Chapter Seven

Addie

I wake before the sun, and the whole wretched ordeal comes back. And I bolt out of bed and grab the meager few belongings I have. I need to get out of here. I have to run before someone finds out I’m here.

I leave without a backward glance and stop at my truck. And I make a snap decision. I’ll leave it here. The owner of this motel will have it towed eventually, but likely not today. So the trail will go cold here.

I walk around the truck, feeling my heart breaking as I leave it behind and head toward the bus stop I’d seen.

I glance back and see the manager peeking out from the office, a phone in his hand. I face forward quickly and half run to the stop. He has to know it was me.

But he won’t know where I went.

At the bus stop, I struggle to breathe easy. I stand next to the little shelter and wait, glad it isn’t raining. I don’t mind the rain, but I’ve got no umbrella.

And as if I’ve cursed myself, the heavens open up and let free a torrent of rain. I stand under it, wondering if I should even bother getting under the bus stop shelter.

My hair plasters to my head, and I look up, feeling each drop patting my face and hating that everything in my life seems to be falling to pieces and I have no way to fix any of it.

A truck pulls up beside me and stops. My heart pounds and I realize I know that truck; it’s my I-5 companion. My guardian angel. And I recognize the man driving it. The man from the store last night. He leans over and opens the door.

“I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” he says gruffly as I hesitate.

“Are you a cop?” I ask, my voice little more than a whisper I’m sure he won’t be able to hear over the rain.

He gives a laugh that sounds more like the grinding fall of rocks down a dry concrete canal. “No.”

Still, I hesitate. “You know who I am.” It’s an accusation when I should be begging him to keep my secret and running as far and fast from him as I can. Anger is not a good idea right now. Not with someone who has my secret.

“And I know you’re in trouble.” He’s patient, as if he expected me to fight him on this.

“You’re a good guy?” I ask and instantly feel stupid. Of course he’ll say he is, even if he’s not. That’s how he’d get me to trust him if he had terrible things planned for me.

But he shakes his head no. “Not exactly,” he says in that same gruff tone. “But you’re in no danger from me.”

And I do something I haven’t done in a long time; I trust my gut. I get in the truck and close the door behind me. Pulling on my seat belt, I look over at him. “Thank you,” I say softly, and he nods, facing forward to stare at the road.

“Where to?” he asks, and I realize he’s waiting for me.

“I…” All the kindness he’s showing me when all I expected hate and violence from the whole world wells up in my throat and chokes off my words. Tears spill down my cheeks.

I’d prepared myself for hate. For ridicule. And even for perverted glances, stares, people not respecting my personal space or body. But kindness? Not on my life.

He doesn’t look at me, and I’m thankful he doesn’t seem to have noticed I’m crying. But he glances at me, then faces forward again. The truck moves. He says nothing, doesn’t acknowledge that I’m over here trying my best to get back in control of my stupid emotions.

I appreciate that he’s ignoring my tears rather than offering empty words that will inevitably make me feel worse.

A few deep breaths later and I feel confident I can talk, if in a wavering voice. “You’re not going to tell anyone, right?” How can I trust him? He’s fucking gorgeous, and pretty people can’t be trusted. I learned that in LA. Arlo was good-looking too.

He glances at me.

“No.” The single word is sharp, and I wonder if he’s just the kind of person who doesn’t say much unless he’s got something to say. He’s not trying to fill the silence with empty words that would feel patronizing.

And his response is comforting. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anyone. But I also don’t feel like he’d lie right to my face, either. My gut still says he’s okay.

“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice stronger now.

His jaw clenches; I see the ripple in his cheek before he grinds out the words. “My place.”

My heart slams in my chest before picking up to a gallop.

“I was going to go to a motel.” I hate that it almost sounds like a question. I need to get better at speaking my mind. Arlo beat me down and refused to let me give voice to my opinions and ideas.

“You’re safer with me.”

The words send a shiver down my spine. Does he think people are out to hurt me? Are people out to hurt me? I know Arlo told people to call the cops if they see me, but I’m only afraid of cops because I don’t want anyone to know where I am.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Cliff.” He’s tight, guarded, and I have a feeling that’s just who he is.

“I’m Addie.” Of course he knows.

We pull up before an apartment building. It’s nice, even in the rain. He parks and I reach down to unbuckle my belt. And find no button to release it. Panic wells up in me, and I begin to struggle with it.

“Sorry,” he growls, and the belt releases. He holds up his keys, and I see a plain fob-looking device with a button in the center.

“So you arrest people and transport them?” I ask, struggling to understand the man I’m about to enter the home of.

He nods, and we get out of the truck. I follow, wanting to ask more questions. But he motions me to hurry up, and I run after him into his building. We take the elevator and walk down a hall that sickeningly reminds me of the hall I’d run from Arlo down. Like the one I first saw this giant in.

We stop before room 508, and he unlocks it. He pushes me in with a heavy hand on my shoulder, then scans the hallway before closing and locking the door behind us.

The place is neat and clean. It doesn’t feel lived in. But it’s nice, airy, and bright, and I wander to the sliding glass doors. They give way to a balcony, and I open the door and step out. I see a body of water, and my heart dances in my chest.

“That’s the Puget Sound, right?” I ask, and he gives a gruff sound of agreement. Wandering back in, I look around and decide I like the place. He disappears into the kitchen and I follow him, running my fingertips on the smooth walls.

Part of me is worried I’ll be a burden on him. “I’ll pay you what I would have to stay in a motel,” I say, and he shakes his head. But I don’t want to owe anyone anything. I know better. I’ll pay.

No one can track me here, though. He’s right—it’s a safe place to hide out.