FORTY-FOUR

Dagne

Every shiver that rips through my body imbeds the splinters a little further. The more I try not to shake, the harder the convulsions are when they finally break free. The official start of fall isn’t that far away, so even though the days are still relatively warm, the nights are cold.

Even more so when your clothes are two feet from your body.

I want to believe that by some miracle I’ll be okay. That in ten, twenty, however many years, I’ll look back on this as some sad anecdote of my life. But the thin thread of hope I held onto frayed and floated away on the dying breeze a long time ago.

I don’t know how long it’s been. Hours, I’m guessing. But how many more until I can’t take the exposure any longer? I wish I’d paid more attention in science class. The body can last weeks without food, but I know without water or adequate cover the time is drastically reduced.

Surely the farmer would come by daily? Right? But what if that’s not soon enough?

I shudder against the pole again, trying my best to ignore the tickle on my shoulder that indicates something pretty damn big crawls over my skin. Ugh. How ridiculous is it? I’m tied up, abused, and I’m still repulsed by a bug.

I laugh at the ludicrousness of it all, my mad chuckle drifting far on the still night air.

Closing my eyes and praying for sleep to ease my pain, I frown when something answers my earlier laugh. Maybe? I snap my eyes open again, straining them in the dark to pick up a trace of something, anything.

What if it’s Digits returned? A new kind of shudder rips through my body.

There. Again, I catch the faint drift of a voice, possibly movement. My hair falls into my face as I twist my head around the pole to look in the opposite direction. I’ve about given up hope, written myself off as delirious, when the definite flash of orange peeks through the corn.

Footfalls. Conversation.

There’s people.

“Over here,” I try to yell, but all that emerges from my dry throat is a scratchy bark.

The footfalls quicken, the voices louder.

I do my best to call out again, but nothing comes. Instead, the words lodge in my arid throat, sending me into a fit of coughing.

One person breaks through the corn, then two, and then several more before the second ushers them back for privacy. The torchlight slashes over my naked and bruised body, the words uttered ones I recognize well.

“I’m sorry, Dee.”

His hands are on my face while somebody else cuts the ropes in rough sawing motions, yet none of it seems real.

I’ve passed out. Gone under and started to dream. How could they have found me?

“Stay with me, baby. Focus on what hurts.”

Why? I want to forget the pain. Giving in is so sweet, so soft, so easy.

My bounds severed, my body is lifted from the crouched position around the pole. The splinters in my skin, most likely red and swollen already, sting and burn as my flesh makes contact with another.

“No,” I cry, trying to get the pressure off.

Hooch sets me down, and I open my eyes to him, fully alert thanks to the pain.

“Focus on the pain.” This is why: it brings me back to him.

“Splinters,” I manage to squeak out through hoarse tones.

The flashlight returns, held by another with heavy riding boots and dark denim legs. Hooch gently lifts each arm, plucking what he can with his thick fingers. I wince and hiss, trying to lessen the ache by reminding myself it has to hurt to get better.

If only that was what hurt the most.

The greatest pain, the biggest scar, will never be a visible one. An open, festering wound that I’ll carry in my heart, only to bring it out to the light every time a man touches me in that way, or looks at me with that kind of intention.

“I can’t get them all,” Hooch says, the pain he feels evident in the waver of his voice. “Jesus, babe. I did this.”

“Don’t be silly,” I chastise, angered that he’d even think that way. “Don’t.”

A large blanket is produced from the small group of men waiting off to the side, and I’m bundled in its security before being hoisted into Hooch’s arms again. Everything is a surreal blur as Hooch arranges for somebody else to ride his bike home while he travels in the truck with me. Dog drives, and Hooch settles me across his legs, curled into his chest on the passenger side. It’s awkward, painful, but the most perfect moment ever.

It’s love, security, and finally an affirmation that to someone, I’m worth everything.

***

Daylight paints the walls when I wake. I have no recollection of the journey home, let alone being brought upstairs to Hooch’s room. Something pulls at my skin, and I glance down to find bandages covering the worst of my cuts and abrasions.

Yet what covers me across my stomach is the sweetest relief of all.

Hooch tugs his arm tighter, pulling me gently against his front as he lies beside me, wide awake, fully dressed, just looking.

“You’ve got painkillers on the nightstand if you need them.”

It throbs, my most intimate parts burning slightly, but it’s not anything I can’t tolerate for now. I roll to face him, wanting to say how thankful I am that he found me, yet the words don’t come.

The events of the past day hit me like a ton of bricks, and instead of sharing my gratitude, I cry. I cry because he looks at me as though he adores me, even though I’m ruined. I cry because he has to have seconds when really despite all his faults he deserved it all. I cry because I wasn’t strong enough, or smart enough to out-play Digits.

But most of all, because I’ll never be the same person I was, no matter how well I recover.

This was one chapter I never wanted to add to my story. A chapter I’d skipped so many times, narrowly missing filling the pages when some grabby drunk got a little too close in my time travelling alone.

“What can I do?” Hooch whispers. “Tell me what to do, Dee.”

“For now?” I sniff. “Just stay.”

He wraps his huge arms around me, and for a brief moment nothing else exists. I’m not a naïve young woman, blindly stumbling through life. He’s not an outlaw biker who leads a group of criminal men. And we’re not two people who’ve screwed this up every step of the way.

We’re whole, complete, and happy.

We’re loved, and in return, we love.

“They found him,” Hooch says, his words vibrating where his throat rests atop my head.

I stiffen, the thought Digits is in the same building almost too much to bear. “And?”

“It’s your call.”

“What is?”

“How he dies.”

Jesus. “I’m not a killer, Hooch. I can’t condone that.”

“You don’t need to. It’ll happen either way. I just thought it might help.”

Does it? I want nothing more for him to hurt, but the stupid, stupid part of me that has faith in redemption wants one last moment with him to give him a chance to explain himself.

What would turn a seemingly kind man so vicious like that? What isn’t he telling everyone?

“Can I talk with him?”

This time, Hooch stiffens. “Why?”

“With you there.” I pull back enough to see his face. “I want to know why he did what he did.”

“Do you think reliving the moment is going to be a good thing?”

He has a point. “Not particularly. I don’t expect it to be easy, Hooch, but sometimes you just have to make the hard choices to find the good in a situation.”

He’s not convinced, given the dip to his brow, but then neither am I.

“Tomorrow,” he grumbles before kissing my forehead. “Right now, though, you rest.”

I settle back into his hold, my head fitting snugly against his chest as I close my eyes. He wraps me in promises, whispering things in my ear as I drift off that prove to me the distance between us is gone. He may have pushed me away, pushed me into leaving, but I guess in the end, it was the same push he needed to break down his walls and accept what he has around him.

A club who is his family, the support to get through the rough times, and people who love him, faults and all.

Including me.