by Jessica Ames
Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Ames
www.jessicaamesauthor.com
All rights reserved. Apart from any permitted use under UK copyright law, no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
Safe Rider is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.
Please note this book contains material aimed at an adult audience, including sex, violence and bad language.
Editing by Eliza Ames
Proofreading by Charisse Sayers
Proofreading by Paige Sayer Proofreading
Cover design by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover by Design
Cover image copyright © 2018
ISBN: 9781729027585
Imprint: Independently published
To anyone who has suffered in silence.
You are not alone.
Contents
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Also by Jessica Ames
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Two and a half years earlier…
“How’re you feeling, honey?”
I don’t raise my head to look at the nurse as she bustles around my bedside, nor do I acknowledge her question. I’m not ignoring her to be petty—although she may disagree with that—I simply have no idea what to say. It’s something I have been asked multiple times this evening, and it’s something I can’t answer.
How am I feeling?
Like I went six rounds with a heavyweight boxer and lost. And I did lose. I haven’t seen my face, but I can guess how bad it looks. The skin feels tight across my cheekbones and my jaw aches fiercely.
Yes, I can imagine I look like hell.
And that is only part of the damage inflicted on me. There is more, much more. My wrist is aching and I can barely inhale without shards of pain stabbing through my chest. It’s bad, but it could have been worse. A lot worse.
“Sweetheart?” she repeats again, and this time I force my swollen gaze up.
Her face swims in front of me, and it has nothing to do with the tears brimming in my eyes and everything to do with the dizziness I’m feeling. I have to blink a few times to clear the haziness, and when I do she comes into view more clearly.
She’s older than me, possibly in her late forties, early fifties, with a short, blonde bob speckled with grey, and kind eyes—eyes that keep appraising me. I can’t focus enough on the ID badge hanging around her neck, but I’m sure she introduced herself to me as ‘Kim’ or ‘Lyn’ when I first came in. Not that it matters; once I’m discharged it’s unlikely I will ever step foot in this hospital again. I never visit the same one twice. Not if I can help it—although my local hospital pool is getting narrower. This means in future I’ll have to travel further afield—if I can. Tonight, I doubt I could have driven further than the few miles I managed.
“I’m okay,” I tell her, even though I’m not. I'm still coming down from what happened earlier, and my head is pounding in time with my thrumming heartbeat. I feel nauseous and exhausted. I would love to sleep for a week, but there is no chance of that happening. I have to be back in my bed before Simon comes around, which, given how drunk he was, is likely to be in the morning. I can't take that risk though. If he wakes earlier and finds I'm gone I don't even want to think about what he will do to me.
I also hate that my deception comes easily and without hesitation. When did I become so adept at telling lies? It sickens and saddens me that I’m used to evasion and fabrication, that years of doing it means I don't even have to think about the lies that spill from my mouth.
It's ironic really, because I’m not a good liar, and this is compounded further by the fact these people are not easy to hoodwink. They know I'm talking up a good story; I can see it in their faces, in their shared glances, in their sympathetic eyes. They’ve seen it all, and my situation is not—I’m sure—unique.
Still, she says nothing as she holds onto either end of the stethoscope wound around her neck, her knuckles whitening. She doesn’t need to say a word because I can see the scepticism in her expression. She knows the truth, and she’s not the only one. They all know the truth of what happened and, like me, they are all pretending they don’t. They always do. Every hospital visit is the same. They want to say something, but they keep their silence.
“I’m sure you are okay, sweetheart.” She gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Do you want any more pain relief?”
I would love to take all the drugs she can offer and disappear into a dark abyss for a week, but I can’t. I need to be sharp; I can’t afford to be muddled. Not here, not until I'm home again. Even then, I can't afford it because I have to be on my game when I'm facing Simon.
“No, thank you,” I say and return my gaze to the ceiling tiles overhead as I drag the cotton blanket up my torso, wincing a little at the pull of pain.
An hour or so more; that is all I can afford to spend in this bed. Then, I need to get out of here. And an hour might be pushing it. Really, I need to be gone in the next thirty minutes. The longer I lie on this trolley, the more I feel there is a giant clock ticking down.
“How much longer will the doctor be?” I question, knowing the answer before she gives it. It is the same brush-off she’s been giving me for the past hour.
“Not long," is her breezy response. "I’ve asked him to come to you next.”
I nod, feeling the first hints of anxiety creep through me. I should have left right after my X-ray, but Kim (or Lyn) had convinced me to wait for the doctor to strap my wrist. I refused a cast; that would be too obvious, but she had warned that failing to immobilise the limb would leave me with a permanent deformity. The fear of this had kept me in the bed, but the longer I lie here the twitchier I am getting.
“Five minutes,” I tell her, my voice firm, and I don’t need to clarify what I mean by this; she knows.
We both know this game I’m playing, this game we’re all playing, even if none of us say a word. And it is always the same game. At least, it had been until tonight. Something here feels… different. I can’t put my finger on it, because they haven’t challenged my lies, nor have they said anything to concern me, but I get the feeling, a sixth sense, that something is happening behind the scenes, something I’m not privy to.
And this scares me to death.
“Five minutes,” she agrees, and I search her face for answers. I get none. All I see is warmth and compassion—neither o
f which I deserve. “I’ll go and see where the doctor is.”
“Thank you.”
I watch her walk out of the cubicle, pulling the privacy curtain back around the bed. Only once I’m alone do I allow my mask to fall. Something is happening and whatever it is I don’t want to be here for it.
I have to go.
I put my good hand into the mattress and carefully, but quickly, push up into a sitting position. This is a mistake and I know it instantly. My vision momentarily blacks out at the edges as searing hot pain races through my torso, stealing my breath. I try, and fail, to push through it. I’m used to pain, but this is something else. It’s like I’ve been stabbed with hot fire multiple times and I almost sag back onto the trolley. It takes everything I have to swing my legs off the edge and come fully into a sitting position but lying back down is not an option.
Head lowered to my chest, my good hand clutching the edge of the trolley, I try to calm my overwrought body back down. Nausea climbs up my throat and I have to rapid-swallow to avoid vomiting.
Shit. I don’t have time for this. I need to get out of here, and I need to be able to do that under my own steam.
I force my head up off my chest and the cubicle rolls around me as it comes up.
Christ.
Don’t vomit, Olivia.
Aside from the pressure this will put on my ribs, I’m certain it’ll also bring nursing staff or doctors—neither of which I need to have in my way right now. Not if I’m going to escape.
Ignoring my waltzing vision, I scan the small space for my clothing. They put me in one of those ugly, backless gowns when I first arrived. I should have refused that too, but my thoughts had been cloudy with pain.
I slide off the edge of the trolley and wince as my feet touch the tiles. It sends a reverberating shot of agony up my legs and into my chest, and I have to lean on the edge of the bed to recover.
This is going to be slow and painful. I honestly have no idea how I'm getting out of here alone, but I have to try, and I have to try now, before I'm stopped. I’m unsure if the nursing staff can keep me here against my will, but I'm not about to test their powers.
Slowly, I move to the only other piece of furniture in my tiny cubicle. It is a small cabinet with a lockable safe on the top and a cupboard beneath. I open the doors, bending as little as I can manage, and am dismayed when I find the shelves empty.
Where are my clothes?
Desperation pushes me on, because what does it matter what I'm wearing? All that matters is getting home. I’ve already risked far too much staying here this long. Given the damage Simon inflicted on me, I doubt my clothes will be salvageable anyway. Blood does not come out of material easily; I’ve lost my fair share of garments over the years.
Giving up on finding my clothes, I clutch the back of the gown together with my good hand and I move towards the curtain. I’m about to duck around it when it is pulled back. I recoil, instinct and edgy fear still raw in me, and put distance between me and my perceived threat—that perceived threat being a small red-headed woman.
She's wearing jeans and a smart striped top beneath a navy blue blazer—casual yet official. This makes me wary. Official is never good.
I shouldn't be afraid, and under normal circumstances she would pose no danger to me, but this is not a normal situation and my nerves are fried. So, I eye her like a rabid, cornered dog, ready to pounce at any second. She doesn't notice the tension in the air, or if she does she doesn't react to it. Instead, she steps into the small space confidently, tugging the curtain back around. This gives the illusion of privacy from the outside world, even though I can still hear the bustle of the Accident and Emergency department on the other side of the material.
"Jenna?" She says my name, the one I gave when I booked in, in a soft, soothing voice. It's not my real name, and we both know it. I can tell by the way she rolls it off her tongue.
"I'm leaving," I say, but I don't move to pass her. I'm not sure who she is, or why she is here, and so I don't want to put myself in her path. "You can't stop me from going."
"I don't plan on stopping you from doing anything." Her smile remains in place even as her brow draws down as she takes me in. "But you can't leave wearing that."
She points at the backless gown, as if I don't know this. I’m not aiming for a fashion statement, but I do need to go, and I’ll do it wearing a pillow case if I have to.
"I can't find my clothes,” I grind out the words.
Why is she making this difficult? If she knew what awaited me at home she wouldn’t.
The woman doesn't offer an explanation as to where they may be. Instead, she moves over to the trolley and slips onto the end of it.
She's tiny, standing around five feet three inches tall and I tower over her, despite only being five inches or so taller. The heeled boots she's wearing give her a little extra height, but not enough to make her seem anything but delicate. She's also pretty, her hair curling effortlessly around her shoulders and her pale blue eyes are warm as she takes me in.
She’s everything I am not.
"I'll have someone bring them for you."
Relief washes over me. "Thank you."
"I do have a condition, though."
My heart splutters and skips at her words. Conditions are never good, and I don't have time for anything else right now. What I need to do is get dressed and get home.
"No."
"You don't know what my condition is yet."
I also don't care. Frustration blows through my other prominent emotion: fear. I huff out a breath and glare at her.
"You can't keep me here. I'm not a prisoner!"
"No, you're not, and I don't want to keep you here. I just want five minutes of your time. If, after that, you still want to leave, I won't stop you. No one will, I promise." She looks at me, all softness gone and in its place is a seriousness that doesn't suit her.
"Promises are easily broken."
And they are. How many promises has Simon made over the years? More than I can count. Promise after endless promise, none of which have been kept. So, promises are not something I hold stock in, and I don't trust hers any more than I trust his.
“True, but mine won’t be,” she assures me.
"Who are you?" I demand, and I hate that my voice wobbles a little.
"My name is Georgia," she tells me. "I work for an organisation called Safe Shelter. It helps people like you."
People like me.
I hate how that sounds: people like me. As if I am part of an exclusive club because my husband can't control himself, because I'm too ashamed to admit what he does to me behind closed doors, because even if I did admit it no one would believe me. They haven’t in the past. Simon always made it seem like I was to blame. He’s good at that too, spinning lies.
I shift back on my feet a little, needing more space between us, needing more distance from her words, from her truth. I don't need honesty.
"Women like me?" I play dumb, and I think she knows I'm doing it because her lips tug into a mirthless smile.
"I've seen hundreds of women and men in situations like yours."
"And what situation would that be?" I snap out, my defences on full alert.
She knows. She knows what is going on and my shame and my panic are the perfect catalyst for my anger to explode. No one can ever know. Simon tells me all the time what will happen if anyone finds out. Even the thought is enough to make the back of my neck bead with sweat. I have to get out of here.
"You know what? I don't care. It's none of your business. I need to go. Please get my clothes, now!" I wrap my arms around my middle and ask the universe to cut me some slack.
It doesn’t work. Georgia doesn't move. She takes my tirade without flinching, as if she sees this every day, and maybe she does. Her lack of reaction pushes my panic into the stratosphere because she's not doing as I ask, even in the wake of my anger, and I have no idea how to get what I need.
"Please, just hear me ou
t, okay?" Georgia says. "Five minutes of your time isn't going to kill you."
She could be wrong about that, but her tone and her softness have me relenting because I can't be that person—the one who is nasty and rude. It's not in me.
"Fine," I mutter. "Five minutes, that's it."
She brushes her thick curls back from her face and lets out a breath. "I know you're scared. Coming here today was a big thing for you and now you're worried that he might find out. And you're worried what he might do if he does."
I swallow bile at her words. I thought I was clever, that I covered my tracks, that my excuses were solid. Clearly, I was wrong because she sees through my crudely constructed veil.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Her smile is sad this time, not warm. "As I said, I help people like you: women and men who are hurt by a partner or a loved one."
"No one is hurting me.” The lie spills automatically from my lips.
She doesn't outright scoff, even though I suspect she would like to.
"Jenna,” she says my fake name with strained patience. “I know the signs. I know them because I've lived what you're living now. My husband used to kick the heck out of me all the time. And when I got free, I set up Safe Shelter to help others. I want to help you. Please, let me help you."
I stare at her, trying to fathom if this is some trick, something Simon has concocted to test me. I wouldn't put it past him; after all, it is not the first time he’s done something like this, although he’s never brought in outsiders to trick me before. That’s new, and terrifying.