Reid pulled up in front of the hunting cabin and killed the lights and engine. He sat behind the steering wheel for a moment, staring at the dark shape of the house. He and Zane were normal boys here. Until Grandpa died, and then everything changed.
When Grandpa lived he would keep them for days, sometimes weeks at a time. After the old man died, there was no break, no saving them from their home life. Their mother only cared about her next fix, and their father, when he decided to make an appearance, liked to use them for punching bags. It made him feel better. Like a big man.
The old, weathered wood swing on the front porch moved in the breeze, the chains clinking softly. For a moment he could imagine Grandpa sitting there, whittling a piece of wood into something Reid and his brother would later marvel over. Happy times happened here, and it felt wrong bringing her here, as though doing so would taint all those memories.
No one knew about the place. It wasn’t on any map. With Zane and the others running drugs and guns so close to the border, a place this far west was convenient. When things got too hot, they could duck in here and wait things out.
Sighing, he stepped out into the humming night and rounded the car to the blaring song of cicadas. He opened the sliding door, quieter than he had before, not eager to wake her. He stared down at her for a long moment and dragged a hand through his hair. Christ. Nothing was going the way he planned.
Surveying the encroaching darkness, he moved to the house and unlocked the front door, pushing it open. He hovered there for a moment, staring into the shadowy interior.
Shooting a quick glance back at the van to assure himself that she hadn’t emerged, he strode to an outside shed and turned on the generator. Its loud purr soon filled the air. Reid moved back into the cabin and flipped on a lamp sitting on a side table beside the couch. Gold light suffused the cabin.
He returned to the van for her. Leaning forward, he slipped his hands under her body and lifted her up, tucking her close to his chest. She still didn’t wake, turning her face into his chest as though he were her pillow.
She was heavier than she looked, but he still carried her with ease. One thing you had in prison was time. A lot of which he had spent working out, either playing basketball or using the rudimentary gym equipment in the yard, building his body into a weapon. The only weapon you had in prison.
She stirred a little as his shoes thudded over the wood porch. He entered the living area, kicking the door shut behind him and muting the sound of the generator. He’d go back for the supplies in a little while.
Even musty-smelling, the cabin was better than the place they had just left. For one thing, it wasn’t filthy, which told him his brother couldn’t have used it that often. It was sparsely furnished. Just a couch and recliner, kitchen table and four mismatched chairs.
Reid carried her to one of the two bedrooms. He knew it was probably a good idea if they slept in separate rooms. Last time they’d shared a bed had not gone well. He still harbored all kinds of dirty thoughts . . . the things he could have done to her . . .
Except leaving her in a room to herself probably wasn’t a good idea either. The memory of chasing her through a field was still fresh. He wasn’t keen on keeping her tied up, though.
Reid lowered her down on the colorful quilt in his grandfather’s old bedroom. The brass bed was big and cozy. He and Zane had bounced on it so much that it was a miracle the mattress didn’t sag.
Faint gold light crept into the room from the living area, allowing him visibility. Grace rolled to her side and snuggled into the well-worn quilt, her dark hair a wild tangle around her. He untied the cord from her wrists and ankles. Risky or not, he wasn’t going to keep her tied up all night. He was a light sleeper. He’d hear her if she roused from the room.
She sighed in her sleep, bringing her hands up and tucking them under her cheek. She looked peaceful, as innocent as a child. Not fit for his world, but she was here, dragged into it kicking and screaming. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, backing up several steps, as though needing distance, needing space from her.
Leaving her room, he went outside and carried in the ice chest and duffel bag. It only took a few minutes to unpack the ice chest and toss his duffel on the bottom bunk bed in the second bedroom.
Checking on her one more time, he satisfied himself that she hadn’t budged from where he’d left her on the bed. She was as still as death, and he had to resist the urge to check her for a pulse. Touching her was to be avoided.
Hiding the keys inside a bowl in a cabinet just in case she woke, he stepped into the small bathroom and stripped off his clothes. He turned on the shower and adjusted the dial to the desired temperature, remembering from years ago to set it just at two o’clock.
Waiting for the water to warm up, he propped his hands on the edge of the sink and stared at his reflection, studying the man he had become. There were mirrors in prison, but he never bothered to take much time to look at himself. He was too busy watching everyone else . . . watching his back and the backs of his crew. Except North.
Reid hadn’t looked out for North. Not well enough. Not as he had promised Knox. He had staged a fight in order to get sent to the local hospital. It was supposed to be simple. It wasn’t supposed to involve others. Just him and some skinhead from another crew who got sent to prison for rape and murder. Reid hadn’t meant to start a riot. He hadn’t meant for North to get hurt. His shoulders bore the brunt of that, the weight threatening to cripple him.
He had failed, and now here he stood, free. At least until he was back in there—which was an eventuality. Hopefully North and the rest of the boys would be fine without him until he returned.
The mirror started to fog up, obscuring the reflection of the hard-eyed stranger looking back at him. He didn’t bother wiping it clear. He didn’t particularly care to look at himself. He’d gotten his friend hurt. And there was Grace Reeves to consider. He winced. Hopefully, she wouldn’t bear any lasting injuries. No more than she already had. Hopefully, within the week he could let her go. He’d already saved her, he reasoned. Keeping her for a few more days wouldn’t harm anyone . . . and if it brought down Sullivan, it would serve the greater good. Right?
As bad as the rest of them . . .
Her words had hit their mark. Maybe she was right. He thought himself so different than Zane and the others, but what had he done with his life? Maybe he hadn’t killed the man that he was sent to prison for killing, but his hands weren’t clean. You couldn’t spend a decade at the Rock and come out clean. He’d seen things . . . done things. And he would continue to do things. Things like killing Otis Sullivan. Just because he felt justified didn’t mean it wouldn’t be murder. The way he looked at it, he was already in jail for that particular crime. He might as well make it a reality. And killing Sullivan would be worth it.
Reid stepped into the minuscule shower. Warm water was fleeting so he made quick work of washing himself. Bowing his head, he let the last of the warm spray rush over him. Now he only had to stop thinking about what Grace Reeves felt like, all those curves and sweet skin and how long it had been since he had sunk deep between a woman’s thighs. With a groan, he slid his hand down to grip his dick, giving himself several hard strokes.
This wasn’t exactly how he had imagined spending his precious days of freedom. He had imagined he would eat a good burger. Find a quick, anonymous fuck. Then he would top everything off by killing Sullivan. The icing on the cake of his brief bout of freedom.
He rested his forehead against the wall of the shower and pumped his dick, working it almost savagely, desperate for release, something to take the edge off. Thinking about her wasn’t hurting anything. Remembering how hot her sex had felt, how wet her panties, how easy it would have been to slip the fabric aside and find her slick heat with his fingers. He closed his eyes, his breathing growing ragged as his balls drew up tight. His fantasies took a turn and it wasn’t just his hand anymore. In his mind he was spreading her thighs wide and driving his
swollen length into her. She’d arch, her body swallowing him, fitting him like a glove, milking his hungry cock.
He came, blowing his load with a head-tossing groan. He stood beneath the spray of water, rattled in the aftermath. He was certifiable. Just the thought of her had him jacking off to the best orgasm he’d had in years. And that was still saying something, since all his orgasms in recent—and not so recent—years had been self-service. This one shouldn’t have shattered him so much.
Water crashed over him, kneading the lingering tension from his muscles. No question about it, she had a hot little body under the sexless clothes she wore, and those big brown eyes did things to his head. He cursed and reminded himself that he’d always liked blondes, the occasional redhead, and mile-long legs. That was his type. He should be able to keep it together around her. He was all about control. In prison. Out of prison. It made no difference. He hadn’t fallen so low that he would take a woman against her will. Prison hadn’t ruined him that much.
But what if it wasn’t against her will?
The question slid insidiously through him, a tempting little whisper. She had responded to him on that bed last night. Even if she was attempting to manipulate him then, she had not been unaffected by his touch. He could make her want it . . . want him. He was good at reading people, and he knew one thing for certain about Grace Reeves. The woman had never been well fucked.
He shook his head, shoving the idea out of his head. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t seduce a woman his brother had abducted for Sullivan. Even if she wasn’t the president’s daughter, it was wrong on every level.
It would only be a little longer and then he’d be rid of her. Zane had promised that he would know something in a few days. Then he would get what he wanted.
The sudden image of Grace Reeves asleep in the bedroom next door appeared in his mind. Funny how she popped into his head when he thought about what it was he wanted.
Nine
Grace woke to stinging wrists and the sound of running water. Blinking, she lifted her head and looked around the unfamiliar bedroom. The motion reminded her of the soreness on the side of her face. Her hand drifted up to cup her cheek. She shuddered as everything rushed over her. Darkness pushed at the glass of the room’s single window, letting her know she’d somehow slept the day away in the back of the van.
It felt as though a lifetime had passed since she was grabbed outside her hotel. Since she was hit and thrown in the back of a van by a gang of thugs. A lifetime since she shared a strange bed with a man she had thought she could trust. A man she had let put his hand between her legs. Shaming heat rushed through her. Not because she had thought to use her body to manipulate him. This was about survival. She did what she thought she had to. She still would do that. Whatever it took to get out of this. Whatever it took to get home.
No, her shame was because she had felt something. She’d grown wet as he palmed her sex. She inhaled sharply at the sudden clench in her belly, an echo of the want he had roused in her. Still mortifying. She was pathetic. Crazy. Clearly her dormant sex life was catching up with her. When she got home, she was going to have to correct that. She would finally sleep with Charles. For all intents and purposes, he was her boyfriend. Might as well cash in on the perks. Maybe surviving this nightmare would bring them a greater appreciation for each other.
The quilt was soft and smooth underneath her. Her fingers flexed against the yielding, well-worn fabric, clinging to it for something solid. She inhaled again. There was none of the stench of the last place. The air smelled faintly stale, but not foul or rotting as before. She sat up fully, wincing at her aching muscles.
Her brain started functioning, putting together the fact that the sound of running water was a shower. Everything clicked into place. Reid was in the shower. He wasn’t in the room, watching her. And her hands and feet weren’t bound. Now was her chance.
She vaulted off the bed, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in her muscles and wrists. She lunged out of the bedroom, rotating in a swift circle in the living room, her heart galloping sixty miles a minute. Her environment distracted her for a moment, confused her. It was nothing like the last place. This house, even as sparsely furnished as it was, felt like a home. Yellow-orange lamplight flickered over the wood floors and paneled walls, casting dancing shadows over an Aztec-patterned blanket draped over the couch. The place smelled of cedar and pine. All deceptively comforting.
Time was fading. She could still hear the water running, but she knew it could stop at any moment. Reid could walk out of the bathroom and see her.
Heart still thumping madly, she scanned all the surfaces, searching for the keys to the van. Nothing. No sight of them. He must have them with him in the bathroom.
Suddenly, the water shut off. She squeaked and danced on her feet for a moment before making a split decision.
She bolted. Flung open the front door, taking a moment to shut it behind her, hoping that bought her a little more time. Maybe he would search inside the house before looking outside.
She had no clue where they were. Presumably still in Texas. She didn’t know how long she had slept while he drove them here, but it was a big state. She knew you could drive forever without leaving it. Squinting, she peered into the darkness. She stood in a small patch of open yard. Just beyond it, trees and shrubs crowded together beneath a horizon of distant mountains several shades darker than the night sky.
A narrow road peeped out between the thick foliage. That ribbon of dirt looked like the only way in or out. She took off down it, hoping desperately that another car would appear or that she would reach another house, people, someone . . . something. Fervent, frantic, wishful thoughts. Prayers, really. Prayers that she knew would go unheeded. As she ran, her shoes beating into the dirt road, she faced the likely truth. There would be no cars, no people, no other houses.
No, Reid would have made sure there was no one close to them. She knew that much about him. He was a criminal, but he was no idiot. Wherever they were, it would be isolated. That realization led to another. She couldn’t continue running down the road—he would eventually catch up with her. All he had to do was hop in the van and track her down.
Pumping her arms faster, she swerved off the road and dove into the thick undergrowth. Thick was an understatement. It was like wading through sludge. Her breath came faster, vapor-thick and wet with panicked sobs. God, she really should have taken Holly up on her unsubtle offers to run with her in the mornings. Or join her for cross-fit. Then her lungs wouldn’t feel like they needed a hyperbaric chamber.
Her chest tightened and constricted, pushing and pulling air in and out. In and out. It was slow going. Too many trees, too much brush clawing and grabbing and tearing at her. A sharp branch sliced her cheek. She whimpered but kept going, not worried about where she was headed as long as it was away. Far away from the cabin and the man inside it. Anywhere else was better. Safer than here. Safer than with him.
The first thing he noticed when he shut off the shower and stepped out was the silence. Thick as fog. He wasn’t used to that. In prison there were always sounds. Solitude was an illusion.
He rubbed himself dry with a towel, scrubbing at his face and head, and then he paused, relishing this moment. Outside he could hear the cicadas and a faint mountain breeze rustling the leaves on the trees. If not for the fact that there was an abducted woman asleep in the next room, he could almost imagine himself free. At peace.
At the Rock, even at night, asleep in his cell, there were voices. Coughing, sniffing, a distant guard laughing or playing a radio. Sometimes, on certain nights, you could hear someone crying. Nothing like prison to turn grown men into babies, weeping for their mothers.
He exhaled and glanced at the tiny square window above the toilet. The night was ink dark out there, the position of the window too low to grant him a view of the stars. Too bad. He would have to go out on the porch and admire the view later. He wouldn’t have that when he went back to the Rock. He
wouldn’t have a lot of things when he went back.
Against his will, his mind drifted, latched onto the image of her in the next room, curled up on the bed asleep, all soft female, waiting to be touched. Christ. No, she wasn’t. If he walked in there and touched her, she would wake up screaming.
He knotted the towel at his waist and stepped in front of the mirror, wiping the glass clean of fog. He stared at his reflection, considering what he saw for a moment . . . considering what Grace Reeves saw when she looked at him.
He was nothing like the fine men in suits she was accustomed to. Scarred and tatted, muscled and rangy, he wasn’t gentle or refined. His wet, close-cut hair looked almost dark against his scalp. When he was a kid he had worn it long, well past his neck. He learned quickly in prison that long hair was not a good idea. It gave the guy jumping you something to grip as he was trying to kick your ass.
Stepping out of the bathroom, he started to head for the second bedroom, where he had dropped his bag.
The moment he stepped out, however, he froze. Something wasn’t right. Something was different. He scanned the room, searching for anything out of the ordinary. All was still and silent, just as it had been before he entered the shower, but the wary feeling was there, deep in his gut. The same wariness that had kept him alive for so long at the Rock.
He moved suddenly toward the bedroom where Grace slept and peered in. The bed was empty. She wasn’t where he had left her.
Shit. He spun around and lurched for the front door. It wasn’t locked, and he knew he’d locked it automatically behind him. Stepping out onto the porch, he scanned the yard. The van sat there, staring back at him, mocking him in the dark night. A slight movement or sound had him lifting his head and looking farther down the road.
There was a flash of something pale against the darkness, and he realized it must be her—that cream-colored blouse. She was already quite far down the road. He didn’t expect any cars coming up this way, but if she slipped off the road and went into the woods, he could lose her. It was a vast wilderness out here. She could lose herself in it. She had no idea what she was doing.
Hell Breaks Loose Page 8