Chapter 2
Maggie
Low voices—men, I think—talking quietly. It hurts my head even though they’re not that loud, and I fight the pull my body has to wake up. I don’t want to hear what they’re saying because I’m pretty sure they might be discussing something like the best way to get rid of my body. I don’t want to wake up, because my body has clearly found solace in the state of unconsciousness. I’ve had plenty of experience with that the last few days, my body so overwhelmed with pain and my mind so overwhelmed with hopelessness, that I’m ready to give up.
Bright light flares, causes everything to go white before turning black again.
I lecture myself to relinquish hold of my increasing consciousness, and feel myself floating back under.
Bright light again, and oh… that hurts so much.
Even when it’s gone, my brain seems to twist in agony before being left with pulses of electric pain.
The voices don’t necessarily get louder, but I understand them a bit more clearly. I hate my body and its clear failure for self-preservation.
…don’t think this head wound is serious…
…what’s wrong…
…have to give her a thorough examination…
…then I can decide what to do…
A sharp pain jolts from the top of my head, down through my brain, and seems to sizzle down my spine. My eyes fly open, unable to ignore the sensation, and my hands go flying to push whatever it is away from me.
“Don’t,” I rasp out, my voice so shredded from hours of screaming that it’s barely audible. Or is that because my eardrums are busted from the blows I repetitively took to my head?
The pain diminishes and I blink against the light now assaulting my eyes. It’s not overly burning and I sense I’m in a dimly lit room, but coming out of utter blackness, it still hurts all the same. I try to focus, blinking again several times before I see a man start to take shape before me.
Dark hair, olive skin, full beard.
My brain is working better than I expected because I can immediately tell by the worry in his eyes and the state of his clothing that he’s not Mayhem’s Mission. No twinkle of appreciation for my pain. No tattoos. No stale beer smell. A button-down blue chambray shirt that no motorcycle gang member would ever be caught dead in.
“Who are you?” I ask tentatively, my vocal chords throbbing from the effort as I try to sit up on the couch. More pain throbs, not only from my head but also seemingly from everywhere on my body. I wince, grit my teeth, but still manage to pull myself up and push myself as far away from this guy as possible. He looks “nice,” but I don’t know him. The only thing that prevents me from getting any further away are the back cushions of a couch I’m apparently lying on.
The man smiles at me in understanding, but I don’t trust that look one bit. There’s no way he could ever understand the depth of my fear at this point.
He turns his head to the right and looks upward slightly. I follow his gaze, my eyes coming to rest on a terribly large man glaring down at me with his arms crossed over his chest. I shrink back further into the cushions because of the loathsome look on his face. That movement is not lost on either man. The big guy’s facial features smooth out a bit, and I see a hint of guilt in his eyes for scaring me.
My eyes skitter back to the other guy, and he holds his palms out in the universal gesture of “calm down, we’re not going to hurt you”. It doesn’t ease my anxiety at all, because I can’t remember the last time I’ve been around someone who didn’t want to hurt me.
“A friend brought you here,” the bearded guy says reassuringly.
“I don’t have any friends,” I deny in the raspy voice that doesn’t hurt quite as bad the more I’m using it. Now, more than ever, I’m distrusting everything about my circumstances.
“Kyle Sommerville,” the big guy provides. His voice is deep, but it sounds like it’s filled with smooth stone gravel at the same time. It has a rumbling sort of effect that causes shivers of—fear, maybe—to ghost across my skin.
Now Kyle Sommerville is absolutely a name that instills genuine terror, and the fact he brought me here means these men most definitely cannot be trusted. My body energizes, filling with adrenaline that spikes hard and makes me slightly dizzy. But the great thing about adrenaline is that it also masks pain, and in a surprise move that has both men rearing backward, I fly off the couch in a desperate attempt to escape. My eyes immediately land on the front door across the living room, and my feet hit the floor with a frenzied burst of near hysteria to get away.
The door races toward me… or am I racing toward it?
Doesn’t matter, because I’m so damn close.
Almost there.
Just as my fingers brush the knob, large arms band around me from behind, pulling me away and back into the hard, muscular body of who I inherently know is the large man who called Kyle Sommerville my friend.
Pain bursts and blooms all over my body, the shot of numbing adrenaline quickly expended.
“Stop,” I shriek against the agony in my back, ribs, arms, hips, and legs. I try to twist free, but the pain peaks so severely my head starts spinning and bile rises in my throat.
The arms immediately release me the minute the word ‘stop’ leaves my lips, and I fall unceremoniously, my knees jarring solidly on the wooden floor. I ignore that pain because it’s nothing compared to the electrical shocks that seem to be firing from every nerve ending. My hands come to the floor to support my weight and my back involuntarily arches upward as I gag reflexively against the firestorm of torment my body is feeling once again.
“Jesus,” I hear the big guy growl from above me. I feel his fingertips delicately pulling at the bottom of my shirt that’s ridden up a bit on my back. “Look at her.”
I scramble away from him, fear of his touch—any touch—propelling me forward. My hand slips out from under me and my body twists toward the floor, the muscles and skin around my ribs screaming in protest. Nausea starts to rise again, but mercifully, darkness starts to seep in from the periphery of my vision.
And I go under, once again in a protective measure to escape the misery.
*
When I start to wake up again, I immediately feel something is different.
First, I’m in a bed. I know this because the sensation of soft sheets and pillowy support under my head versus hard concrete under my back feels like heaven. In fact, I can’t remember anything ever feeling this nice before.
I also feel warm.
And I don’t feel pain.
I hesitantly open my eyes. The room is dimly lit from what appears to be a lamp to my right, although I’m afraid to turn my head to look at it. I fear the pain that might come from such a small maneuver.
“First thing you need to understand is that you are safe and no one is going to hurt you again.” The voice is deep, lower and softer than I’d heard it before.
Still, I’m scared and can’t help but jolt with awareness as I turn my head toward him. The first thing I notice, because how could I not notice when pain has been a part of my daily—no wait, hourly—existence, is that while I feel a dull throb in my head and from the multitude of bruises all over me, it’s actually manageable. I take a deep breath and focus in on the large man, waiting to see what he says next.
“I get by your reaction last night that Kyle Sommerville is no friend of yours,” he says tentatively. “So I need to tell you this so you can at least relax and know you’re safe.”
My eyes clear up a bit and I note the man is sitting on a chair beside the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His face, while grim, is also gentle. He’s actually quite handsome, something I hadn’t noticed earlier, but that’s not something I give a shit about. Who cares if he has beautiful brown hair that’s untamed and longish as well as eyes the color of warm amber? I certainly don’t.
But the fact those stunning eyes are gentle causes me to stay still.
For the moment.
“Kyle is not a friend of mine,” the man says carefully. “He brought you to me and told me you were in danger.”
“He wouldn’t help me,” I whisper.
The man nods in understanding. “He’s a cop—ATF. He’s been undercover for three years.”
I shake my head. I don’t buy it. Kyle’s a sadistic son of a bitch. He egged Kayla on when she tortured me.
“I promise,” the man assures me, as clearly doubt is written all over my face. “He got you out because he was afraid Kayla would kill you.”
A tremor runs through my body because that is an absolute truth. She would have killed me for sure, and I know this because she told me she was going to.
After she finished making me suffer.
“Who are you?” I ask hesitantly. While I don’t trust this big brute as far as I can throw him, I need to understand why I’m here if I’m going to escape. I need to know everything about my captor.
“My name is Bridger,” he says in a voice like a low rumble of thunder that is oddly comforting right now. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not going to let anyone else hurt you.”
That means nothing to me. Trust is earned, not handed out like candy. His few words of reassurance bounce right off, and my mind starts figuring out how quickly I can get away from him. If I can get my battered body out of this bed, that is. I tentatively dig my elbows into the mattress, trying to raise my upper body a bit to scoot up further onto the pillows below my head.
My body aches with the movement, but I’m stunned it’s not the excruciating level I’d been accustomed to. This confuses me, so it’s my next question. “Why don’t I hurt the way I was a little bit ago?”
The man—Bridger—doesn’t move a muscle, and I understand immediately he’s trying to be unassuming. “I had a doctor friend come and tend to you. He treated your injuries while you were unconscious.”
“The man who was just here?” I ask curiously.
Bridger shakes his head. “First, he wasn’t just here. That was almost twenty-four hours ago.”
I gasp as I realize I’ve lost almost a day with no recollection, and yet… it’s probably the best twenty-four hours I’ve had in years.
“And no,” he continues. “That was my friend, Logan, who has some medical training, but he couldn’t handle what was wrong with you. I had to call another friend in for a favor.”
“A favor?” I ask, now suddenly wary again.
“Yes. A favor,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the distaste in his tone. “He bound your ribs and cleaned the wound on your head. Although it was too late to put stitches in it, he did stitch up some cuts you had on your stomach. And he gave you a shot of a painkiller. I’ve got some more pills he left. You had some about six hours ago, but I’m assuming you don’t remember that as they’re pretty heavy duty.”
No wonder I felt fairly good. I was doped up, but again… was thankful for the reprieve. Perhaps I was actually in good enough shape I could get out of here now.
I start to sit up from the bed as I say, “Well… Bridger… I do appreciate your help, but I’ve probably imposed on you enough—”
“Lay down,” he orders me, and because the effort of trying to lift myself up is fairly draining, his words and command have me immediately sinking back down again as my head swims with dizziness. “Those were some fairly heavy narcotics he gave you. You’re not going anywhere for a while.”
“But… I need to go,” I mumble, the effort of just that small maneuver having seemingly exhausted me. My eyes feel heavy.
“No, you don’t,” Bridger says softly, and I’m surprised by the gentleness of his tone. It’s almost as if the gravel in his vocal chords were replaced by velvet. “You’re going to stay here until you’re healed, then we’ll figure out the best way to keep you safe.”
I can’t help it. I don’t want to trust a thing he says, but I feel the weight of injury, stress, and exhaustion pressing down upon me. I haven’t slept more than brief snatches of time here and there for the past four days—last twenty-four hours excluded, of course. My eyes start to lower, my body demanding I give in to the drugs and the need for rest.
Before I fall back under, I find the strength to look at him for a moment and ask, “Bridger… what’s your last name?”
“Payne,” he says simply.
Ironic, I think, just before I close my eyes and give in to my fatigue.