THREE
Sloane
The pounding woke me up.
Followed almost immediately by the yell.
"Let's go, duchess; you're burning daylight!"
My heart thudded into overdrive, making my skin instantly feel clammy, my throat tight, my chest compressed.
Sleep hung heavy around my brain, making me shoot up in bed, only remembering my stitches when the pain shot through my core. The room dark, it took me a long moment to remember.
Where I was.
Why I was here.
Who was talking to me.
Or, more accurately, hollering at me.
Gunner.
Because I was running away from my life.
Because some vicious drug dealer wanted to kill me.
My hand went to my chest a little shakily, pressing over my heart, willing it to calm down as I rose from the bed, reaching to shift the sheets back into place as I grabbed my dressing gown - pink and silky - and slid it on over my shorts and tank.
My feet moved into slippers as I made my way to the door, wanting to at least greet him and inform him I needed twenty minutes to get myself together.
I was reaching to tie my sash as I broke into the doorway of the common area, finding Gunner waiting there, a mug of coffee in his hand, the smell of it seeming to break through the last bits of sleep clinging to my brain.
Gunner's gaze went to me, roaming over me slowly. Penetrative, that was what his eyes were. Like he was seeing underneath my clothes and inside my skin. Not sexually, though. Sexually would have been expected. Inappropriate, but not altogether off-putting. But there was nothing there but mild interest.
"Good morning," I said, reaching up to flatten my hair, a self-conscious move I wouldn't normally be known for - fidgeting, fussing. But I also wouldn't usually greet someone in the morning without at least taking a short look in a mirror. "I didn't know when you would be coming, or I would have set an alarm. What time is it?"
"Four-fifteen."
Burning daylight?
Four-fifteen meant the sun wasn't even thinking about kicking the moon out of the way yet.
I was an early riser by most standards.
But that meant I was up around five, then at work before six.
Four-fifteen, that was just insanity.
But he had been clear. When I'd signed the papers, I had signed my life over to him.
Everything was on his schedule now.
And, apparently, his schedule started at four-fifteen in the morning.
I could adjust. I'd have to.
"Okay. Noted. I just need to get dressed," I explained, waving at my obvious pajamas before moving over toward my bags to rummage through.
"We need to talk about your luggage." His voice seemed to come from right behind me, like he had followed to tower over me where I was squatting down beside my collection of bags.
"What about it?" I asked, trying to stuff my panties under my slacks before he could see them.
"You can take maybe a third of it," he informed me, catching me off-guard, my body jolting, losing balance, falling to the side.
A strong hand closed around my wrist, stopping me from slamming onto my back on the unyielding hardwood floor. But the stretch pulled at my wound in my stomach, making me do the unthinkable.
Cry out in pain.
"Fuck," he hissed as soon as my butt was safely on the floor, releasing my wrist, and dropping down on his knees beside me. His hand swatted mine away from where I was clutching my stomach, ripping at my carefully tied sash, going inside, and yanking up the silky material of my tank top to inspect the wound. "It's alright," he said, tone somewhat remorseful even though all he had tried to do was stop me from whacking my head off the floor. "Didn't break back open. Gonna have to baby that for a while," he went on, and suddenly the hand at my stomach didn't feel quite as clinical as it had a second before.
I could feel scars and callouses there - the hands of a man who actually used them - against the skin I slathered twice daily with creams meant to keep it soft. The contrast sent a strange, warm feeling over my skin, traveling across my stomach... sinking down.
Down?
No, that couldn't be right.
Except there was a definite fluttering sensation between my legs.
"I'm okay," I said, sounding a little winded, making his gaze shoot up to my face, eyes doing that see-into-me thing again, like he knew exactly what was going on in my confused body. His hand lifted, pulled my shirt back down, then he moved away.
"Good. So you get to bring three bags. Everything else will be sent to you. Eventually. When it's safe."
"I need..."
"No one needs twelve bags, duchess," he said, turning to my luggage, zipping open a bag with a tag that clearly labeled it clothes, took out a handful of items, then dug his hand into my undergarment bag, shoving undies into the clothing bag.
"I can do that myself," I insisted, trying to slowly get onto my knees, pretending to ignore the pain that was constant and distracting.
"Yep. And you'd take three times as long," he said, opening the bag for pajamas, throwing a few mismatched pieces of my silky sleepwear into the main bag. "Figure one of these is your shampoo and shit. I will let you sort that. Third bag can be personal items if you have them. You can do that too. Go get dressed, so you can get on that."
It wasn't a suggestion.
It was an order.
I took my clothes, making my way down the hall, trying to stifle the swirling discomfort inside at having to take orders. It was a foreign thing, not having any control.
I could get used to it.
Like my mismatched pajamas.
Like not knowing what clothes I would have to wear.
Like literally everything else.
I went into the bathroom, avoiding the shower. I tried to convince myself that it was because of time constraints. Though it was clear that I was not ready to get back in there just yet. I wondered a bit fleetingly as I slipped into tan slacks if there would possibly be a tub at our next stop, if maybe that would help.
It wasn't until I was out of my pajama top that I realized I had forgotten a bra. On a sigh, I thanked whatever higher power might be out there that I had chosen a black wrap blouse that had a slight ribbed pattern that would be forgiving of my bralessness.
I pulled my hair up, brushed my teeth with one of the sealed toothbrushes and travel pastes kept in the drawer under the cabinet, then grabbed my clothes, slipped into my shoes, and made my way back out to sort my things.
Makeup and other beauty products weren't a big deal. I knew I had packed too much to begin with. But they were expensive, and I hated the idea of leaving them behind to likely be tossed.
But as I sorted my personal belongings, a small part of me shriveled each time I convinced myself to leave something behind, wanting to bring as much of my old life with me as possible. Like leaving your security blanket in the car on your first day of kindergarten.
I left the keepsakes, the things I had picked up on special vacations. The photo albums I likely wasn't supposed to have anyway.
I packed my collection of notebooks, pencils, colored pencils, and watercolor paints. I even managed to fit my small, foldable tabletop easel, two books I had been meaning to read for years but never had the free time, and a journal which I had bought on a whim when I thought it might be important to start trying to find a work/life balance, jot feelings or memories, or dreams down.
But that was it.
That was all I could bring with me.
Not for forever, I reminded myself.
Eventually, they could find a way to ship me the rest of my things.
"Good," Gunner said when I was finished. "I already have your cash in the car," he added, meaning what was left of the somewhat obnoxious sum I had withdrawn after paying them their fee. It was enough. Enough to start me over. Not hold me over for any length of time. But to get me a place to live, basic furniture in it, a used car, pay my bills until I found work.
"Alright," I agreed, trying to take a steadying breath.
"Got food packed too. Just enough to hold us through until dinner. We'll pick something up by then. If you want coffee, there are travel cups above the machine," he added, grabbing my bags, and taking them across the common area to the door.
With that, he was gone. I rushed to make the coffee, grabbing a granola bar just in case as well.
By then, he was back, impatiently waiting for me in the doorway.
Just like that, I was shuffled into a giant black SUV, and was officially on the way to my new life.
"Take something."
That was Gunner, about two hours into our drive. They were the first words anyone had spoken since we had gotten in the car together. He had immediately flicked on some sort of talk radio station. And paid attention to the road.
Me, I just watched the world go by me.
"No need to try to be a hero," he added when I said nothing.
I thought I had been keeping it somewhat to myself, the way the rough roads were jostling my body, making my stomach either send shooting pains through me, or throbbing ones. I didn't want to complain, to be a hassle. We had to do all this driving. I couldn't get on a plane, couldn't use my ID. This was necessary. Even if it hurt.
"I'm alright," I insisted, shaking my head.
"They gave you pills for if you're hurting. You're hurting. So take them."
I didn't like taking pills. Not even Advil for a headache. I had other tricks that worked, certain scents, ice packs, heating pads, there was always some way for me to avoid taking medication.
"It's new," he went on when I didn't reach to open my purse to get the pill bottle inside. "And sitting is the worst position for you to be in right now. Today is going to suck. Take the fucking pills."
Figuring he was every bit as stubborn - or more - than I was determined, I reached into my bag, taking one pill.
"Happy?" I asked, trying to keep the snippy out of my tone, knowing none of this was his fault.
"That you won't be shifting in your seat and wincing every fifteen seconds? Yeah. It's distracting."
So... not concern then.
Just annoyance.
"What are you--" I squeaked when suddenly, he pulled off to the shoulder, threw the car into park, yanked off his belt, then curled, reaching over toward my door, his chest and face just an inch from mine.
"If you didn't sit like you're some goddamned royalty," he started, grabbing the lever to tilt my chair backward, "maybe you wouldn't be hurting so much."
"I--" I started as my seat went back a few inches, the sound making his gaze shoot to mine.
And, somehow, I lost what I was about to say as his eyes pinned mine, the words feeling strangled in my throat, tight and suffocating as food eaten in a rush.
"Better, right?" he asked as he clicked the lever back one more time until I was no longer really sitting up, more like leaning back.
"Ah, yes," I agreed, voice airy, strange.
"Good," he said, watching me for another long second before yanking suddenly away, re-fastening his seatbelt, putting the car back into drive, and pulling away.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up.
Waking up.
Me.
I had never been the kind of person who had been able to fall asleep anywhere. In fact, I had found it completely impossible to do so in front of other people, let alone in a car where anyone we passed could look in and see me.
Around us, the windows were dark.
Almost eerily dark.
Country dark.
Not a street light or porch light or headlight in sight.
"You snore."
"I do not!" That almost sounded like a screech.
My reaction made a small smile pull at his lips before he half-turned to me. "Like an overweight back-sleeper."
Oh, god.
No way.
That was, well, incredibly embarrassing.
"Relax. I'm fucking with you," he admitted. "But it's no fun fucking with you when you look like I'd kicked your dog."
I didn't even care that he was teasing me, the relief was so strong.
Wanting to cover that reaction, I cleared my throat as I reached up to flatten my hair. "May I know where we are? Or am I not supposed to know?"
"Seeing as we took all your electronics, there's no risk in you knowing. We are in upstate New York. We're almost at our place for the night. We would have stopped for a rest by now, but you were out cold. Figured I would just let you sleep through. The house will be stocked with food."
"Okay. Thank you," I agreed, feeling my belly grumble, the only thing I had eaten being the granola bar this morning and some trail mix packet Gunner had tossed at me before I had fallen asleep.
I needed food.
And to stretch my legs.
"Ten minutes," he added, tone almost... softer. But that couldn't be right. He didn't seem like the kind of man who could do soft.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, we were turning off this never-ending backroad and onto an even more backroad-ish backroad.
"I know," he said when my hands slammed out onto the door and the center console, trying to brace myself as the car jostled violently on the uneven dirt road. "Not too much further," he added, wincing like he was the one hurting.
It was maybe the first bit of genuine humanness I had seen in him.
A few minutes later, just when I could feel a distinct burning in my eyes, the headlights finally caught on a small, dark log home situated in a semi-circle of colossal pine trees.
"Alright," Gunner said, putting the car in park. "Let's settle in. I'll grab the bags later."
"I can--"
"I said I'd get them later. Let's get inside. Make sure you aren't bleeding after all that."
Since I was maybe worried about the same thing, I carefully climbed out of the car, following him up the rough path to the front door.
"Go on," he said once the door was open, as he reached inside to flick on a light.
Sometimes houses could be deceptive. Capes, for example. They looked tiny from the outside, but were bigger within.
This was not the case of this rustic log cabin. It was exactly as small on the inside as you would think from the outside. Directly inside and to the right was a small L-shaped kitchen with black appliances that didn't look too old, faux black and brown granite countertops, and off-white cabinets above and below.
There was a small, well, it was almost wrong even to call it a 'hall' it was so small, but hall that had two doors on either side. One would imagine, a bed and a bath.
Singular.
One bedroom.
Would we be sharing?
Would he be taking the couch or a cot?
Would he make me?
With a small exhale, not entirely believing he wasn't capable of such a thing, my head turned back to inspect the left of the room where a living space was set up facing the outer wall where a huge penny brick hearth was situated. There was a comfortable-looking brown and black plaid couch and a somewhat beaten-up looking coffee table in front of it.
Again, oddly, no dining space.
What was with these men and refusing to eat at a proper table like a human being?
"Pretty self-explanatory," he said, waving a hand around. "Go on and check on your stitches. If there's an issue, let me know."
"Do you have medical training?" I asked, inspecting him a bit.
"No, duchess," he said, lips twitching. "But I've had to stitch myself up with nothing but fishing line and a sewing needle. And lived. Figure that is more than you can claim."
"Fair enough," I agreed, moving off toward the hallway, peeking into the room to the left, lucking out in finding the bathroom.
My stomach dropped slightly seeing the prominent stall shower with a simple thick white shower curtain. I would have to clean up eventually. This was the only way. It was impractical to be afraid. Out here in the middle of nowhere.
Impractical, but some things were not rational.
Fear most especially.
Taking a breath, I closed the door, moving over toward the sink cabinet where a large mirror was hung, and lifting up my shirt.
No blood, thankfully.
Just red and angry-looking.
I had little individual containers of saline to use on it once a day. Once I had my bags, maybe after I convinced myself to get in the shower, I would clean it out. Maybe that would help with the pain.
"What's the verdict?" I heard from outside the door a few minutes later as I attempted to get myself together.
"It's okay," I told him, moving to open the door. And there he was, with my toiletries and clothing bags. A part of me wondered if he had run out to grab them, so I didn't insist on helping. Which was, well, sweet.
"I want to take a shower, but I'll let you go first."
It must have shown.
On my face.
The fear, the panic.
"What?"
"Nothing," I insisted, shaking my head.
"You're afraid to shower?" he asked, seeing right through me.
"It's just... I..." I was stammering. I never stammered. Something about his light green eyes was unraveling me.
"Fuck that," he said, shaking his head.
"Excuse me?"
"Go turn the water on. I'll get you some towels."
"No, really. I'm fine. It's fine," I insisted.
"It's not fine," he shot back, shaking his head. "And you're not fine. Some fuck came at you in the shower and attacked you. I get it. I do. That's an invasion. It's traumatic. But he wins when you refuse to step back in there."
"You don't..."
"I do. I get it," he said, disappearing. It wasn't until he came back with the towels that I realized he wasn't just going to let me have this. "Don't give me those eyes," he said, voice going a little soft again as he put towels down on the sink vanity, then moved to turn the water on.
Then, he did the oddest thing.
He shut the door.
From the inside.
"What are you doing?" I asked as the steam from the hot water started wafting through the air, instantly making my shirt start to stick to my back.
"If you don't break this now, you never will. So you're going to break this now. How else are you going to start a new life? Explain to new friends or new boyfriends why you are terrified of the shower?" he asked, using reason. And reason, well, it was always the best argument to use to approach me. "So you are going to turn around and get in that shower," he explained, reaching behind his back, producing something from his waistband.
Long.
Black.
Lethal.
"I am going to turn my back on you and watch the door. And you can get in that shower knowing that if by some impossibly small chance someone found us here, that I would take them down before they got anywhere near you."
With that, he turned his back.
And waited.
And waited.
Until I felt so uncomfortable, I finally did what he said. I undressed, watching him to make sure he was facing forward, then forcing myself into the shower.
He must have heard the shower curtain pulling. "See. You can do it," he told me. "You want me to hand you some of your shit?" he added, making me realize I had hopped in without even so much as a bar of soap.
"If you don't mind," I said, shoving my hand out of the shower curtain. It was only a couple seconds before I felt my bottle of shampoo land there. Once I put that down, conditioner. Then soap.
"The fuck is this skin conditioner shit? You need that too?"
I did.
And, for some unknown reason, I felt weird about needing it. But I stuck my hand out anyway.
"Chicks need too much shit," he added, handing me my razor and shaving cream. "How the fuck do you get anything else done with all this grooming?"
"We get up earlier," I suggested, going through the motions of showering somewhat self-conscious about the process, so rushing through it more than usual. "Would you prefer we stop shaving our legs?" I asked, smiling when I heard no response from him. If there was one thing a man - in my experience - loved, it was the feel of silky legs wrapped around them. And seeing as we ourselves loved the feel of the sheets on our freshly shaven skin, I totally got that.
I turned off the water, quickly slathering the skin conditioner on before reaching for the towels. Plural. He had given me two. One for my body, one for my hair. The man clearly had experience with women.
"See?" he asked when I pushed the curtain aside and stepped out. "You did it."
I did.
Though, if I were being completely honest with myself, I think the only reason I could was because of that gun in his hand.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it, feeling weird about being there in a towel that barely fell mid-thigh. And a towel wrapped around my hair. It wasn't my best look, and I knew it.
"Don't mention it," he said, tucking the gun away. "I'll drag in your bag," he added, leaving in an odd rush.
When he came back, he rolled the bag in, refusing to look at me for some reason.
"When you're done, we can talk about the next step."
With that, still not looking in my direction, he was gone.