Chapter 2

Darcy

“You hit me.” My hand goes to my burning cheek, and my watering eyes open as far as they can. The forceful slap had come completely out of the blue. No one’s ever raised their hand to me before.

He’s standing in front of me, entirely unrepentant. “You asked for it. How the fuck was I to know where you’d been?”

“Where do you think I was? I was working.”

Glancing pointedly at the clock, he shakes his head. “You should have been back hours ago. It’s fucking eight o’clock at night.”

“I can’t just leave. That’s not the job that I do.” Half of me wonders why I’m even having this conversation, wasting time trying to justify myself. The blow must have been hard enough to stun me. “Look, let’s just admit this isn’t working out.” I ignore his indrawn breath and incredulous look, and my brow creases as I think things through. “We don’t have the type of relationship where you have a right to question me. And now you’ve overstepped the line. It’s late. You can sleep here tonight, but I want you gone in the morning.”

He stands straight, pulling himself up to his intimidating full height, his face darkening. “What did you say?”

Ignoring his menacing tone, I try to explain. “I know you wanted more from me, but we’re not compatible, and I’ve never looked at you in that way. This was never going to be anything more than a temporary arrangement.” When I’d given him a place to crash, I didn’t expect it would be for more than a few days. Now it’s been weeks, and in that time, he’s been lounging around my house, eating the food I bought, as well as drinking my beer. Lots of beer. Probably the reason for his unexpected behaviour tonight, and why I’m not throwing him out right away. I’ll give him a chance sober up enough to drive first. Don’t want my colleagues to have to deal with another MVC, or motor vehicle crash, as most people know them.

I’ve underestimated him. He moves quickly, his muscular arms bulging as his hand fists in my hair. “You bitch. Kick a man when he’s down, why doncha?”

My generosity had led me to letting him move in after there’d been a fire at his apartment, making it uninhabitable. Normally I’d help put out the fire and leave, but Pete Mercer had been tall, well built, as well as good looking, and with his general thanks to the firefighters came a more personal invitation to take me for a coffee. Once sitting across the table, he’d been so charming as he told me about having nowhere to stay. He didn’t ask for anything, the suggestion of my spare room I came up with all by myself, only later wondering why. He’d jumped at my offer, and hadn’t hesitated moving in.

He might have had the looks and the type of build I go for, but I quickly realised that alone wasn’t enough to attract me. We had nothing in common, and unfortunately, it became clear early on that he thought I was offering more than what I’d put on the table. After a fumbled kiss which left us both embarrassed, and my explanation that the deal was simply board and lodging to help him out while he was setting up a new place to live, he’d thankfully kept his distance. I’d expected him to find alternative accommodation long before now, but it obviously hadn’t been on his list of priorities. After tonight’s performance, it appears he had an ulterior motive in dragging his heels. He thinks he’s got rights over me.

Why did I let him stay? As I warily watch this wild-eyed stranger in front of me, I can’t believe I hadn’t seen he was unstable before. I suppose initially I enjoyed having a companion around the house, helping to share the chores, keeping the yard tidy, and doing the jobs that I hated, but that was when he’d been on his best behaviour.

When he’d buttered me up sufficiently, with excuses he had to wait for his insurance to come through, I hadn’t put up much of an argument when he asked to extend his stay. That’s when he started to change, but so slowly it took a while for me to notice.

I wasn’t prepared for the signs he was becoming possessive, or when he expected, after a long and tiring shift, that I’ll come home, cook dinner, and tidy up after him.

The yard’s now a mess, he hasn’t been out there for weeks. Me throwing him out might have been too long in coming, but now he’s blown it. I’ve made up my mind, and nothing he can say will change it.

Looking at him warily, I realise tonight is the first time I’ve actually been afraid of him, and conscious of the physical disparity between us. He’s a big man.

The observation makes me keep myself calm. “I’m not kicking you when you’re down,” I try to say reasonably, stupidly ignoring the fact that he’s drunk, and this talk would be better left for the morning. “You knew when you moved in this was only for a short time. And you want something from me that I’m not prepared to give. I clearly don’t see you in the same way you see me. You’re my housemate, not my boyfriend, and can make no demands on my time, or question where I’ve been.” Housemate? I don’t really know how to label him. Renter or boarder doesn’t fit. He’s not paid me a penny in rent. I put a little more strength in my voice as I add, “You’re going to have to move out and find somewhere else to go.” And someone else to sponge off, I add, but don’t say out loud.

He tightens his grip on my hair. “I’m going nowhere. And,” he looks disparagingly up and down my body, “you can’t make me.”

He’s got a few inches of height over me, and his muscles, well, he’s either dedicated to working out or taking steroids of some sort. I’m not weak by any sense of the word, but he’s right, I couldn’t get the better of him physically. Realising he must really have tied one on tonight to get in the state he is now, I try not to let him see how much he’s scaring me and continue to keep my tone even. “Pete. Be reasonable, will you? This man isn’t you, and if this is what I drive you to, it just shows how anything more between us would be wrong…”

The hand not holding me swings for my face again, this time his fist connects with my nose. I’m lucky it’s not his right hand, I’m sure he could hit harder, but it’s enough to make it bleed.

Even the sight of my blood doesn’t give him pause, but he does let me go, by first swinging me around by my hair then dropping me. I hit the wall, then the ground. Stunned, I can only watch in fear as he stares down at me. “I’m going to bed. And that will be the last we’ll have of this discussion. I’m going nowhere, sweetheart.” After sneering the last word, he does what he says, and I can see he’s entering my bedroom, not the guestroom as usual. Does he expect me to join him in there? Or is he just so drunk he’s made a mistake.

I lie still, stunned and hurting, wondering what the hell just happened. He might have revealed himself as inherently lazy and slovenly, and a bit overbearing at times, but never violent before. I have no idea how to handle it. One thing I do know, even though this might be my house, I’ve no chance of bodily turning him out, and to stay here could well be inviting worse. Especially if he gets impatient waiting for me.

I’ve a few rest days coming up, and quickly I decide to put them to use. Although it’s late, I’ll drive to my parents in Phoenix. Perhaps, after he’s admonished me for letting such a brute into my home, my dad will have some advice on how to rid myself of my unwanted guest. Or then again, maybe not. At least I’ll be out of Pete’s reach and somewhere I can plan my next move.

Pausing only to get some tissue to mop up the blood running from my nose, and to gingerly touch it to check it’s hopefully not broken, I collect my purse and car keys and leave the house, closing the door quietly. I act fast, not wanting him to come out and demand why I haven’t followed him to bed.

I’m not sure which emotion is at the fore, as different ones hit me one after the other. Anger that I’ve been forced out of my house, disgust with myself for not fighting back, and dismay that I hadn’t seen what monster I’d invited into my life. I drive on autopilot, only thankful that the streets are relatively empty this time of night.

I’m tired as hell—it had been a long, trying shift. I’d got home hours after I should have clocked off. But in my job, you don’t punch out at a set time, you stay until the job’s done. Pete’s never understood, never shown me compassion when I’ve come home tired, bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders.

I should have given him his marching orders a long time ago. Or better still, never have offered him a room.

Worrying how I’m going to get him out of my house, it takes me a moment to notice my car feels wrong. It jumps forwards, then stutters back, the engine noise sick sounding. Shit, don’t let me break down.

But tonight’s really not my night. The engine cuts out, and now I’m coasting onto the hard shoulder. The electrics are fine, the dashboard’s lit up, and a red light flashing shows in my panic and pain, I’ve forgotten one thing. Pete must have used my car and didn’t refuel it.

I’m stuck on the I10 just outside Tucson. What’s worse, when I open my purse I immediately remember, the first thing I did when I got home was to plug my phone into the charger. The charger on my hall table. Resting my head on the steering wheel, I force myself not to cry.

What on earth am I going to do now?

Get out and walk? No, I can’t do that. It’s almost midnight, and there’s dangers being a woman alone on the road. Spend the night in my car? That’s not much safer. Someone might crash into me, a drunk driver perhaps, not expecting a car to be stopped on the median. Which reminds me, I switch on my hazards.

Shit. What options have I got? Feeling alone and vulnerable—a man’s already hurt me tonight—I force myself not to dissolve into those threatened tears, and hit the central locking, making sure all the windows are rolled up. All I can do is wait until morning, then perhaps try to walk back into town when it’s light and there’s more traffic on the road.

I lean my sore head back on the headrest, turning it to the side to relieve the tender spot on the back where he’d pulled at my hair. Blood’s still running down my face, an inconvenience more than a concern. I know a nose can bleed like a bitch, and I’ve just got to wait until it decides to stop. I dab with my tissue, regretting I’ve not even got tampons in my purse that I could use to stop the bleeding.

Pulling down the sun visor and switching on the interior light, I’m examining my hands, face, and shirt, which are covered in the red sticky liquid, when I hear a thunderous noise which passes, and then stops a few yards in front. I’ve switched my headlights off to conserve power, but from the lights and the sound, know it must be a motorcycle. Unknowing whether this could be my saviour or someone out to harm me, I recheck the button to make sure the doors are locked.

In the light coming from inside the car, which I haven’t yet turned off, I can just about make out a giant who’d dwarf even Pete, coming toward me. As he draws closer, I can see he’s wearing a leather cut. Then, when he’s right by my door, see the flash that denotes him as sergeant-at-arms.

Nervously, I keep my eyes on him, remembering the Satan’s Devils biker compound is rumoured to be around here somewhere, down a side road off this highway. It’s a bit of a myth among firefighters, as the original vacation resort now taken over by bikers had been destroyed by a wildfire.

Frozen in place, not knowing what I should do next, I see his mouth move but can’t make out the words. He shakes his head, then raps on the window, making a motion with his hand which obviously means he wants me to roll it down. He crouches down by the side of my car, and immediately looks less threatening.

I’m a woman on my own, broken down, the odd car passing but no one stopping except this lone biker. I shiver, unsure what my best move is. He waits patiently while I decide. After a minute or two has gone past, I roll my window down an inch. Enough so we can talk, but insufficient for him to put his hand through.

He’s clearly had enough time to examine me, his first words not what I expect, nor is the business-like tone of his voice. “Have you broken down, darlin’, or stopped because you’re hurtin’?” Unnecessarily, he points to my face where, at last, the blood has stopped flowing freely and is beginning to dry. As he watches, his brow creases, and the light reflected in his eyes appears to darken. “Who did this to you? Nah, scratch that, it doesn’t matter for now. You need help. Tell me what I can do.”

Mouthing ‘thank you’, I take a second to think. My confidence in men has been shattered tonight, and I have no idea what to ask for. It seems a bit much to request that he goes to get me some gas.

Again, he doesn’t hurry me, or give me cause for concern. I watch him, crouched outside, the odd truck rushing past far too close, but he’s completely unmoving, as if sitting exposed by the side of the road isn’t unusual at all.

“I was going to Phoenix. But I’ve run out of gas. Stupid thing to do.” I’m annoyed with myself. Mind you, last time I drove my car I had a full tank.

Slowly, he nods. “Long drive when you’re hurtin’. You sure you’re up to it tonight?”

I shrug. “Doesn’t much matter whether I am or not, I haven’t an option.” Oh, I’ve got friends I could wake, but something is making me long for the security of my family, if it could ever be described as that. I should have realised the symptoms of being in shock before, but they’ve been creeping up on me. Phoenix is the last place I should be going. Suddenly the tears I’ve been holding back start to fall.

The stranger’s eyes soften, but without asking me to do anything which I’m not prepared to now, he moves away back toward his bike. Before the darkness swallows him up, I see him take out a phone.

That’s what I should have done. Asked to borrow his phone. I will when he comes back. Then I can get gas and be on my way.