Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
Bonnie
As soon as I was alone, I snatched the blanket off the bed, brought it with me back to the chair, and wrapped it around myself.
It was partly that I was freezing after all that stress sweat dried on my skin. And partly because I just wanted to cocoon myself up.
Half of life’s problems, I was convinced, could be fixed by curling up in a big, fluffy blanket and ignoring the world.
Of course, this wasn’t a stranger knocking at my door or bad news on the TV.
This was life or death.
Namely, almost, my own death.
And I mean, fine. I lived a very small life. But it was mine. I wasn’t done with it yet. I mean, I’d added twelve books to my Tbr just this month alone.
The warmth of the blanket chased away the chill, and I was almost comfortable when I heard his voice on the other side of the door.
His voice.
The voice of the man who’d dismantled the bomb. Who’d held me and stroked my back afterward as I fell apart, who’d talked me through my panic attack.
The man to whom I was there to deliver the ‘message to.’ Except there was no actual message.
Just the bomb strapped to my chest.
I guess, in a sick sort of way, that was message enough.
I honestly hadn’t given a single second of thought to the man I was meant to deliver this message to. I was too busy trying not to pass out because I was relatively sure that falling down when you had something explosive strapped to your body was probably a recipe for disaster.
It wasn’t until the vest was off that I could finally give in to the panic that had been building in my system since the moment I woke up in that basement.
But, yeah, Sully.
He was, objectively, hot.
Tall, fit, with great posture, medium brown hair that he had a bit long, a sharp jaw, bright blue eyes, and little smile lines that said he likely did so openly and often.
I even found myself liking his loud, bright pink Hawaiian shirt with little sunglass-clad cacti giving the finger printed all over it oddly charming. And the silly blobfish slippers had to be given a nod as well.
What can I say? I’d always admired people who wore whatever the hell they wanted, not caring what others might have to say about it. It was especially appealing, in my humble opinion, when men did it, since male clothing was all kind of bland and generic most of the time.
Even his bedroom seemed to be an extension of his personality. I mean, he had the wall behind his TV and dresser decorated with an ‘80s inspired wallpaper mural.
Speaking of the ‘80s, he had a shelf all along the entire room, just above head height that seemed to feature a ton of movies from the decade, alongside every single rom-com ever filmed.
As for the bed, when I’d pulled off the somewhat tame black and green checked bedspread, the sheets underneath had to be custom and featured what seemed to be a ton of quotes from various romantic comedies.
And from my cocoon, I could see inside his open closet door. Inside seemed to be about two dozen more Hawaiian shirts.
By the time I finished inspecting his room, my anxiety felt back to a tolerable four instead of off-the-charts.
I knew from my many hours of research for coping mechanisms to ease my anxiety that the act of observing, in and of itself, could soothe you when your anxiety is spiking.
And there was a lot to observe in this strange space.
Aside from the visuals of Sully’s room, there were the low murmurs of male voices from the other room. Where they were, no doubt, talking about the whole incident.
There was even something to smell, since Sully’s room seemed to smell, inexplicably, like peaches and vanilla. The blanket I was wrapped in smelled strongly of it, making me pretty sure that the man himself smelled like peaches and vanilla.
I’d been too busy sniffling when he’d been holding me before to actually be able to smell anything.
When he came back, though, he brought another wave of it in with him. Along with the bold scent of coffee and the richness of what had to be hot chocolate. The third mug, I assumed, had to be tea.
“Hey, honey,” he said, his head tipped to the side as he looked at me in my blanket cocoon. “How you holding up?” he asked, kicking the door mostly closed, then moving inside to set the tray on the nightstand next to me as he dropped down onto the bed.
“I’m okay,” I said, freeing one of my hands to reach for the hot chocolate.
“Hot chocolate. Noted,” he said, reaching for the coffee himself.
“I like them all,” I told him as I took a small sip.
“But some situations just call for chocolate,” he said, nodding. “This particular one might call for a shot. At ten in the morning.”
“I don’t really drink,” I said, shrugging. “So this will do.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Okay.”
“What message did you have to give me?”
“That’s the thing,” I said, glancing over at him. His bright-eyed gaze was on me, and I couldn’t help but worry about my likely splotchy skin, my swollen lids, my messy, greasy hair.
Which was extra crazy since, even if this was a normal situation, a man like him wouldn’t want anything to do with a girl who had to switch pizza places because my favorite one stopped having online ordering, and I could never talk myself into calling to place an order.
“What’s the thing?”
“There was no message. He told me that I was going to bring you a message. But there was no actual message. Just… the vest.”
“Message enough, I guess. But is there anything you can tell me about the man? What did he look like? Sound like? Where did he put that vest on you? Anything.”
“He had a ski mask on. He sounded… like anyone else.”
“Okay. That’s alright,” he told me, his voice soothing as he pretended to shrug that off. I might have appreciated his desire to be casual about it, but I wasn’t stupid; there was no way he felt as blasé as he was acting right then. “What about the other details? How did you end up with the vest on?”
“I don’t know that part,” I admitted, my belly twisting. I had a lot of fears. But most of them stemmed from this feeling of being out of control. I got serious dental work done while fully awake because anesthesia freaked me out. I couldn’t fly or use trains because I needed the illusion of being the one to control my fate, even if—logically—driving meant you were at the mercy of everyone else on the road. I’d never been able to have sleepovers with friends or, older, with a partner because I didn’t like being unconscious around someone, no matter how much I thought I could trust them.
So having no idea what happened between the parking lot at work and waking up with the vest already on was enough to make the bile start to make its way back up my throat, to make my breathing begin to get fast and shallow again.
“What’s your favorite rom-com?” Sully asked, making my head whip up, brows scrunched.
“What?”
“Rom-com. What’s your favorite?”
“Oh, um, I guess You’ve Got Mail. Or maybe While You Were Sleeping .”
“The ‘90s had some of the best rom-coms ever,” he agreed, nodding. “Anyway, what do you remember?” he asked.
It was then that I realized he didn’t struggle with his attention span or anything like that; he’d been trying to pull me back out of my anxiety spiral by asking me something completely out of left field.
I sucked in a steadying breath.
“I was leaving work.”
“Where do you work?”
“Fur Seasons Spa.”
“ Four Seasons?”
“No, fur. Like dog. It’s a grooming place.”
“Okay. And you were leaving work… alone?”
“My boss had plans, so I stayed late to clean up. I was walking to my car. The light was out in the lot,” I added, suddenly wondering if that wasn’t just happenstance. “I had just gotten in my seat when the door opened and then… nothing.”
“You got hit in the head,” he said, climbing off the bed. “Can I look?” he asked, turning the light on.
“Okay,” I agreed.
My head was still hammering, but I’d been blaming the crying and stress, forgetting all about a possible head wound.
Sully moved to bend over me, his hands gentle on my head as he pulled my hair apart. I felt the stickiness that I must have assumed was sweat, but had to be blood, as Sully probed around the spot.
“Is it bad?”
“It’s… not too bad. I think you should maybe let me clean it for you once we’re done talking. And you’ve got a nice goose egg going on. And we’re gonna have to talk about a possible concussion, too. But let’s stick with one thing at a time, yeah?” he asked, taking a step back and balling his hands into fists. But not before I saw my blood there.
“The next thing I knew, I was waking up because of the pain in my head. I was in a basement. And the guy was there, telling me to stop moving because I wanted to touch my head.”
“And he had a ski mask on.”
“Yeah.”
“What about anything else? Height, weight, maybe any tattoos?”
“He was fully covered,” I recalled. “Gloves even,” I added. “But he was shorter than you. And on the stocky side. His clothes were too small for him. Everything was stretched tight.” Which sounded like a sensory nightmare to me. I felt like I couldn’t breathe if my clothes were too tight. Or the necks were too high.
“That’s a good start,” he said, even if I knew he was just being nice. A stocky guy in too-tight clothes could be found walking damn near any street in the state.
“What about the basement or the house?”
“I didn’t see the house. When we left, he pulled me with him out of the outside steps to the basement.”
“That’s something. Not every house has Bilco doors. What about the yard? The car?”
“It was my car,” I told him.
“He brought you here in your own car?”
“Yes.”
“Where? Where is the car? How far did you walk?”
“Just… out front,” I said, waving in the general direction. “Kind of at the corner of the fence out front.”
“What kind of car is it, honey?”
“Just a black sedan. With a bumper sticker.”
“What’s it say?” he asked, lips curving up slightly.
“Oh, uh, Chasing that Scholastic Book Fair high .”
The smile I assumed came so easily to him spread across his face, making his already handsome face look even more appealing.
“Got my ass a lot of comic books at those things,” he said, nodding. “When you got out of the car, did he?”
To that, my brows pinched.
“No, no. I mean… maybe. He was still sitting there when I got out. I remember he was waving the thing in his hand at me. But when I was walking away, I’m pretty sure I heard the door close.”
“Waving what thing at you?”
“The thing he had in his hand. With the button. You know… for the vest.”
“A detonator? He had one in his hand?” Sully asked, seeming confused by that.
“Yeah. He kept threatening me with it.”
“In the basement and car?”
“To get me to do what he wanted. What… oh,” I said, shoulders falling as I realized why he was asking.
There was no way he would have detonated a bomb when he was in close proximity to me.
“Wow. That was stupid,” I decided. “I should have run.”
“Run where?” Sully asked. “The cops wouldn’t have been able to do anything if that thing was live. Which it may have been. I haven’t gotten a chance to really look it over.”
“So, you know a lot about… that kind of thing?”
“I was in the service for a long time. Saw quite a few bombs in my day. I guess I know more than most,” he said, shrugging that off. Like he didn’t want to talk about it. “Is there anything else you can remember about the guy? The house? Anything. Sights, smells, sounds…”
Sounds.
“Oh! I heard the train,” I told him. “When we were leaving the basement, I heard the train. I mean, I don’t know how helpful that is.”
“Hey, it narrows things down a bit,” he said, nodding. “Now, I have some more… personal questions.”
“Okay…”
“Do you know me?” he asked. “I feel like I’d remember you if I’d seen you before, but maybe—no?” he asked when I shook my head.
“No. I mean, unless you bring a dog into my work… or frequent the local book or craft stores…”
“Seems like I’m hanging out in the wrong places,” he said, smile curving up, making his eyes crinkle just a little bit.
He was one of those guys.
The ones who couldn’t help but flirt with every woman he crossed paths with.
I wasn’t immune to the effects.
Even if I knew it wasn’t personal.
“I haven’t possibly… dated or hooked up with your friend, sister…”
“I don’t have a sister. Or, well, friends. Save for my boss. I mean… maybe you know Courtney,” I said, thinking of her active social life. “If you have your phone, you can look up the spa. Her picture is on the home screen.”
“Hm,” Sully said a moment later as he stared at his phone. I didn’t see any recognition in his face. “I don’t think I’ve seen her before either. That tattoo on her arm is memorable.”
It was a work in progress featuring all the dogs she’d had in her life. She was still getting the fifth—her current senior dog—filled in.
“You don’t think he chose me randomly?” I asked.
“It’s possible. I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t some obvious connection we were overlooking. I’m gonna assume you also don’t have any ex-boyfriends that fit this guy’s descriptions? Any old acquaintances that have something against you?”
“But the message was for you.”
“True,” he agreed, nodding. “Just covering all bases here.”
“No, I don’t… no.”
“Oh, come on. Surely it needs more thought than that. You gotta have a whole trail of heartbroken guys in your past.”
“I… no. Nope. And I would have recognized the voice.”
“Right.”
“Shouldn’t I be talking to the police?”
“You can, sure,” he agreed.
“You’re not going to talk to the police?”
“No, I’m not. Unless they need to talk to me after you give a statement.”
“Why not?”
“Are you from this area, honey?” he asked.
“Navesink Bank? No. I mean, not originally, no.”
“Where are you from?” he asked, interest piqued again.
“Pennsylvania. On the Ohio border.”
“Think the guys around here call that Pennsatucky,” Sully said with a little grin.
“Are you from here?”
“I’m from… all over,” Sully said. “My old man traveled for work a lot. How long have you been in town?”
“Just two years. Why?”
“I’m assuming that means you don’t know where you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“This clubhouse,” he said, gesturing around.
Clubhouse?
“What do you mean by clubhouse?”
“This is a biker clubhouse, honey. An outlaw biker clubhouse.” He paused for a beat. “Do you know what that means?”
Of course I knew what that meant.
I’d read that trope more than a few times before. It wasn’t my favorite genre. Those biker guys always ended up with kick-ass heroines who were bold and confident. I had a hard time putting myself in their shoes or relating to their stories.
“Yes,” I said, looking at him again with renewed interest. But nothing about him screamed ‘biker’ to me. If anything, he had a sort of beach bum and former frat boy vibe to him.
“You can say it.”
“Say what?”
“That I don’t look like a biker.”
“It might just be the shirt,” I said. “And slippers.”
“That’s fair,” he agreed. “But if you know what we are, you understand why going to the cops isn’t exactly our first instinct. But I’m not gonna tell you not to go to them.”
I would love to say that I came up with some great, logical reason to decide not to go to the police. But it really just boiled down to feeling like I was strangling at just the thought of having to go to the police station to tell someone at the front desk my crazy story, then watch as they didn’t believe me, only to have to repeat it to a detective, and maybe a DA one day.
It was all too much.
I’d heard once that there was more to human instinct than fight or flight . There was also fawn . And, of course, the one I related to most: freeze .
When faced with an anxiety trigger, I just shut down. Did nothing. Tried to pretend it didn’t exist.
Healthy? No.
But it was where I was at.
“Are you going to try to find him?”
“No ‘try’ about it. I’m gonna find him,” Sully said. And it was the first time I saw something darker beneath his light and friendly exterior.
I wasn’t an idiot.
This was the part in those biker books where the hero turned over every rock to find the man who hurt his woman, then dispatched him in a brutal way.
Except, of course, I wasn’t Sully’s girl.
“And I will keep you safe too. I know you gotta be thinking about that.”
I hadn’t been, not until that very second. I’d been too wrapped up in the past and present to be giving the future much thought.
“How?” I asked.
“However I need to that makes you the most comfortable. You could stay here. I can hang at your place. Both. I can meet you at work each night to make sure you’re safe walking out of there. You’re not gonna be alone in this.”
Anyone familiar with the deep well of loneliness that had been plaguing me for the past several years would understand that it was those simple words, that promise of no longer being alone, that had me agreeing.
“Okay.”