by Susan Stoker
Bailey cut the engine, and Joel immediately climbed out of the car. He began to walk up to the door but stopped short when Bailey called, “Please help me with the groceries, bro.”
He turned and faced her, and Bailey almost took a step back at the look of hate in his eyes. She’d seen that look before, right when they’d moved to Castle Rock, but she’d hoped that time would erase it.
“Carrying shit is woman’s work.”
She tried not to flinch or lash out at Joel. He was only repeating what he’d heard from the Inca Boyz. He was frustrated and upset about the invitations to his birthday and didn’t know how to properly express his feelings. Bailey kept her voice even. “You know that’s not true, Joel. You eat the food as much as I do. The polite thing to do is to help me.”
She held her breath waiting for his response.
After a tense few moments, Joel finally shrugged and reluctantly walked back toward the car.
Her breath came out in an inaudible whoosh. Thank God he hadn’t pushed. It was getting harder and harder to know what the right response was to his moods. She’d backed down with Donovan all the time, even though she knew she shouldn’t have. She should’ve been stronger with him. Stood up to him. But she hadn’t. Especially right before she’d left. When she first met Donovan, he was nice. Gentle with her, had even wooed her—well, as much as a gang member could—before he’d taken her to bed. But in the months before she’d left, Bailey hadn’t seen any gentleness in him. When she disagreed or contradicted him, he’d hit her, or make her have sex with one of his brothers . . . even though he knew she didn’t like either of them. Remembering how cruel Donovan had been at the end made her shudder. She took a deep breath, forcing the memories away. Her ex wasn’t here now. She was safe.
She and Joel loaded up their arms with the grocery bags, and Bailey unlocked the front door. “Wait here,” she commanded as she did every time they came home.
She always checked out the house before Joel was allowed to enter. The last thing she wanted was to come home and find Donovan or one of the Inca Boyz lying in wait. Joel knew if she screamed, he was to run. He was supposed to go into the woods and make his way to the auto body shop. If it was after closing time, he knew where the spare key was hidden and that he was to go inside and immediately call 911.
The little house looked like it had that morning when they’d left for school and work. The crappy brown couch against the wall, the TV with the antenna covered in tinfoil, the surprisingly comfortable recliner Clayson had given her not long after they’d moved in. Turning her head to the small kitchen, Bailey saw the dishes they’d used that morning still sitting in the sink waiting to be washed.
She stepped past the small end table next to the couch and quickly entered the short hallway that led to the bedrooms. She pushed open Joel’s door, and her eyes swept the room, finding nothing amiss. It was a mess, with the few toys he’d brought with him from Denver and clothes strewn all over the place. She could almost not even see the navy-blue thrift-shop comforter because of clothes—both dirty and clean, she assumed—thrown over it. The stained carpet peeked out from under toys, more clothes, and shoes.
An old television sat on a broken table with a game system sitting next to it. She hadn’t wanted to bring it with them, as Donovan had given it to Joel, but Bailey knew her brother loved playing the few video games he had, and she didn’t have the heart to leave it behind. Not to mention she knew he’d never forgive her if she denied him the ability to play his precious This Is War game. It was way too advanced for a fourth grader, but Donovan hadn’t cared when he’d bought it for her brother. Hell, he’d probably been happy it was so violent. It was just one more way to mold Joel into the proper Inca Boy.
Bailey quickly backed out of the room, took the few steps to her own bedroom, and opened the door. It was just as she’d left it. Nothing out of place and almost nothing personal to see. Nothing except for the picture of her, Joel, and Pa on the decrepit dresser against the wall.
Her eyes flicked to the duffel bag sitting by the window. Her go-bag. It had a change of clothes for both Joel and her, five hundred dollars sewed into the lining, a knife, and the gun she’d stolen from Donovan before she’d run. It wasn’t much, but if she had to get out fast, she wanted money to start over someplace new and a way to protect Joel. He was all that mattered.
Bailey sighed and thought about her brother as she quickly checked the only bathroom in the house. Her only goal in life was to try to raise Joel to be a good man. So far she was failing, though.
She glanced down at her arm. Bailey hadn’t thought twice about getting herself inked. All the Inca Boyz had tattoos, and she wanted to be just like them. To fit in. So she’d let the guys in the gang talk her into ink after ink. Guns, roses, barbed wire, skulls, knives, even the stupid cartoonlike logo they’d adopted as their signature. Now both arms were covered from wrist to shoulder with the ink. It represented a time in her life she wasn’t proud of, and would rather forget altogether.
But her arms weren’t what she regretted the most. It was the tattoo on her lower back that made her skin crawl. She hadn’t wanted it, but Donovan had insisted. Actually, he’d forced her to get trashed; then he had his brothers hold her down while his friend inked her. She’d pleaded with them to let her up, told him that she loved him but didn’t want to be branded with the ink. The men had ignored her and talked above her as if she wasn’t even there.
“Everyone will know who she belongs to.”
“Every time you fuck her, you’ll see it.”
“Make it bigger than usual.” That had been Donovan. “I want a good target when we gangbang ’er.”
Bailey had passed out before the tattoo had been completed. She hadn’t felt truly contaminated and ashamed of who she was until she’d been allowed to look in a mirror. The writing was fancy and would’ve been beautiful if it wasn’t for the words.
PROPERTY OF INCA BOYZ
D’S WHORE
And the tattoo was huge. The first phrase went from one side of her waist to the other, and she could easily see the P and the Z from the front. The other two words were smaller, but the two arrows pointing down to her ass made it all the more humiliating.
Not a second went by that Bailey didn’t feel dirty because of the words inked on her body. She’d been a whore. And she knew that while she might’ve left Denver, she was still Inca Boyz property. And they didn’t like losing what was theirs.
The way Bailey figured it, if she could outrun and hide from them until Joel was at least sixteen, he’d be okay. He was a smart kid, even though he was almost ten. Six years felt like an eternity, but if she was careful, she could last that long.
The tattoo on her lower back itched, and it felt like bugs were crawling on her skin, but that was nothing new. She always felt like that and had learned to ignore it, mostly.
She quickly headed back to the front door and smiled at Joel. Even though he was upset with her about his party, he still looked nervous and scared.
“All’s good, bro. Let’s get this stuff into the fridge before it goes bad. Yeah?”
He didn’t say anything, but brushed past her and the bags she’d put on the floor to head into the kitchen. Bailey heard him put the bags down before heading for his room as she came into the living area.
Deciding to give him some time, she didn’t make him come back and help her put away the groceries. She’d learned that when his brain was on overload, it was a better idea to give him the time and space to work through whatever was bothering him.
As Bailey put away the groceries, she thought about the man in the parking lot. She usually didn’t stop and help people—men, especially—when they had car trouble. But something about the tall, slender man had made it almost impossible to walk away.
He’d been staring down into his engine as though if he looked at it long enough, it would magically fix itself. He was nothing like the gangbangers she’d hung out with. At first he seemed almost shy an
d not sure of himself at all. But the more they’d talked, he’d seemed to gain confidence. He’d called himself a nerd, and she supposed he probably was at that. But with every word out of his mouth, she got more of a read on his personality and who he was as a person.
She’s mine to take care of and protect. In return for making sure she’s got what she needs to stay healthy and happy, she stands by me, supports me, and helps me get where I want to go. It’s a give-and-take relationship.
He’d been talking about his car, but she could easily see him treating a woman he was with in the same way. She’d never been in a give-and-take relationship; it had always been her giving and an Inca Boy taking.
I’m more comfortable with my numbers.
Bailey had no idea what kind of women he’d been hanging around with, but they were obviously all idiots. Nathan was attractive, no doubt. But she had a feeling he didn’t think so. Bailey had been with men more handsome than Nathan. Men who women literally drooled over as they walked down the street. But they’d been so into what they looked like and what they were feeling that they didn’t have the slightest idea how to make their partner feel good.
But the fact that Nathan was buying ice cream for his sister-in-law cemented the fact that he liked to take care of women. No man had ever taken what she liked into consideration.
Not in the bedroom.
Not when they went out to eat.
Not in any way.
I thought you were so out of my league, there’s no way you’d ever give a man like me a chance.
She was out of his league? Not hardly. He might’ve been driving a piece-of-crap car, but it was obvious he wasn’t hurting for money. His clothes weren’t from Walmart, and the watch on his wrist was worth several thousand dollars. She’d been trained by the gang to recognize quality when she saw it, and Nathan Anderson might’ve thought she was out of his league, but she wasn’t even worth the gum on the bottom of his shoe. If he knew what she’d done and where she was from, he wouldn’t even have let her look at his engine.
Sexy women never seem to take a second glance at me.
You’re passionate, with a no-holds-barred attitude, and when you find something you want, you go after it with determination and don’t let anyone stand in your way.
God. Every word out of his mouth had made her yearn for the thousandth time that she was a different person. That she was the person Nathan saw. But she wasn’t. She was filth. A whore who’d slept with more men than she could count. She certainly didn’t feel as though she was standing up for herself, especially when it came to the Inca Boyz.
Bailey heard Joel stomping around in his room, and it was enough to cause the tears she’d been holding back to break through.
Sliding down the wall in the kitchen, ignoring the way the cabinet handle dug into her back as she moved, Bailey hugged her knees and buried her head between them . . . and cried. She had no idea what she was doing with Joel. She was probably screwing him up worse than Donovan ever could. She didn’t have the money to get him the things he wanted and needed—she was barely scraping by with her salary from the auto body store. She’d never earn enough to start her own business. She’d never get out of Colorado, and it was only a matter of time before the Inca Boyz found her and retrieved their property.
Ironic that she had more self-esteem when she was hanging out with the gang and being treated like shit than when she’d escaped that life. She might be only twenty-four, but she felt like she was eighty-four. Crushed by the weight of her life and the responsibility to raise her brother to be a good man.
Joel didn’t come out of his room for the rest of the night.
Bailey fell asleep on the crappy couch, as usual, a knife hidden under the cushion, ready and willing to die for her brother, even if he couldn’t stand her.
Chapter Three
“Bailey! Phone!”
Clayson’s voice rang out through the garage, and Bailey’s heart started to thud in panic. No one ever called for her . . . except Joel’s school.
She grabbed for a rag to wipe her hands and hopped off the small stepladder in front of the SUV. Unlike most of the other mechanics, she needed the extra inches to reach the innards of the engine. She’d been teased, but didn’t care. Her height was what it was. She quickly strode into the small office off the bays of the garage.
Clayson was sitting at his desk holding the ancient phone receiver out to her.
The owner of the body shop met her eyes straight on, but Bailey couldn’t read anything in them. She gave him a small half smile and nervously took hold of the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Bailey?”
“Yes. Who is this?” But she knew. From four words, she knew exactly who was on the other end of the line.
“Nathan Anderson. We met last night and you gave me your card.”
“Right.” Bailey wasn’t trying to be gruff or coy, but she’d had a hard night, her self-esteem was as low as it’d been in a long time, Joel was still giving her the silent treatment, and now the first man she’d been remotely interested in for way too many years was speaking in her ear, and it made goose bumps travel down both arms as if he was right there beside her, nibbling on said ear.
“I’d like to make an appointment to bring Marilyn in.”
At the reminder of the silly name he’d given his car, Bailey couldn’t stop the twitch of her lips. “You could’ve done that with Clayson. You didn’t have to talk to me personally.”
“But I wanted to.”
His voice had dropped, and Bailey shivered. As if Clayson knew exactly what was being said, he pushed the appointment book over in front of her. The older man didn’t use a computer; he still used the archaic schedule-book-and-pencil method for scheduling appointments. She swallowed hard and forced herself to sound as businesslike as possible.
“When is good for you?”
“When is your schedule open?”
“What do you mean?” Bailey asked, her brows furrowing in confusion at the question.
“I want you to work on Marilyn. Not someone else. So when do you have time in your schedule to take a look at her?”
“Oh, um, Clayson’s isn’t that kind of garage. We don’t schedule specific mechanics for specific vehicles. We can all work on all the cars that come in. It just depends on who is doing what at the time.”
“I trust you. Not anyone else.”
She spun so her back was to Clayson. She liked him, but she really wasn’t comfortable having this conversation in front of him. “Everyone here at Clayson’s is more than qualified to look at your car, Nathan. Besides, I already told you, it’s not a big deal. I’m pretty sure all you need, for now, is a new battery.”
“Great. So when can you look at her and let me know for sure?”
Sighing, Bailey knew he wasn’t going to drop it. He wanted her to look at his car, and no one else would do. Fine. She’d just tell him a time, and he’d never know whom it was who serviced it.
“How about Friday at four. Will that work?”
“And you’ll look at her?” Nathan insisted.
Bailey looked up at the ceiling. God, he was persistent. “Yeah. I’ll be here.” She usually picked Joel up at school around three, and Clayson allowed him to hang out at the garage from three thirty until she was off at five. It wasn’t ideal, but she wasn’t about to leave him home by himself. Not with the Inca Boyz breathing down her neck.
“Great. I’ll see you Friday. Take care of yourself until then,” was Nathan’s unusual response.
“I always do,” was her retort.
If possible, Nathan’s voice dropped even more as he said, “I know you do, pixie, but soon you’ll have help.”
Bailey’s mouth opened to ask what the hell he meant when the dial tone sounded in her ear. She pulled the handset away from her ear and stared at it in disbelief. She’d have help? Pixie? What the fuck?
“Friday at four. Got it,” Clayson told her as he scribbled in the appo
intment book. “Name? Car? Problem?”
Placing the handset back in the cradle, Bailey shook her head in exasperation. God, Nathan might say he was a nerd, and he might say that he didn’t like people that much, but he sure was bossy and good at getting people to do what he wanted. Most nerds she’d known growing up were soft-spoken and reluctant to push their will on anyone. Nathan sure as heck wasn’t like any of the boys she’d known in the past, that was for sure.
She took a deep breath to get her emotions under control. She wasn’t pissed—Nathan hadn’t really done anything to be mad at—but she was confused, her blood seemed like it was flowing faster through her veins, and she could feel her heart beating fast. It was bewildering, and she didn’t like it. At all.
“Nathan Anderson. He has a Ford Focus. Probably around a mid-two-thousand model. I helped him in a parking lot in town yesterday. His car wouldn’t start, and it looks like it’s a simple matter of replacing either the battery or the connections, which were extremely corroded.”
Clayson nodded and leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head as he eyed Bailey closely. “He bothering you?”
Surprised, she blurted, “No!”
“Good. Because if anyone thinks he can put his hands on you without your say-so, he’s got another thing coming. Me an’ the boys’ll take care of ’em. Just let us know. Okay, sweetheart?”
Bailey swallowed hard against the lump that rose in her throat at his words. Clayson reminded her a lot of her pa. Her dad had never liked Donovan or any of the boys in the gang. Bailey didn’t know if her pa knew exactly what she did outside his house, but she had a feeling he did. He’d died while helping a friend work on his car when the lift the car had been on collapsed, pinning her dad underneath. The day before he’d been killed, he’d taken her head in his hands and told her that he worried about her. That he loved her more than anything, and he’d kill any man who hurt her.