Chapter Fourteen

Jameson

I walked over to my bike and pulled out my pack of smokes, pulling one free from the box. As I lit my cigarette and inhaled deeply, I noticed a van pulling into the parking lot nearby. We didn’t get much traffic in Milling, just passersby every now and then. I figured they were probably lost or looking for a gas station. I leaned back on my bike and exhaled and then took another long drag, my mind a whirl of thoughts.

I couldn't believe I'd let myself get emotional in front of Isabelle, and part of me wanted to kick my own ass for it. But then, letting her see behind my walls is what led her to opening up to me. We were actually talking about what she was going through. Sharing. She'd opened up and had confided things in me I was sure she'd never told another living soul. It made me feel good, but in a way, I also felt responsible for her. Like it was my duty to watch over her, to protect her, and keep her safe.

At least, as long as she was in Milling. Once her car was fixed and she was out on the road, I didn't think I'd ever see or hear from her ever again. It bummed me out a bit. But that wasn't something I was willing to tell her. My bullshit was the last thing she needed on her plate. She had enough to deal with as it was.

As I exhaled a thick plume of smoke into the air, I looked out at the road, thought about Isabelle and what had just happened in her motel room. I wanted to help her, I just didn't know how. I didn't know what she needed or wanted because she wouldn't tell me. If feeding her and making sure she had everything she needed during her stay here was all I could do for her, well, I'd do it gladly.

Coming down out of my head for a minute, I turned and looked toward the motel room and noticed her door was ajar. I knew I'd closed it when I walked out. I was absolutely positive that I had. I even remember reaching back and checking the knob just to be sure it was locked.

Part of the reason I'd stepped out in the first place was so she could have some privacy. As I thought about it, my gaze fell back onto the van that had pulled into the parking lot a few minutes earlier. I recalled that the van had pulled in slowly. As I thought about it, I realized that they could have been pulling in so slowly because they were looking for somebody.

Somebody like Isabelle.

A bolt of adrenaline surged through me as the pieces fell into place in my head. And that was when I heard shouting from inside Isabelle's room.

Flicking my smoke to the ground, I rushed toward the motel room as fast as I could. I shoved the door back with such force the cheap wood paneling splintered into pieces. I confronted three men with guns. One of them pointed right at my head.

“Easy, boys,” I said, putting my hands up. “No need for things to go sideways here. I'm sure we can work this out.”

“Like hell we can,” one of the men said. “Besides, who the fuck are you? And how the fuck is this any of your goddamn business?”

“The name's Jameson,” I said. “I don't believe we've met?”

Isabelle was still in her bath robe, her eyes wide, her body trembling. She looked pale as a sheet—more terrified than I'd seen somebody look in a long, long time. One of the men was standing behind her with his arm wrapped around her neck, the gun hanging loosely in his hand. He looked from her to me, his eyes filled with a fiery hatred.

“Who the fuck is he, Isabelle, huh?” he sneered. “This your new fuck buddy or something?”

“Ahh, I got it now,” I said, pointing at the man holding Isabelle. “You must be Scott. Yeah, I've heard a lot about you, brother.”

“Jameson, stop—” Isabelle said, begging me with her eyes.

“So, you know this asshole?” the guy said, pulling Isabelle by the hair, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “You leave me high and dry, and a day later, you're fucking this lowlife? What a fucking slut you are!”

“Hey!” I called out, starting to move toward Isabelle when one of the men hit me in the head with the butt of his gun. The dude hit me hard, and I felt the blood starting to ooze from a gash in my forehead. I saw stars for a moment, and they stopped me in my tracks. Momentarily, at least. Feeling a dark and primal rage building up inside of me, I turned to him, prepared to fight. Gun or not, I wasn't about to let some asshole get the upper hand.

Problem was, there were more of them than there was me. And I didn't have a gun or any sort of weapon on me. The Smith and Wesson was in the saddlebags, I should’ve grabbed it.

I'd faced some long odds before, but usually never with somebody's life hanging in the balance. The last thing I wanted to do was put her in harm's way. I knew that for the time being, the best course of action was to stand down. I could—and would—catch up with these pricks later. Now, this was personal. I had a score to settle.

The man holding Isabelle dragged her out the motel door as the other two guys grabbed me by my arms.

“What should we do with him?” one of the guys asked as I struggled against their hold on me.

“I don't fucking care,” Scott said, putting his hand over Isabelle's mouth as he dragged her outside.

My primal instincts kicked in, my need to protect her, and I pulled myself free from the two men and took off running toward the door. I knew that it was harder to shoot a person in motion, and these guys didn't strike me as pros, so I figured I'd be able to get out of the room in relative safety.

What I didn't count on, however, was the fact that my head was still bleeding, and as soon as I moved forward, the dizziness from the impact hit me, hard. I stumbled, and that's when the two men grabbed me again.

The larger of the two held me while the shorter, stockier one who looked like a middle-aged stock broker—not a kidnapper—beat the hell out of me with the butt of the gun.

My vision began to darken and waver with each successive blow.

“Come on,” the larger man said. “Hurry it up already. Unless you want me to take care of him myself?”

The man delivered one last hit and I heard the sound of something crunching beneath it. My nose. I felt the blood begin to ooze down my face, my entire world wavered and then went black.

***

When I opened my eyes, the first thing that grabbed my attention was the intense pain in my face and head. I groaned and rubbed my temples, trying to ease some of the throbbing in my head. The second thing I noticed was that I was still in the motel room.

I noticed all that and the fact that I wasn't dead. Just knocked out, bloodied and roughed up a bit. I took stock of myself and it didn't feel like anything was broken, except maybe my nose. I was gonna have some bumps and bruises, but I was still whole.

“Fuckin' amateurs,” I said, spitting out a pool of blood from in my mouth.

I wiped my face and grimaced as pain shot through my body when I tried to get up. It was a struggle. Yeah, they might not have killed me, but they did a number on me pretty good. The wave of dizziness that swept over me as I grabbed the side of the bed was almost too much to handle. I thought I might topple over when I pulled myself to my feet, so I clutched the chair nearby to steady myself. The same chair Isabelle had sat in only moments ago.

Her ex had grabbed her. Hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, but who else could it have been? Random kidnappings didn't happen in Milling. I thought back to that jealous rage in his face when he saw me. I saw again, the way he'd held her, as if she were his property. And the names he’d called her. All of that made me positive that Scott had come looking for her.

The two guys with him weren't professionals—not by any stretch of the imagination. None of them were. And for that reason alone, I was one lucky son of a bitch. If they had been pros, I'd be lying on that motel room floor with a bullet in my head. But I wasn't. I was banged up—but very much alive. That was their biggest mistake in all this.

I should have been packing. I'd let my guard down around Isabelle, but I never should have been caught unarmed like that. I just hadn't wanted to freak her out too much, and I feared carrying a weapon—any weapon—might trigger something inside of her.

That was the reason they'd been able to take her. Because I wasn't prepared and had been powerless to stop them.

I wouldn't make that mistake again. The next time we met—and it would be sooner rather than later—I'd make them wish they'd left Isabelle alone . . . Scott had just forgotten all about her. I'd make that prick wish he'd never heard of the town of Milling.

As soon as I could stand without falling over or feeling like I was going to throw up, I hurried to my bike. I hurt, but I was well enough to ride, though, I had no idea where I was going. I only knew Isabelle and Scott’s first names, beyond that—I had nothing. I didn't even know what town they lived in.

But I'd find her. Or rather, I'd find them. I was going to find them, get Isabelle out of harm's way, and then make those assholes pay. Because that's what I did.

***

My first stop was to the front desk of the motel. Seemed the most logical place to start looking for her. Not that I expected to come up with much, but I wanted to make sure I was thorough.

“Jesus Christ, Jameson,” Jerry said as soon as I entered the small lobby. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Long story,” I mumbled. “But I need something from you. Remember that girl I came in with the other day? The one staying in room fifteen? I need some info on her. Anything you got, man.”

“You know I can't give it to ya, man,” he said, shaking his head.

“Come on, Jerry. When in the hell did you start adhering to the letter of the law?” I snapped. “This woman's life is in danger. I need to find her.”

Jerry looked concerned, furrowing his brow as he looked at me. A moment later, he nodded, as if settling some internal debate, and began to dig through some papers on the desk.

“We're a no-tell motel, man. You know that,” he said, sounding apologetic. “I don't take much info on my customers for a reason—”

“She paid with a card. You have that on file, don't you?”

Jerry scratched his head as he thought about it. “I can probably give you her name, that's about it. Not like I keep detailed records or shit, and the card company keeps the info under wraps. Nothing I can do about that.”

“I know that,” I said. “Can you at least give me a last name?”

Sadly, I didn't know that much about her. Getting the last name from Jerry, while not solving all my problems, was a start.

“Sure, let me pull that up.” He was typing into a computer that looked like it should have been replaced thirty years ago. “Ahh, here she is. Isabelle, right?”

“Yes.”

“Isabelle Peters. That's the name on the card and the name she checked in under.”

“And there's no address? Nothing?” I asked, knowing the answer but hoping to be proven wrong.

“Nope,” Jerry said, throwing his hands up. “Sorry about tha—”

I was already out the door before I heard anything else. Isabelle Peters. I sighed as I climbed onto my bike—why couldn't she have had a more obscure name? Why something so common? That was going to be like looking for a needle in the damn haystack.

There was one last place I could check before I had no choice but to drop myself down the rabbit hole and start searching the vast Internet for any trace of her. One last place. One last chance. I sped over to the shop where she’d left her. I pulled into the lot and hurried into the office and found Dave helping someone at the front counter.

As soon as he saw me, a look of near panic crossed his face. Like most of the people in Milling, Dave knew my reputation, he knew what I was. I made it a practice to never hurt innocent people, but not everyone knew that about me. They just assumed I hurt people indiscriminately because I thought it was fun. So, Dave was either worried about that—or he had something to hide. And the look on my face probably wasn't helping set his mind at ease, either.

After a couple of minutes, I grew tired of waiting. I needed answers, and I didn't have the time to stand around while he talked to old man Roberts through the finer points of a fucking oil change. I moved around the older man he was helping and stood at the counter, staring down at the pimply-faced young man. He looked at me and swallowed hard.

“Give me Isabelle Peter's home address,” I said. He looked at the man in front of him, then back at me. “Now,” I added.

“I can't—”

“Yes, you can and you will,” I said. I narrowed my gaze on him as I cracked my knuckles to emphasize my point.

“Let me finish—”

“No, I said now.”

Old man Roberts watched this unfold without saying a word. He was a small man, but I’d heard he’d lived here all his life. He had a friendly smile as he turned to Dave.

“It's okay. Help this young man instead,” he said. “Seems like he's in a hurry.”

I nodded a thanks to the old man who smiled back at me. Dave went over to the computer and started typing.

“You didn't, by chance, give this info to anyone else, did you?”

“No, I don't give out personal information. Not willingly,” he grumbled.

“Then why are you doing it now?” I asked.

“Because you scare the shit out of me, Jameson. I know what you and your guys do around here.”

“We clean up Milling.”

“If that's what you want to call it, sure . . .” he mumbled.

I wasn't here to argue with the man. I needed the information, and I needed it now. Dave wrote something down for me.

“This is what she gave for her home address because we wouldn't take the motel one. Not sure if it's correct or not—”

I grabbed the paper he was writing on.

It was an address in Palm Springs. She seemed like the type of woman from Palm Springs. As I stared at the address, I could believe it. All rich and snooty and wearing designer clothing. Yeah, she'd blend in with that crowd just fine.

“Thanks, man,” I said, turning and walking out.

There was no time to waste. I could only hope Scott and these amateurs took Isabelle back to Palm Springs instead of somewhere else—like out into the middle of the desert. If they weren't in Palm Springs, my work would be cut out for me. But at least I had somewhere to start.