CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Joe had given Ruby her purse back--cell phone, gun and all--in a show of good faith. In Desiree’s bathroom, Ruby scrubbed herself robotically with a shea butter wash, trying to keep weight off her ankle and quickly toweled off. She remembered the restroom at the service station--scraping up the caked mud off her boots and swiping an alcohol wipe across her face to remove the dirty streaks and then pulling a comb out of her purse and working it through the truly epic knots the wind had introduced to her curly chestnut tresses. Joe had let her lean on his shoulder, curling his arm around her waist. He then bought a bag of ice for her twisted ankle and a cup of hot coffee from the gas station, waiting on guard as she sat at the sole table inside the station and finished it off.

Cat’s Bar and Desiree's boxy little house on the same property were a few miles off the freeway, nestled back in a copse of trees along a lonely county highway. A string of Christmas lights decorated the door but, otherwise, there was no sign of anything calling attention to it, save from the impressive line of Harleys lined up like soldiers in gleaming black uniforms.

Everything about Desiree's house was in miniature, from the tiny shower stall to the galley kitchen, where Desiree made her a grilled-cheese-and-tomato-sandwich and a cup of vanilla tea. Desiree made sure to spike it with a dash of Bailey's, though Ruby had objected at first. She showed her how to work the flat-screen TV and DVD player, which took up more than half the living room, then disappeared back next door, scrawling the number for the bar on a post-it note in case she needed anything. Desiree’s favorite mode of decoration was family portraits. Her siblings at prom, countless reunions and backyard picnics, her parents and even grandparents as children, posing for studio portraits. Desiree and two grinning girlfriends on a white-sand beach in Mexico, margaritas in hand. It all gave Ruby a lump in her throat. This is what life is supposed to be like, she thought.

Her mind wandered to Joe. She still knew little about him, but she suspected the decor wherever he lived looked quite different from this. Would it have been so bad, she thought, if Joe had come next door to sleep nearby her, or at least in the next room? She should have insisted he come with her; insisted that she felt safer with him. But no, she scolded herself. Better not to give him the impression that she needed him; she'd already made herself far too vulnerable in that muddy field.

But still, she couldn't help remembering the way he'd looked at her as he leaned against the bar; in fact, she wanted to remember it. It comforted her. She didn't find it intense or frightening, not like the way Fox looked at her sometimes. It was curious, almost beguiled, with a subtle curiosity that seemed to want to follow her out of the room, to be near her for even a moment more.

In fact, her mind had a million reasons to race, but she knew she needed sleep. She dreaded the second the comforting glow of the TV switched off, even if all that was on was late-night infomercials and Food Network reruns. She fumbled for the switch on the lamp beside the sofa.

Outside, motors roared, reminding her where she was--were the bikers leaving, or were more arriving? She hugged Desiree's borrowed pajamas against her, wishing they were made of Kevlar, for how small and unprotected she felt there. Restless, she leaped out of bed and methodically checked the locks on all the doors and the windows; not that it would help her much if someone got a hold of Desiree's keys. She slid back into the sofa bed and pulled the covers up over her nose, trying not to think about the fact that she was alone in a strange house, in a strange place, miles probably from the nearest town, whatever it was.

She glanced at her cell phone's glowing LED and on a whim, snatched it up from the end table, her fingers dancing toward Fox's number. But she dropped it and was immediately ashamed of herself. What good could calling Fox do now, aside from prove to Joe that a promise from Ruby Clarke was worth nothing?

He’d promised her. She owed him that, at least.

She finally closed her eyes and succumbed to sleep.