting stuff I had all over my head. Not knowing what else to do, I raced back into the bathroom.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. Yeah, the shit on my head did kind of look like blood. And on that towel, it appeared someone had tried to clean up a cut or something. Was he squeamish about blood? I'd read about people who fainted at the sight of it, but he hadn't looked like he was going to faint. He'd looked like he was gonna start screaming or something.

  I heard the door open and close. Did he leave? I poked my head out of the bathroom and saw the room was empty.

  He didn't come back for hours, which kind of freaked me out. I mean, it was the longest we'd been apart since he'd liberated me from that long ribbon of empty highway. I didn't want to worry about him. Worrying about him meant another thing I had to think about, and my mind was already filled with trying to come up with a plan for when we parted ways.

  Shit.

  I rinsed the stuff out of my hair and used the conditioner that had come with the packages. Unsure of, and unwilling to take a chance that it was something other than the blood-like color which had freaked him out, I made a point of carefully cleaning up the bathroom. Wiping out the tub, I folded the small towel I'd used so that the spots of color couldn't be seen at first glance.

  I took time to blow-dry my hair until it was stick straight. The color was actually kind of pretty, and I decided that I could work the rich, dark red. I couldn't wait to show him.

  That was, if he ever came back.

  What if he'd decided enough was enough and had gone?

  I felt my stomach drop at the thought which just added 'pissed off' to the other emotions churning inside me. I was not, w
as fucking not, going to lean on anyone else but myself and being afraid he'd left, smacked of dependence.

  With nothing else to do, I crawled into my side of the bed and flipped off the lights and laid there a long time trying to work things through in the chaos of my mind.

  The opening of the door woke me from a deep sleep as did a crash of the chair at the little table in front of the window. Without a thought, I'd rolled out of bed and onto the floor, adrenaline coursing through me. I stealthily reached into my backpack which was never far from my side. I did a one-handed grope, trying to feel for the heavy metal of the gun as my mind whirled.

  Was it Bayco or someone worse?

  Oh shit, had I loaded the gun?

  I heard the squeak of the bed before the thud of something heavy was followed by a second one hitting the carpet on the side where he slept. I heard a rustling noise before the mattress creaked again with a long, drawn out, 'aah' of a sigh.

  My heart began to slow as I realized the 'he' was Bayco and that he had come back. I raised myself on shaking knees and levered myself back up onto the bed and laid back down on my pillow.

  "Why were you on the floor, draga?" I heard him ask, but his voice sounded different, slower and deeper. Almost, but not quite a slur.

  "I didn't know who was coming in." Damn, even my voice was shaky. The tremors inside were gonna take a long time to calm.

  "I see," he said and I felt his body turn towards me. His hand reached up and patted my shoulder clumsily. "I did not mean to scare you," he continued and I got a good whiff of his breath. Bourbon breath, a smell I was very familiar with, having smelled it every day of my life growing up with my alcoholic father.

  I didn't respond other than to turn over to face the wall. To tell the truth, the thought of Bayco being drunk scared me. Well, anyone being drunk scared me since people could do all sorts of crazy shit and blame it on the drink. Luckily, it wasn't long before I heard his breathing change.

  We didn't talk much the next morning. Not that he was the chattiest of men anyways, but he seemed even quieter. He did, though, make a point of admiring my hair. "But you do not look that much different," he admitted.

  Yeah, well.

  "Maybe I should cut it after all," I replied and saw him nod before he turned away. Something was still wrong, but I couldn't tell if it was left over from last night or something new. The man played his cards pretty close to his chest until he had something to say. Then, when he spoke, he just said whatever it was he wanted to say, straight up.

  I'd never met anyone like him.

  Chapter Eight

  "We will go to the Harley store first thing tomorrow," Bayco announced when we were finally at the motel just on the far edge of North Platte. It was a nicer motel than the others but then, North Platte was an actual city whereas all the other places had been little Podunk towns, like the one I'd grown up in.

  I'd always avoided the cities when I was on the run. They were too big with too much going on for me to keep aware of everything around me. I felt exposed, too vulnerable, in the midst of it all.

  "Okay," I replied. I was nose-deep in my backpack, getting ready to do some laundry in the machines just a couple of doors down from the motel once the sun went down. I hated to admit it, but Bayco had been right about the four day’s amount of clothes. It had been just the right amount to see us this far on the journey without having to stop for anything other than potty breaks, food, and gas or to sleep. But everything was filthy from traveling on the motorcycle.

  "You will need to buy clothes and boots," he continued, and I raised my head to watch him as he wrote at the round table by the window. "While you are in the store, you will need to observe the other women to see what they wear, how they wear it, as well as their cosmetics."

  "You want me to study them?" I asked and got caught up in his eyes. It was probably the first time since the night of the hair color that he'd really looked at me. Had that only happened last night?

  "Yes. You will have to become one of them, Reese. So study them." He broke eye contact and once again put his pen to paper. "The desk clerk said there is a large store across the street from the Harley place. You will need to go to the other store to get the rest of what you will need to complete your new look."

  "I will?" I asked, feeling my eyes narrow. I didn't like the sound of that. The 'you' versus 'us' portion of what he said. "And what will you be doing?"

  His head was down but I saw him blink a couple of times before he sighed and put his pen down as he pushed back his chair. This time when our eyes locked, he didn't turn away.

  "Tomorrow we are going to trade in my bike, yes? But we are not going into the store together. I will drop you off around the corner. I need to find a place to clean it up before I trade it in. If you have not completed your purchases by the time I am in the store, you will not speak to me. You will not recognize me. We will have no contact, understand?" This was the most he had said in quite a while. When the sound of his voice stopped, I realized he wanted me, as usual, to confirm my understanding of his instructions.

  "I'm gonna go into the store alone. You want me to pick out clothes and stuff. If I see you, I'm gonna pretend I don't know you," I reiterated. "Then, when I'm done I'm supposed to go across the street and get the rest of what I need."

  "Exactly right," he murmured.

  "Where will we meet up?" I asked, my heart starting to beat fast at the thought of doing all those things without having him around. I didn't like that feeling, didn't like it one flippin' bit. Again, it kind of smacked of a kind of reliance, one that I didn't want or need.

  "I will be in the far corner of the parking lot of the large store. You will make your way to me by walking through the parked cars," he said slowly. "Although, I would like to find another way, if possible. This, I will think on and hopefully come up with something better by that time."

  "Okay," I said, going back to my sorting. Guess there wasn't any help for it. I was just going to have to trust him.

  *.*.*.*.*

  Trust, Brand decided, was a tricky thing. It was something that two people had to build over time and, because it was so fragile in the beginning, you had to take care of it, nurture it to keep it growing and building.

  He knew his behavior of last night had set them back in the trust area quite a bit.

  It had been a long time since those particular demons had come up and hit him so hard. So long, in fact, that he'd reacted immediately without control.

  He knew it scared her.

  Fuck, it had scared him, too.

  He should probably give her some kind of an explanation, but he wasn't ready to talk about it. Still didn't want to put words to what was scored across his heart from so long ago. The first portion might not be so bad since so many others had weathered it and were able to work through the pain using their English words. The second one, the worst of it from only six years ago, was still too new, too fresh to speak of in any language.

  But rather than talk about it with her, to calm both her and himself down, he'd fled. Ran away and ended up at some small town dive pouring cheap whiskey down his throat until he stumbled his way back to that crummy motel.

  Then he'd scared her again by simply coming into the room. Christ! If he'd been sober, if he'd even been thinking, he would've used their special 'knock'. He felt his face heat as he remembered her shaking like a leaf when she crawled up off the floor and into bed next to him. Which probably explained why their easy camaraderie of before was gone, although he was sure it was from more than just that.

  Sighing, he pushed that worry aside. There were other things he had to do before he could resolve the other issues.

  He needed to call with his excuse on why he wasn't in Missoula, then let Niko in Colorado know where he was before he touched base with Atin in Wyoming. The three of them, closer than brothers, all worked towards the same goal but from different angles, and they'd found it was better to know where each of them were at any given time. There
had been too many occasions where it took more than one of them to resolve a situation or shore up an alibi to prevent detection.

  "Are you ready?" he asked quietly to his beautiful traveling companion. It was going to take a while to get used to the new hair. Her naturally variegated brown had been gorgeous but now, the deep dark red gave her a look of maturity and ratcheted up her sexiness more than a few degrees. She didn't need to look any sexier in his opinion. It was a distraction he didn't want at that moment. Although his cock vehemently disagreed.

  "I think so. Are you sure you don't need anything cleaned?" she asked, stuffing the clothes to be washed into the bag after removing all her makeup, lotions and shoes. She'd been careful, though, not to pull out the money or the gun. He was surprised she hadn't questioned the absence of the box of bullets.

  "No. I will buy more of what I need tomorrow," he said finally. Usually, on these turn- around trips, he only wore boxers, t-shirts and socks plus his leathers, which he wiped down daily. The underwear and socks could be replaced from just about any store, so he threw them away as he wore them. The first time she'd seen the evidence of his method of dealing with his dirty clothes, she'd been appalled. And he'd gotten another dose of the rough side of her tongue as she berated him for his wastefulness. It was not wasteful, but pragmatic, realistic. He didn't have the space on the bike to carry much, nor did he want to take the time to clean what he could replace. She finally got off his back when he reminded her that the cost of men's undergarments were a lot less than a woman's.

  Reese had just settled into a chair at the laundry place with a dog-eared women's magazine when Brand decided to step outside to make the call to the club. Luckily, he got Trey, who was smart but not as paranoid as the others in the hierarchy of officers in the Hellion's Motorcycle Club. The only thing better than reaching Trey would've been getting voicemail.

  "Yo'," Trey answered.

  "Brother. It is Brand," he identified himself to the lieutenant. "Had a bit of a family issue, which I thought I could resolve quickly. My bike broke down though, on the way back."