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FOR MY MOTHER,
WHO PUT A BOOK IN MY HANDS
AND TOLD ME THAT ANYTHING WAS POSSIBLE,
WHO SPENT HOURS AT THE LIBRARY WHILE I SEARCHED
FOR BOOK TWO IN THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB SERIES,
CLAUDIA AND THE PHANTOM PHONE CALLS,
AND WHO TRAINED ME IN THE WAYS OF
THE MULTITASKING READING NINJA.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my friends in the BR Writers’ Workshop, for always providing honest feedback and for telling me when my characters need to shut the hell up. Thanks to all my BETA readers, especially Kayla, Bridget, and Vanessa, who helped shape this wild ride into one that was believable. A grateful nod to the ladies in the NBC, who answered super-hard polls on what they found most attractive in book boyfriends. As always, much love to my Fuckery Book Club. They are dear friends, confidants, and provide my will to move forward when I have none. Big smooches to my street team, Vining’s Vixens, who keep their pimp hand strong.
Shout out to all the wonderful authors I met this year at RT in New Orleans and RWA in San Antonio. You guys are the inspiration to keep telling stories and remembering to have fun while doing it. Thanks to the whole team at St. Martin’s, who have been supportive and have answered 497 questions from me in the past year. There is a place in literary heaven for each of you. A special merci beaucoup to Rose and Rachel, who have each taught me so much and continue to do so every day.
Finally, to those who grew up in violent homes. Please know that your past does not define who you are today. The struggle is real, but there are always people who care. Speak up. Reach out. Be brave. Fight your way through that battlefield of memories and emerge victorious. We’re all waiting for you on the other side. And we have cookies.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Also by Season Vining
Praise for the Author
About the Author
Copyright
prologue: her
I drain the last of my coffee and slide to the edge of the booth. The bitter taste saturates my tongue or maybe it’s nerves pushing my lunch back up. My bag, which holds all my possessions, is slung across my body. I look down at the handwritten bill. Tessy’s Cafe. Seven dollars and fifty-three cents. I should have gotten pie, too. Then it would be an even ten. The waitress rounds the corner toward the kitchen, and for three seconds I wait to make sure she isn’t coming back.
I take off, my sneakers squeaking against the wet floor like an alarm. My shoulder slams into a teenager loitering near the entrance before hitting the door. It swings open, getting caught in the wind, and whips against the building with a loud crash.
I keep my head down as raindrops pelt me like tiny rocks. I sprint past honking cars and parallel parkers, hurdling a small dog, whose incessant yapping sounds like “She’s right here! She ran that way!” I run until I can’t hear yelling anymore, until my lungs burn and my legs feel boneless. I find an alley and slide down against the wall, taking shelter from the rain. No one finds me here and I’m thankful. I wonder how—on top of everything else—I became a thief.
A couple hours later, my clothes are still damp and my shoes squish with every step. I pat down my bag and am thankful that most of the items inside are still dry. There’s a pair of clean socks, some snacks, and a few trinkets I’ve collected on this impromptu trip from hell. No need to worry about a cell phone. It’s probably right where I left it, restored to factory settings and sitting on top of my rarely used kitchen table. God, I miss technology. I miss my music and touch screens and chiming in on biased articles about Microsoft’s latest launch.
Avoiding the highway, I walk through a field of high grass toward the truck stop ahead. My hands skim the top of the grass, each blade tickling my palm. The bright lights lure me in like the insects that buzz around me. There’s a subtle eeriness to these places, especially after dark. The smell of diesel and the purr of generators add to the cold feel of machines and asphalt.
The big rigs are lined up neatly, tucked in for the night. I walk the maze of trucks and trailers, looking for any signs of life. I turn a corner and gasp when I catch a reflection of myself in a clean chrome bumper. Running my hands down my chest, I try to smooth out the damp and wrinkled clothes. Clothes I’ve been living in for weeks. It doesn’t help. My dirty hair is pulled up into a ponytail with my overgrown bangs getting caught in my lashes. My mother would die if she saw me like this.
I focus on my reflection. No designer clothes, no makeup, and no manicures leave me feeling human again. It reminds me of where we came from, happier times and simpler dreams. My blue eyes look tired and dull reflected in the shiny metal. I’m a mess, and I can’t help but wonder how much more of the unknown I can take.
A husky voice cuts through the night and I turn toward it. Three trucks ahead of me, I spot a bald man leaning against the front of his truck. He’s got an overgrown white beard and rosy cheeks, Santa Claus of the open road. His T-shirt is two sizes too small, hugging his perfectly round belly. There’s an old model cell phone pressed to his ear as he talks quietly. He’s all warm smiles and I bet whoever’s on the other end of that phone call can feel them. I make my approach as he ends his call and sighs into the cool air.
“Starry night,” I say.
He startles a bit, but nods to agree. He doesn’t give the usual what’s-a-girl-like-you-doing-in-a-place-like-this look.
“It is.”
“You here for the night?” I ask.
“Nope. About to get on the road north. Only got six hours between me and home.”
“Could I get a ride?” My left foot rocks onto its outer edge and flattens again, a nervous habit from childhood.
“I’m not interested in lot lizards,” he says.
“I’m not a prostitute. I just need a ride,” I insist.
His eyebrows slide high on his forehead as he appraises me. “I don’t know. You running from something?”
“Heading to Canada. My dad’s up there.”
Yes, I’m a liar, too. There’s a long moment of silence. I wonder what he’s debating.
“Are you legal? Over eighteen?”
“Why?”
He’s leering at me and immediately, my defenses are up. I slide my bag behind me so that I can reach my knife, if needed. He quickly raises his hands in surrender and laughs.
“Don’t get any ideas. I just don’t want to be totin’ juveniles around. I don’t need no trouble.”
“Oh,” I say, relaxing my stance. “Yes, I’m well over eighteen.”
“Alright. Get in. But, I’m only going as f
ar as Tacoma. After that, you’re on your own.”
I bounce on my toes and clap my hands together.
“Thanks! I’ll be no trouble at all. I promise. Quiet as a mouse. You won’t even notice I’m there. The Silent Bob to your Jay.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
I shrug at him and paste on a charming smile. He nods toward the truck and climbs inside. I hop up into the passenger seat and watch as he presses buttons on a dashboard that could rival a space shuttle.
The inside of the truck is much cleaner than I expected. There’s no smell of dirty socks or leftover food like some of the other trucks I’ve ridden in. A troll doll hangs from the rearview mirror. He’s got blue hair and a gem in his bellybutton. There’s a bobblehead stuck to the middle of the dash, a well-done likeness of the president. Lining the ceiling are various Seattle Seahawks pendants, rosters, and even a foam finger. Tucked next to the speedometer, and in a cup holder, are different photos of the same woman. She’s beautiful, with black hair and kind eyes. There’s something instantly comforting about her.
“She’s pretty,” I say.
He grins and taps the photo on his dash.
“That’s my wife. My only reason for living.”
I settle in, buckling my seatbelt. I ponder his only reason for living. Is it so bad to just float through life without a reason? Maybe I’ve already fulfilled my purpose. The way I see it, I had no choice. I did what had to be done and it led me down this path, one on the run.
When we’re finally in motion, I unwind, kicking up my feet.
“Get your feet off my dash,” he says, reaching over and tapping my shoes with his hand. I drop them to the floor. “Feel free to get some sleep. I’ll wake you when we get there.”
1. HIM
I sit in my parked car, sipping stale coffee and willing my tired eyes to stay open. I’ve been here all night, waiting for her to emerge. My eyes are glued to that innocent house with white siding and dark blue shutters. During the night, I watched the lights go on in one room, only to go off moments later. I wonder what she was up to in that house, and with whom. Had she charmed some middle-aged man into taking her in for the night?
The neighborhood finally wakes with the sun. I watch a van meander slowly down the street tossing newspapers at people’s front doors. It makes one final throw to the house next to Katherine’s hideout. The delivery joins a pile of three other plastic-wrapped papers on the front walk. Birds flit to an empty feeder and leave disappointed. The mailbox hangs open, envelopes and magazines jutting out of the cramped space. They’ve been gone a while.
A woman, in too much makeup and an outfit that belongs in the darkness of a dance club, struts by with a tiny dog on a leash. Her eyes scan a yellow house with an impeccably manicured front lawn. I chuckle when she trips over her dog, who has stopped to sniff an interesting spot of grass. She looks around, checks the yellow house again, and adjusts her cleavage. Five minutes later, she passes in front of the house again heading in the opposite direction. Three minutes after that, a shirtless man in pajama pants retrieves his paper from the sidewalk. She’s missed her opportunity.
Kids ride their bikes up and down the quiet street, yawning mothers push strollers, and dutiful husbands walk dogs. The mailman comes and goes, but the front door I’ve been watching does not budge.
I bet she knows I’m getting closer. I hope she can feel me like a heavy breath down her neck. In the beginning, she would catch rides with truckers or anyone heading north. I assume she’s running to Canada. I’m not sure how she’s getting money to eat. My guess is that she’s been relying on the kindness of strangers or she’s turned to prostitution. I’ve seen it happen enough to know desperate times call for desperate thighs.
She’s becoming impulsive and sloppy, sometimes even stealing meals and snatching purses. It never surprises me how people change along the way, letting self-preservation override any existing morals and values.
I don’t know why there’s a bounty on her head and I don’t care. It’s not part of my job to care. My job is to find her and bring her in. I never want to know the target’s crime. It could influence my judgment and at this point in my career, I can’t afford that. So here I wait, among the designer vehicles and white picket fences of suburbia, stalking like a black cloud.
I am beginning to resent the very idea of Katherine Percle, and clearly, in the past four weeks she’s crawled beneath my skin. If I don’t get to her soon, I feel like I’m going to snap. That’s why I leave my gun in the car when I make stops. I am one smart remark or missing ketchup packet away from blowing someone’s face off.
I’ve spoken to dozens of people while on her trail. Katherine has left a deep impression on all of them. Most couldn’t or wouldn’t believe that innocent, blue-eyed girl could have done anything worthy of arrest. Usually that meant they wouldn’t help me track her. She seems to possess a certain charm that no one is immune to. It’s only when I offer cash that they cave and provide information on her whereabouts. As much as it disgusts me, I rely on people’s greed to get what I want.
All I need is to get her alone. It’s then, when they have nowhere to run, that you see the truly primitive side of people. Fight or flight is instinctual and it resides in every human being. I assume Katherine will be no different.
I can admit my obsession with the girl is completely out of character. The one photo I have of her, now clipped to my visor, is worn and tattered. It shows an attractive young woman, her eyes full of hope for a future that will never come. I close my eyes and sigh, wondering what those eyes look like now. Will they guard her secrets or say everything out loud?
Slam.
My eyes shoot open just in time to see her skipping down the front steps. My pulse spikes as I lay eyes on Katherine, in the flesh, for the first time. She’s wearing a conspicuous red hoodie with jeans and high-top tennis shoes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was about eighteen years old. Her ponytail swings back and forth as she walks, flying wildly when the wind whips around her. I exit the car and tuck my pistol in my waistband.
I give her a wide berth as I follow down the sidewalk. Her brown hair and curvy body are not my type, yet I find myself staring at her ass. It’s a great ass. The problem with skinny girls is they never have an ass like that.
She turns left at the end of the street and ducks into a convenience store. I follow her in and stay out of sight, just observing.
Katherine walks down the snack aisle as if she’s browsing the items to make the best selection. Her eyes flick up to the cashier often. I stand at the end of the aisle and watch her through a large soda display. When she turns toward me, I’m struck by how pretty she is. Sure, I’ve been staring at her photo for a month, but in person there’s an energy that seems to radiate from her. There’s a natural kind of innocence and underlying sexiness to her beauty. I shake my head, pissed at my first reaction to the girl, and refocus on my objective.
She reaches for some individually wrapped Pop-Tarts while keeping her sights set on the cashier. She thinks he’s preoccupied, watching television, but the reflection of light on his face doesn’t change color. It’s steady and unblinking, indicating that he’s watching the store’s closed circuit camera feed. The camera is directly behind me, so I know that I’m unseen. I can’t afford to have her arrested for shoplifting and lose my opportunity, so I step into the aisle.
When I appear, Katherine replaces the Pop-Tarts on the shelf and blows her bangs from her eyes. She never looks at me, just turns and walks past with her head down. Everything about her looks guilty—her shifty eyes, her hunched posture, even the way her hands sink into the front pocket of her hoodie.
I grab a pack of gum and walk to the checkout. Katherine gets in line behind me. She smells like clean laundry with a hint of menthol cigarettes, though there’s no other indication that she smokes. The nearness of her makes my chest tighten in anticipation. I can barely contain the smile that tugs at my lips. Victory pools
in my mouth like venom. I pay for my purchase and exit the store, watching through the front window as she buys a pack of cigarettes and heads out again.
This time, I stay in front of her. She retraces her path, heading back toward the house, and I know this is my opportunity.
I slide between two parked cars and wait for her to come to me. No matter how many times I do this, the thrill never dulls. The hunt is one thing, but the actual capture, the reward for all your hard work and diligence, can’t be put into words. Adrenaline surges through my veins and my fingers twitch while the rest of my body remains still. I am a sprinter waiting for the gun, a defensive lineman waiting for the snap. All I can hear are her soft footsteps and my pulse beating like a drum. When her shadow crosses, I lunge, wrapping one arm around her waist and clasping my other over her mouth. Katherine’s body is warm against mine and for a second the shock of what’s happening keeps her still. Then her feet kick at my shins and her muffled screams vibrate through my fingers.
I drag her into the shadows and press her against the side of an SUV.
“Please don’t hurt me. Please,” she begs after I remove my hand.
I force her hands behind her back and pull out my handcuffs. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to bring you back to San Antonio.”
She exhales a puff of air and slumps against the vehicle.
“Damn,” she whispers as I click the cuffs closed over her wrists.
I turn her so that she faces me now and finally look into the eyes of Katherine Percle. They are relieved and swimming in tears. Her icy blue stare isn’t bitter and hard as I thought it might be.
I pat her down, sliding my hands over her form and checking all her pockets. She’s been in these same clothes for a while now. They’re clean, but worn and stained. There’s a hole in the thigh of her jeans, smooth skin peeking through the threads. I take her cigarettes and place them in my pocket. I pat down her right leg, then her left, finding a switchblade tucked into her tennis shoe. I slide that into my pocket as well and wonder what she had to do to get her hands on a knife like that.
Held Against You Page 1