Fast (Raw Heroes Book 3)

by S. R. Jones

  And I’m not. So why am I here trying to somehow protect her?

  “Come on, babe. Let’s get going.” Jay leads her to the car, and I wish to God I’d managed to put a bug in something she’s carrying so I can hear their conversation as they drive. I climb back into my own vehicle and follow them, keeping my distance.

  After about twenty minutes they pull into a parking lot and Jay climbs out of the car. Abi, as I’m starting to think of her, gets out, too. She heads around the hood and pulls Jay into a big hug. They talk for a short while and I can’t hear what they say. Tears are running down Abi’s cheeks. I want to wipe them away.

  Or lick them off and taste her sorrow.

  I push that particularly fucked up thought away.

  Abi gets back into the car and winds her window down. She waves at Jay, face still smeared with tears.

  As she pulls out slowly from where she’s parked, Jay calls after her. “I love you. Be safe, bitch, and call me ASAP, you hear me?”

  She will be safe because I’m going to make sure of it.

  I’m also going to get her that houseboat she wants.

  Abigail has become my new project.

  Chapter Four

  Abigail

  I’m so tired I could cry. I’ve been driving for three days solid, fourteen hours or more a day, with nothing but sleep in between and I am still not there. This country is huge. Beautiful and majestic, but huge. I’m jittery from caffeine and getting to the point where I think I may be a danger on the road.

  I pull into a rest stop, despite only having been on the road a couple of hours, and get out to stretch my legs. It is still not fully light, and a sense of gloom fills me. A feeling of being so small and insignificant in this landscape. In this world.

  A car pulls in farther along and goes around the back some before stopping. It’s a sleek, comfortable looking thing. Not expensive like Nick’s cars, but luxurious compared to my ride. For a moment, I wish I were driving it.

  The driver gets out, and I can’t make out his face as he’s wearing a hoodie pulled down low over his head. He’s tall, and broad. His shoulders are wide and his legs long, with sturdy thighs filling out his jeans.

  For a moment terror fills me. Could he be someone following me for Nick? Then I swallow down my paranoia. Nick doesn’t know where I am. He can’t. I haven’t even used my burner to call Jay, too tired to talk, and simply needing to get to my destination. The guy is buying up some stuff in the dimly lit store, and I watch as he goes back to his car and pulls out of the lot while I’m still walking up and down, getting the blood pumping around my body again.

  Heading into the store, I stock up on a giant bottle of Pepsi. I need the sugar and caffeine to keep going. Back in my rust bucket, I turn on the radio and Florence and the Machine are playing, her soaring voice lifts my spirits and I turn up the volume and sing along.

  So many hours later that I’ve lost count, I’m finally approaching Sausalito. I can’t even be excited by the gorgeous weather and the glorious views all around. Knowing I’m most likely onto a loser, but wanting to at least try, I head down to the bay area, and the house boat community.

  There are a few available via Air BNB. I looked at the hotel’s internet on the public computer they had in the lobby last night, but I can’t book that way as I don’t have a card. Well, I do, but using it will alert Nick to my whereabouts so it’s cash only for now.

  All day, a nagging sense of unease has filled me, and it is only getting worse. I’m so damned vulnerable—only cash to pay for things, no ID that I can use. My hope is to get some cash in hand work, and then over time, when the threat has died down from Nick, be able to return to the U.K. Only now, now that I’m out of the pressure cooker of the situation I was in, do all the holes in my plan become apparent.

  I’ve fucked this up. Jumped ship too soon without thinking everything through. I glance at Boo on the back seat of the car in his doggie harness, and my heart fills with love. I did it for him. Nick was going to kill him.

  He stares at me, big eyes made even bigger by the two black circles around them. He’s a scraggy white dog, with two black eyes. Hence the name Boo. He looks like those sheet ghosts, all white with two big black holes for eyes. I think he’s got some poodle in him, but what else I don’t know. He’s gorgeous and sweet and I love him to bits.

  Nick hates him. Sees Boo as all that’s wrong with me. He wanted a designer dog. Something expensive we could show off on limited walks around the neighborhood, but I went to the pound and came home with Boo. One of my very few acts of defiance. I’d microchipped him and insured him before Nick arrived home from work. He’s taken it out on me, and worse, Boo, ever since.

  “We’re here, baby.” I tell him now. “Soon, we’ll have a new home and that nasty man won’t hurt you again.”

  My heart lurches as I think of Nick kicking Boo clean across the room. God, I hate him.

  I hope the info I downloaded on the disc has some incriminating evidence against him that I can use to get him into a whole world of trouble. I don’t know what Nick is up to, but I’m increasingly convinced it isn’t legit.

  I park in a lot near one of the walkways with floating homes lining it. I don’t even know what they call these things, houseboats? Floating homes? I’ll need to learn the lingo if I am going to stay around here and blend in. Deciding to take a stroll before I do anything else, to get my bearings and give Boo some exercise, I reach into the back of the car and undo Boo’s harness.

  Setting him carefully on the ground, we go for a stroll around. I become utterly lost in my walk, oblivious to time. The view is astonishing, and the houseboats are so charming.

  Some are clearly expensive and a million miles away from the hippie start this community grew from, but others are small, and cute. Probably still extortionate knowing bay area prices, but they’re gorgeous.

  One is a beautiful rich green, and the deck is full of pot plants, making it even more so. It reflects off the waters in vibrant, verdant shades. I’m more than a little in love with it, and try to imagine who lives there. What sort of life do they lead? Are they an artist? Or perhaps a writer?

  What sort of life do I want? And my happiness ends there because I truly don’t know. I’d love to do something with horses, to run a stables where poor kids, or those who are sick, could come to ride. I’ve been horse crazy my whole life, and as a kid was lucky enough to ride regularly because my best friend had three horses and she let me come and ride with her at weekends. Mum would have killed me if she’d known, not because we didn’t wear hard hats, or proper clothing and it wasn’t safe, but because she hated me having fun. Mum stopped everything nice in my life as soon as she found out about it.

  Over time, I learned to keep nice things a secret. My weekly riding excursions, I pretended were nothing more than me going around to my friends to play. Quite often, I’d pretend I didn’t want to go, knowing Mum would push me out the door and send me on my way. Whereas, if I’d looked too eager, she’d have found a reason to keep me in with her. To this day, I don’t know why she couldn’t let me have anything nice. It seems a truly counterintuitive way for a parent to behave.

  The drink and drugs, and the random men, I can forgive. Her wanting to ruin anything good for me, that I can’t ever move past. I’d like to give other kids having a hard time that something good in their lives if I could.

  I sigh and decide I really need to focus and try and find somewhere to live. The thing is, this area is big. I thought it would be small, a handful of houseboats, but there must be hundreds in total, and I’ve learned they are called floating homes, although there are some actual houseboats too, someone told me. Still confusing. Worse, on one dock, I’m told by a brusque man that dogs aren’t allowed, and shooed away.

  Determined not to get too down hearted, I head back toward the car, and decide to maybe drive into the center of town and see if there’s a rental place where I can get more info.

  As I walk down the lengt
h of one of the docks, distracted by yet another view, I get to the far end with a few floating homes, and two or three moored boats, which also look lived in. There are big pebbles leading down to the lapping shore and a woman sits on the deck of her floating home, a straw hat on her head.

  “Nice dog,” she says with a smile.

  I nod back and wave. “I’m wanting to rent somewhere, do you know anywhere that’s available?”

  She narrows her eyes and taps her coral painted lips. “Lisa, one of the ladies here, has a bunch of places she rents out through AirBnB. If one of those is free, I’m sure she’ll let you rent it. Not sure what her policy on pets is, but your dog is only small.”

  “He doesn’t shed either,” I tell her. “And he’s ever so good, won’t go jumping over the sides or anything.”

  “He doesn’t shed?”

  I shake my head.

  “You be okay on a boat rather than a floating home?”

  I nod again because I’m kind of desperate here, and I’m sure I will be.

  “I have a place you can rent if you like. I own the floating home next to this one, but that’s rented through an agent when I can, and they have a strict no pets policy, so I can’t let you stay there with the dog. You could have had that if you were alone as the agency hasn’t got any bookings for me this coming two weeks. The houseboat though, you can take that.” She points past the floating homes to where three boats are moored. “It’s the first one.”

  I look over at it. Unlike the floating home, the house boat has two great big motors on the back, and it’s in a much more dilapidated state.

  The woman gives me a small smile. “It’s not as nice as these babies.” She leans forward and pats the deck of her home. “But she’s clean inside, and warm, and the forecast’s good, and mild for the time of year, so you won’t get cold anyways.”

  “I’ll take it,” I tell her. “Can I pay cash?”

  If she thinks this is an usual request, the lady doesn’t say anything, merely nods. “Don’t care how your money comes, honey, so long as you can pay. Name’s Nancy.” She holds out a weathered hand.

  I consider giving a false name for a moment, but decide against it. I’ll go forgetting it and not answering to it, which will make me stand out a lot more. I use my shortened name though because Nick always calls me Abigail.

  “Abi. And this is Boo.” I point to my little boy who is sniffing a post, and I don’t want him to cock his leg right now of all the times and places, so I pull on his lead gently.

  “Nice to meet you, Abi and Boo. Let me grab the keys and we can get you settled. “It’s gonna be six hundred for the week, okay?”

  Seems a lot for what looks like a small and worn space, but still, beggars can’t be choosers.

  I rifle around in my bag and find the couple grand I have rolled up there. I’ve got little collections like this all over the place. I take out the six hundred and hand it to her.

  “Okay. Come along.” She climbs off her floating home onto the dock beside me and leads me down the wooden walkway, past a couple more floating homes until we get to the three house boats moored up.

  Nancy clambers aboard the first one and reaches down with her arms wide open for me to pass Boo to her. I do so, and she gives him a cuddle and a kiss on the nose before setting him down. Her affection toward the little beast gives me a sense of calm and my nerves start to dissipate. Nancy can’t be bad if she loves dogs. I think of Hitler then and bite back a grimace, he loved dogs too, didn’t he? And look what he did. Telling myself to stop being so paranoid, I follow Boo and Nancy onto the deck of the boat by stepping off the dock onto the wooden back deck.

  There’s a ladder with a couple of steps that I have to climb to get onto the small deck. There’s two wooden deck chairs, a small table between them, and a sheepskin rug on the deck. Another ladder, with six rungs leads to a higher deck area with a recliner and another table, these both made from wicker.

  Sliding doors lead into the interior, and Nancy leads the way. I’m pleasantly surprised. The inside is light and airy. Small, in fact tiny, but spotless and charming. It makes me smile. The floors are a dark polished wood, and there’s a rich mahogany carved table with board games on it, and a couple of big, soft chairs by it. To the side of this space are two steps leading to a small landing area, and then a ladder up to the bed, which lies above the seating area. It’s a wooden bunk, painted a gorgeous soft gray-blue. There’s a thick pallet style mattress on the wooden bunk, covered with bright throws and scatter cushions. It looks lovely. Small, but warm and inviting. The boat’s wheel is to one side of this area, and some knobs that I vow never to touch!

  To our left is a galley kitchen, and a tiny, round dining table with two fold up chairs either side of it. The kitchen area is basic, but spotless, and the Belfast sink is gorgeous. Pot plants, herbs, and bottles of oil line the wooden bracket shelves on one wall.

  Bright art on the walls gives the place a splash of color against the white paint, and the dark wood of the floor.

  “This is your shower room.” Nancy leads me around a tight bend and to a curtain she pulls back to reveal a blue tiled L-shaped wet room style set up. “And your toilet. Or as we call it, the head.” She grins. “It’s a composting toilet so you won’t get the whiffs you can with normal toilets on boats.”

  “Do I have to empty it or anything?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Nope, I’ll do all that. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay, honey. I’ll leave you to it. The local store stocks most of what you’ll need initially, and if you need any help, just shout. You know where I am.”

  With that, she’s heading off, climbing onto the deck and down the small ladder. Once she’s off the boat, I flop onto one of the chairs by the tiny dining table, and let it all sink in. I’ve managed to reach my destination. It’s not how I imagined it. I pictured a pretty floating home, with comfort and mod-cons, but it’s a bed, and it is warm as she said. It’s also light, with the sun streaming in through the windows at the back and the sliding entrance doors at the front. The space is cozy but uplifting.

  The décor is cute. Rustic chic, Vogue would call it, I’m sure. Thing is, I may have lived the last few years in luxury, but I am used to roughing it, and this place is a million miles better than being back home with Mum in rain sodden Yorkshire, in a house full of empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays.

  Exhausted but needing some of my things, I make a couple of trips to the car for my stuff. Back on the boat, I unpack just the basics. My toothbrush first of all, and some soap, scent-free, it will double as cleanser. I also unpack the cheap moisturizer I bought at the chemists a few days back on my journey. No more Chanel night cream and Jo Malone body lotions for me.

  After cleaning my teeth and taking a long drink of water, I decide to go to bed. I’ll sleep for a few hours and get up later to take Boo out and explore before it gets dark. It’s after noon already, and I reckon I’ll be up before it’s dark. I clamber onto the bunk, pull the brightly colored throws over me and close my eyes.

  ****

  Bright light is hurting my eyes and my head is pounding. I sit up with a groan and swallow down a dry throat. I can’t have slept for all that long if the sun is still so bright. Fumbling for my phone, I pull it to me, glance at it, and have to look again. It’s eight am. I’ve slept for eighteen hours!

  Astonished, I blink at my phone, unsure if I’ve still got the time set to Eastern, but no, it’s correct. I stretch, yawn, and look over to see Boo laid on the sheepskin rug. A pile of poop is not too far off and he gives me his patented look of shame. One where he lifts his eyes and looks at me from under his lashes. But it’s not his fault. I’m the bad mommy who let him go an entire day without being let out.

  Panicking that Nancy might decide to drop in, see the mess and evict me, I jump up and throw on some clothes, before cleaning up the poop. An hour later, I’ve had a shower. It was warm but with all the strength of a drizzle of spring rain. I
’ve also had a cup of coffee but need some food.

  “Come on, Boo. Let’s go explore.”

  I grab his lead and fasten it to his collar, push on some sandals, and throw a wrap around my shoulders in case I get cold in my t-shirt. The sun is shining but it’s only May still. Not hot weather time yet. From what I read, this side of the bay has its own micro-climate where it is sunny a lot of the year. You can look out from the boats on the dock, and see San Francisco shrouded in fog, apparently while over here it is still sunny.

  Heading up onto the deck, I take care to close and lock the sliding doors behind me. The view hits me straight away. Oh, my.

  Yesterday, I was too tired to take it in, but today I stand and stare and then it hits me. Freedom!

  I’m free. I’ve done it. I got away. I might have no job, no home, no long-term plans, but I got away. With my life intact. With Boo’s life intact.

  The bay sparkles in front of me, so blue and wide. Wide open space, not the concrete blocks and narrow alleys of New York. I love it.

  My heart soars as I head off the boat and onto the dock. I approach Nancy’s home and see her sat on the deck, sipping at a juice in a tall glass. It’s something green and healthy looking.

  “Morning, honey.” She waves at me and smiles. Then leans forward and says, almost conspiratorially. “Hey, what are the odds? Got another English person renting the floating home. Two of you on the same dock. Weird, huh? He’s even got a similar accent to you.”

  I freeze at her words, and all the soaring and the happy going on inside me stops dead.

  My mind runs through all she’s said, making calculations like some sort of speedy computer program of dread.

  It could be Nick. Is most likely to be Nick. What’s the odds of another Brit renting right next door? From the same woman. But then the accent thing. Nick doesn’t have a similar accent. Maybe to an American he does though. I can’t always tell where someone is from in the US by their accent.