Chapter Thirty
Rygaard
A week later
Pacing the floor of my office, I replay the image of Presley standing outside that store. The way she looked... the way she acted ... She seemed scared. Of what, I wasn’t sure. But I damn sure planned on finding out.
“Hey, man, who was that chick that just left?” I asked, watching him lift his head.
“Her name’s Baby Bird. Presley, but we call her Baby Bird.”
Baby Bird? I’d never heard anyone call her that before.
“Why?”
“Because every time I see her, she’s skittish, like she’s running or hiding from something. I don’t see her much, but when I do…” His eyes got distant. “It bothers me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think whoever she hangs with... hits her.” He said it low, like it hurt to even say the words. “She’s been coming here since I opened. And with every passing day, it’s like... her light dims a little more.”
“Who the fuck is she hanging around with?”
Roman shrugs. “She’s always alone.”
“Do you know where I can find her?”
“Sorry, man. I don’t.”
“Fuck!” The urge to smash something floods my body, violent and hot.
Roman eyes me carefully. “Why do you wanna know? Who is she to you?”
“An old friend.” I walk toward the counter. “You got a pen and paper?”
He slaps them down in front of me. “Here.”
I scribble my number down. “If she comes back, call me.”
Roman studies the paper like he isn’t sure he should. “You’re not planning to hurt her, are you?”
I scoff. “Come on, Roman. I’ve been coming here long enough. You know better.”
“Maybe,” he says, squinting at me. “You look like the type to put a man in the ground for crossing you.”
I laugh, dark and humorless. “You’re not wrong. So don’t ever cross me.” Roman's mouth drops open, but I was already heading for the door.
Where the hell are you, Presley?
Hours later, I was almost done with the first draft of Chuck’s new store.
Pulling up the AutoCAD program on my MacBook, I work methodically, but my mind keeps drifting.
Chuck’s store would be a hit, sitting just off the interstate, pulling in travelers from the small town thirty miles north.
In Texas, if something wasn’t broken yet, it soon would be.
And we damn sure loved to fix it. I snap a few shots of the design with my Kodak, scan them onto my laptop, and just as I was about to hit ‘send’ on the email to Chuck, my phone rings.
Unknown number.
Snatching it up, I answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Roman from Every Tang Korean. Baby Bird’s here.” Adrenaline spikes through my veins.
“Don’t let her leave. I’m on my way.”
I hit the intercom button. “Julie, I’m stepping out. Order lunch for both of us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks, Jules. Be on the lookout for a call from Chuck, too.” Keys in hand, I run downstairs, jump into my truck, and tear ass down the streets.Screw the speed limit. Just a suggestion anyway, right?
I get to the store in record time, practically throwing the car into park before I storm toward the door.
But the second I open it, I freeze.
Fear.Excitement.Dread.It all hits me at once, rooting me to the spot.
Get your shit together.
Inside, I hear her laugh, that same sweet sound I hadn't realized I'd missed until just now. “You keep your little trap shut, Baby Bird!” Roman barks, but she just laughs harder.
Then she says, “I really have to go.”
Not if I can help it. “Please, don’t leave on my account,” I whisper, stepping around the corner.
Her head snaps up, eyes wide, searching.
When she sees me, her whole face changes, brows furrowing, mouth tightening into a grimace.
“Rom? What is this?” she demands, backing away from the counter.
She tries to bolt past me, but I grab her arm. “We need to talk.”
“Fuck you!” she spits, ripping her arm free like a wounded animal. “You should’ve talked to me all those years ago instead you disappeared!”
How the hell is she this fragile... and still this damn strong?
“I can explain, ”
“Explain that shit to someone who gives a damn. Because it sure as hell isn’t me anymore.” She’s already halfway to the door.
“Prez, please, ”
That old nickname stops her, just for a second. But when she turns around, the fire in her eyes nearly singes me.
“You have some fucking nerve. I waited for you. You left me. No warning, no goodbye. You let me find out it was over on the goddamn internet !” Her voice cracks, and that crack, it breaks me.
“I can explain, Presley.”
She shoots a look at Roman. “Please, tell me you didn’t keep me here so he could show up.”
Roman stammers, but I cut him off. “I threatened to burn his store down if he didn’t help.”
Roman’s glare says ‘thanks a lot, asshole,’ but he keeps quiet.
Presley shook her head, backing away again. "I have to go."
“Going back to the asshole who did that to your face?” Her hand freezes on the door.
I push harder. “How many more times are you gonna let him use you as a punching bag?”
I stalk forward, flipping the open sign to closed and locking the door behind us.
“I hate you," she whispers.
“I hate me, too. But you don’t know my story any more than I know yours. And I need you to know, Prez.” She flinches at the nickname but says nothing. “I've never stopped loving you,” I say. “Not one goddamn day. When I said forever, I meant it”"
Her body shakes with rage. “Then why did you marry someone who wasn’t me? Kiss someone who wasn’t me? Fuck someone who wasn’t me?” Tears spill down her cheeks, her voice breaking all over again. “You still love me? I'll believe that when pigs fly.”
Instead of answering, I say quietly, “You're really gonna leave with the piece of shit who's been beating you?”
“At least he never left me.”
That guts me worse than any punch to the stomach ever could.
Before she can open the door again, I slam it shut.
“This isn’t the end, Presley. I’ll find you again.”
“Good fucking luck, asshole,” she hisses, yanking the door open and disappearing into the world outside.
Roman speaks up after a few beats of silence.
“She needs help, man. Follow her. Find out who she's living with.” I hesitate for only a second.
Then I’m sprinting for my truck, heart hammering. By the time I get in, that little, red Camry was peeling out of the parking lot. I throw my truck in gear and follow, staying back just far enough to not get noticed.
She doesn’t know what I drive. That is my only advantage.
Dark, tinted windows, sunglasses, and sheer desperation helps, too.
We hit the main strip, then she turns sharply down a side street, Canal Banks Circle.I keep going straight, then loop back around.
If she thinks she is being followed, she'd circle, too.But she doesn’t.
Pulling into a shoe store parking lot nearby, I wait. No sign of her. After a few minutes, I ease my truck down Canal Banks Circle.
Run-down houses. Kids on bikes. Manufactured homes trying too hard to blend in. Then I spot it, her battered Camry parked in front of the nicest house on the block. No other cars around.
Heart hammering, I pull over near a tree and climb out.
You shouldn’t be doing this.
Yeah? Try stopping me.
Before I can even knock, the door flies open.
Presley storms out, her face twists with fury. “What the fuck are you doing here? Get the hell off my property before I call the cops.”
I laugh darkly. “Judging by the way you look, they'd probably arrest you for running a meth lab or a whorehouse.”
She flinches.
And I immediately hate myself for saying it.
“Fuck you, Rygaard!” she screams. “You’re part of the reason I’m like this!”
“Oh no, sweetheart. You're not dumping all that shit on me, not until I know everything .”
Tears well in her eyes as she shoves at my chest. Ninety-eight pounds of fury against two-twenty of solid muscle.
“You're going to hurt yourself,” I mutter, catching her wrists.
“As if I could be more hurt than I already am,” she whispers, voice shaking.
“Clearly, you can.”
“Don't call me Prez,” she says, pounding weakly against me. “Don't you dare.”
“I know you hate me,” I say quietly. “And I’ll accept that. But you’re gonna hear my truth.”
I drag her inside and slam the door behind us. “Are you alone?”
She gives a tiny nod. “But not for long. He can't see you here.”
“Who the fuck is he?”
She just glares at me. “You have fifteen minutes,” she says. “Say what you have to say.”
“Fifteen minutes isn’t enough.”
“Too bad.”
“Take off your jacket and baggy clothes.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not stripping for you,” she hisses.
“Fine,” I growl, stepping forward. “Then I’ll do it.”
Before she can bolt, I grab her, spin her around, and yank the jacket off her tiny frame. I pull up her oversized shirt, and my heart shatters.
Her back is nothing but bruises and bones. Old scars. Fresh welts. Evidence of years of silent suffering.
Slowly, I slide her pants down, too. She doesn’t fight me. She just stands there, trembling, while I see the full extent of what she's become.
Skin and bones. Bruises and hurt.
It’s now or never.