Hiding in Plain Sight

by Hornbuckle, J. A.

  He felt her move again and realizing where she was headed, let go of her fingers and raised his arm.

  She fit perfectly against his side, her forehead resting against his neck. And, he was asleep before he was even aware his arm had moved to her back, to hug her more tightly to him.

  Chapter Ten

  I awoke slowly, the glints of the morning sunlight reflecting off the mirror over the long bench with the dresser beneath in our hotel room.

  The light was the first thing I was aware of, but the second was the feel of a hard thigh pressed between mine. A hard presence against the softness, the swollen part of me between my thighs.

  I seemed to be more on my back than my side, a leg thrown around his waist, the morning hardness of Bayco pressing and rubbing on my lower belly. One of my breasts was captured in the large paw of his hand, his thumb softly flicking against my nipple over my camisole.

  When I came fully awake, I realized I was thrusting against his hard thigh, my chest arched, allowing him more access to the breast he was holding and my lips, my betraying lips, were kissing, licking his neck. I shifted and found my arms were around him, holding him close as my mouth trailed over his skin, my tongue licking as I moved. I felt him disengage from my breast to move down to my hip to grasp and bring me against his hardness. There was a definite hip grind that I participated in with more awareness and agreement.

  That was, until he came fully awake.

  His arms released me like I was a bomb and his leg slid away so fast I should've gotten a skin burn. I just stayed where I was and watched as he dragged his hand over his face once he was completely on his back and no longer touching me.

  I slid my eyes closed, recognizing playing possum might be my only way out of this particular scenario with any kind of grace.

  I rolled away slowly, trying to act as if I was only turning in my sleep as I moved.

  As I did, I heard a metallic click at the door. I felt Bayco's head rise as he pushed me off my side of the bed with a hard hand in my lower back.

  Someone was at the door in broad daylight. Bayco had warned me that if those Milo-whatevers were going to come at us, it would probably be at night. But daylight was front and center if all those sunbeams reflecting off the mirror meant anything.

  "Bag. Bathroom. Now," he instructed firmly on a whisper.

  I hit the carpet on my knees and gathered up the clothes I'd just draped over my backpack, looping the nylon strap around me as I scuttled, hunched over, to the small space of the bathroom. What I was supposed to do there, I hadn't a clue, other than to cover myself. True, I was wearing my camisole, panties and yoga shorts, but it wasn't ideal to escape in. So, I dressed, throwing on jeans and a t-shirt.

  There were thumping sounds coming from the other room and once dressed, I tried to think of a way out. Obviously, going out the bathroom door wasn't my first choice. So I eyed the small, slider window set up high in the motel room's bathroom. It was tiny, but if I could remove the slider part, I might be able to fit through. If I shimmied my hips to ease my way. I was, at this point, damning every doughnut and pizza slice I'd every enjoyed, knowing that they may have cost me my freedom.

  Hell, my life.

  I climbed up on the vanity and felt it creak as I did so. No need to use a scale to know my weight was more than it had been fabricated to bear, I popped the screen out of the small opening and stuck my head through to assess the small driveway that ran the length of the motel units. Nothing there except a large dumpster.

  Perfect.

  I threw my bag out first and watched as the dust of the unused driveway accepted it with tiny puffs. I was hoping it would accept me just as readily. The drop wasn't all that long, maybe eight or nine feet, so I decided going feet first would be the best bet. I turned, holding my weight on my hands plastered to the edge of the sink. I fed my feet and calves through the tiny window, scraping myself on the metal runners. But it couldn't be helped. I'd take a few scrapes along the way as long as I wasn't sent back to Louie. I pushed with my hands and felt the first real bite of tightness about halfway between my ass and my knees.

  Uh-oh.

  I pushed back and felt the squeeze even though I tried twisting my hips. Aw, shit! Tight. So tight I almost couldn't move. I grabbed the edge of the vanity and pulled myself back in before twisting and pushing myself back out again. It was a no go.

  Balancing on my left arm, I brought my right arm to cover my face up as I sharply lifted my right knee up and in to break the remaining glass. The shards fell onto the towels we'd left, tossed carelessly onto the vanity from the night before, and released that thin piece of metal that divided the window. As it let go, I could finally move my thighs and hips through, dropping onto the uneven blacktop. While my movements on the external parts of me snagged my bag, my internal self, gave fist-pumps of joy.

  Now, what?

  I crept low and slow along the line of the building, my bare feet involuntarily lifting at every sharp point, every bit of sharp-edged trash abutting the stuccoed side. I finally made it to the corner and glanced back behind me. There was the motorcycle, tucked up behind the dumpster. I recognized that if you'd come up the alley from the driveway, it would have been hidden. Only from this particular angle could it be seen. I took a couple of seconds to dig my chucks out of the bag and put them on as I stared at the bike.

  I already knew how heavy his ride was from all the times I felt it shift beneath me when the motor wasn't on and knew I had no hope in hell in controlling it if I decided to straddle it. Shit, I couldn't even push it.

  So the bike wasn't my way out of here.

  I took a second to think and it wasn't until I felt the sting of my hand on my lower lip more that I realized I was scared shitless.

  Goddamn.

  Think, girl! I yelled inside my head.

  The Suds-Your-Duds.

  Yeah, I could hide at the laundry mat which was only a couple of shops down from the motel on the left from where I was crouched. I stood and straightened my bag across my chest. From memory there was only one large window in the reception area of the motel that faced the street. So if I could nonchalantly walk in front of it, keeping my hair down to hide my face, no one would know it was me.

  With a hand on my belly, I took a deep breath as I moved from around the corner and walked a straight line out onto the sidewalk. I kept my face tilted away, pretending to find the boarded up and empty shops on the other side of the street fascinating until my goal was in view. I moved to the door, seeing that it was almost filled to capacity with other women and small children. I guess, Wednesday was the day to do your wash in this town.

  Careful to keep up my pretense, I roamed the space finding all the washers engaged. I eyed the other patrons who were watching me carefully in return. I sighed and waved a hand before I went to the bank of connected seats, tucking my backpack underneath my chair and reached for a magazine. I was trying for casual acceptance; just another person who needed to do a load of laundry. But my heart was beating hard, just had it had done from the moment I heard Bayco's hard whisper to flee.

  Where was he?

  I had no doubt he had won whatever went on in the motel room. I don't know why I felt the confidence in his abilities I hadn't seen tested. But somehow, I knew he'd win over whoever had tried to break in.

  I heard the low thrumming growls of his bike and saw him poised at the driveway of the motel. Without a thought, I grabbed my bag and raced out the glass door of the laundry facility. His helmeted, visor down, head turned toward me and I saw him reach out an arm.

  I'd never been more grateful to see someone in my life.

  Bay!

  Sprinting the fifty or more feet to where he waited, I launched myself, twisting at the last moment, my ass hitting the seat before he peeled away, turning left against the flow of intermittent traffic. I knew he couldn't hear me between the noise of the bike or the other traffic on the road, but I had to say it nonetheless.

  "Thank god,
Bayco," I muttered, tucked up so tight against his tank-top covered back. "Thank you."

  I felt his fingers on his left hand reach back and drag along the outside of my thigh.

  For all intents and purposes, I took it as his own brand of welcome.

  *.*.*.*.*

  He was caught in a dream he hadn't had in years. Of Nadia, his woman, pressed against him as they slept. Her sweet curves called him, her hills inviting his touch as he moved on her, pressing, rubbing. The want he'd felt for her had always been a silver thread with the need shimmering just beyond it.

  He rubbed the firmest part of himself against her again and felt her immediate response. Oh, how he had missed this; the feel of her sweet, softness beneath him. His hand, overflowing with her breast, moving southward to capture the fullness of her ass as he began to skimmed over her. But as he did so, he was aware of her mouth on his neck, kissing, tonguing his skin.

  Nadia never wanted to use her mouth. Not without hesitancy, her lips trembling as she tried so hard to touch his, reaching to find pleasure. Something that she'd never been able to do with confidence.

  And to include her tongue with her mouth's movements, never.

  Ever.

  She said her mouth was dirty, unclean, letting him know with no uncertainty how she had been used in the internment camp. She never kissed him anywhere, not without a lot of pauses and especially never used her tongue. If only just in light touches.

  Kissing mouth to mouth had never been but a fraction of what he and Nadia had shared in their private time.

  So.

  Then.

  This wasn't Nadia beneath him, his brain said. But his body, so starved for the connection, a real union, didn't know the difference and didn't want to respond to his thoughts.

  To his own cautions.

  Reese.

  Fuck!

  While it may have only been seconds, to him it was a lifetime as his mind screamed at him that this wasn't what he wanted, even though his body and heart were murmuring a different story. A tale he wanted to complete, to sink into even as his mind wrenched him to the other side of the mattress.

  He moved as quickly as possible, disconnecting until he was completely on his back. Without thinking he lifted a hand to his face to erase the embarrassment of making a move on her, even if it was it the grips of a dream he couldn't control. Just as he was about to apologize, he heard the sound. The snick of metal against metal on the door. Someone was trying to enter their room.

  Without a thought, he half-turned to the woman tucked below him, catching her wide eyed stare from underneath him. God, she was beautiful.

  "Bag. Bathroom. Now," he'd ordered as he pushed her with his left hand. His right hand was reaching underneath his pillow for his Glock 19, as he, too, rolled off to her side of the bed. As soon as his peripheral vision confirmed she was out of sight, he'd moved quickly, as silently as possible to the side of the door. His back to the wall, he braced a foot to increase his stability, watching as the door inched open. In the seconds between her leaving the room and the door bumping open, he wondered about their tactics.

  Always by night, under the cover of darkness.

  But not today and he could barely get his mind to accept it.

  He knew the Milosevics inside and out. They had been his business for so long, had been under his microscope, studied, learned and absorbed. This daylight breach was not one of their known attack methods. Known or not, though, he still had to battle them. Protect her.

  He heard a tickle of glass from back and behind him before, at the fissure of the door, he saw a gun lead an arm. He held his breath, shifting his body as he grabbed the exposed wrist and yanked. The hand released as soon as Brand's elbow caught the man full in the face before he twisted back to see the other man pause in the doorway.

  Two.

  In every instance before, the Milosevics only sent men in one at a time. This duo, at this time of day, was a new twist in Brand's on-going war with the people from his country who had settled in this new place. And who had, in just a few short years, established their own criminal hierarchy here in America just as they had in the land of his birth.

  They'd killed his family. Raped his mother, sisters and female cousins in full view of the village back in the old country. Shot his father, grandfather and uncles at point blank range.

  All in full view of the six year old version of him.

  Then they'd murdered Nadia and her remaining family here in the new country that they'd tried to call home.

  Including his unborn child.

  To say that he hated them didn't give justice to the word.

  And justice was all he wanted.

  Knowing who they were, what they had done, he had no emotion as he turned to fully face the other man, whipping his gun to connect at the temple. The man began to drop and Brand helped him in to do so, catching the man's face with his knee, his elbow striking between his shoulder blades. Brand heard the squeal of tires from the car outside knowing the driver had seen the drop of the two bodies.

  Grabbing their ankles, he pulled their heavy forms more fully inside the room, one at a time. He stood and shrugged to release some of the tension within him even as he moved to around the bed dressing quickly, snagging his own bag and draped it over his head.

  He stuck his head in the bathroom, not surprised in the least at the blinking shards of glass that covered the vanity's countertop and floor.

  She'd escaped, using the window as the only opening provided.

  Brand closed the bathroom door and crossed the main portion of the room, stepping over the still breathing carcasses on the floor before making his way outside.

  His body now in the small alley behind the motel, noted the broken window in the unit that had been theirs before he yanked on the dumpster and backed the bike out from behind it.

  He smiled at the broken shards of glass seated in the grass hugging the stucco of the building as he stepped by. She'd gotten away.

  So where was she?

  She'd escaped, that much he'd figured out. But he had no indication, no inkling of where she'd gone to hide. He hit the ignition and rumbled to the far side of the parking lot, almost too wired from the residual adrenaline to think clearly.

  He looked right, then left. As he turned his head back to center, he saw her moving out of the corner of his eye. Hair flying, legs pumping as she raced to him, catching him at his chest as she catapulted her ass onto the seat. As before, she pounded his shoulders as she screamed, "go, go, go!"

  He did as instructed.

  Chapter Eleven

  I don't know how he did it, but Bayco found yet another park for us to eat the fast food breakfast we'd stopped to get. I barely remembered the ride since my heart was still doing its rabbit imitation as we rode through the wakening streets of North Platte.

  We'd both finished our breakfasts, although we hadn't eaten much of what he'd bought. In fact, our mouths hadn't moved much at all since we'd peeled out of the motel's driveway.

  "We will carry out our plan as before since they will need to regroup," he said finally, sounding like he was starting our conversation in the middle of whatever was in his head. I saw him pull out his cellphone and check the time. "Only instead of going to the Harley store first, we will head to the other since it is open twenty-four hours."

  "Okay," I acknowledged. "Big store first. Harley store second."

  My body was trying to shake off the effects of the stress from our fast escape but it was slow to go. The arms I wrapped tight around my waist were no longer cutting it in the self- soothing department. I reached for my purse and pulled out my hairbrush. I started at the ends on the mess of my windblown hair, working my way through the tangles until it was smooth enough for me to turn on the plastic bench of the picnic table and bend my head over. I moved the bristles from my neck to the ends using the pressure of the sharp points as well as the stroking motion to help me relax.

  My eyes caught on Bayco's as I flipped m
y head back.

  "What?" I asked sharply. I almost felt like I'd been caught on the toilet, in a private moment, from the expression on his face.

  "You have very beautiful hair," he said simply, his eyes never leaving mine.

  "So you've said," I huffed, pulling the extra hair out of the brush, tossing the strands onto the grass before stowing it away.

  "A typical American response to a compliment is, 'thank you'," he corrected.

  "If my body or my looks were something I had anything to do with, then I'd thank you. But they aren't, so I won't," I grumbled. I broke from our shared look and moved my eyes to follow the birds flitting from tree to tree.

  We were the only people in the park, but I didn't feel like we were alone between all the birds and the traffic that was beginning to pick up on the streets that surrounded us. It was just another Wednesday for most people, the most mundane of days as they made their way to their jobs or school or where ever they had to be at whatever time. The smell of the exhaust from their cars didn't overtake the smell of the fresh green grass, though. "Did you kill him?"

  He didn't answer so I shot a glance his way only to see him still looking at me with the same expression as before; an expression I couldn't read.

  "Would it bother you if I had?" he asked after a few heartbeats of time.

  I turned his question around in my head before answering honestly. "I don't know. If it would stop Louie from finding me, then, no."

  "Good answer," he replied softly as he reached for our overstuffed take-out bag and his jacket. "Are you calm enough to shop now?"

  I could only nod as I stood, pulling the strap of my purse over my head before settling the backpack again on my shoulders.

  But I was thankful for his fingers catching mine, to hold my hand, as we walked back to where he'd parked the bike. The heat of his hand provided much more comfort than I was willing to admit, even to myself. A comfort whose need I found infuriating.

  *.*.*.*.*

  Brand rubbed his hand over the velvet stubbles of his head, the only remaining pieces of his hair after she'd used the electric razor on him. His eyes drifted down to his arms exposed in the tight, white, sleeveless t-shirt she'd picked out for him. She called it a 'wife-beater', which puzzled him to no end. Why would people call a simple shirt such a horrible, horrific name?