Chapter 6 #2
Panic, fear, and debilitating terror make me freeze in my seat.
The deputy and his sister both told me I was safe with this man.
But they must have known he was bringing me halfway up a freaking mountain, and they never said a thing.
Is this all a trick? Was that even the sheriff’s office, or was this all just a setup to make me believe it was okay to go with him?
Did I run from becoming a prostitute and end up putting myself into an even more dangerous situation?
Hope blooms to life as I remember that Cora said I could leave and go to her home or someone else’s place. She told me I was safe, and her words didn’t feel like a lie. Was I wrong? Did I convince myself that she was being truthful because I wanted her to be?
Time passes as Warrick drives us farther and farther away from safety. In the bustling, tourist-filled town, I was simply another person passing through—a visitor, there but not memorable.
Only I’m not anonymous anymore. Warrick knows me.
Two of the deputy sheriffs know me, and Cora knows me.
She said she was going to come and see me.
But this is insane. I shouldn’t have gone with him.
I should have packed my stuff up and left.
I should have caught a bus to the next tourist-filled town and done what I’ve been doing for the last two months, only somewhere new.
Being homeless isn’t ideal, but I’ve been coping, and sooner or later I’ll find a job and then an apartment and maybe even put down some permanent roots.
If I’m not dead in the next few hours, I’ll stay the night at Warrick’s.
I’ll sleep against the door so he can’t come in, and in the morning, I’ll find a way back to town, and I’ll catch the next bus that turns up.
The slowing of the car catches my attention as Warrick turns off the road and onto a gravel driveway, through an entranceway that welcomes us to the Williams Ranch.
When the road splits, we bear left, and instead of his house being a creepy shack in the middle of the woods, he slows to a stop in front of a cute home halfway around a circle of well-maintained and mostly occupied identical houses.
“Not what you were expecting?” Warrick asks, turning to look at me for the first time since we started driving.
“No,” I admit.
“Hal offered the entire team houses when we first moved here. We weren’t sure if we’d get the funding for more than a year, but we just secured the budget for our team to stay in place for another five years.”
“Oh,” I whisper, feeling stupid for not having asked any questions about the man whose house I’m about to sleep in.
“The chief, Buck, and his wife, James, live there,” he says, pointing to the first house.
“His brother Nero and his girlfriend Tori are next.” He indicates the second house.
“Then Oz and Etta, Danny and Parker, and Anders and Henry, are over there.” He points to the next three houses.
“Those houses”—he gestures to several houses further around the semi-circle—“are the guys from the B team. We work a rotating shift pattern, so they’re at work when we’re on our downtime and vice versa.
We don’t see them much, but they’re all good guys.
The house beside mine is empty at the minute.
Knight used to live there, but he bought a parcel of land and built a place for him and his wife Octavia just over the hill on the other side of the Barnett property. ”
I nod, like I know who he’s talking about, even though I have no idea.
“And then this is our place,” he says, motioning to the house we’re parked outside of.
Our place. Why does that sound so good? It shouldn’t. I can’t stay here, so why is my heart actually hurting at the idea that I’m going to have to leave and never come back?
Looking through the window, I stare up at the house beside us.
Unlike some of the others on the street, there are no window boxes full of flowers or lawn ornaments.
There are no children’s toys, or even signs that anyone lives here.
But it’s clean and tidy, the grass is a little long, but it’s not disheveled, and there are blinds half covering the windows.
This looks like a home, and I don’t know why that thought is making my throat thick with some kind of emotion I absolutely should not be feeling.
Smiling at me, Warrick slips from the car, appearing at my door while I’m still staring at the house and wondering if I should refuse to get out and insist that he take me back to town. I jump when he opens my door and holds his hand out for me to take.
Touching him in this moment is a huge mistake, but I do it anyway, placing my hand in his. Carefully tugging me from the car, he grips my fingers tightly as he closes it behind me and leads me up the path to the front door.
Unlocking it, he guides me inside first, crowding behind me as he ushers me into his home. “I haven’t done much with the place since I moved in,” he says, his cheeks pinking a little, like there’s something embarrassing about this huge and beautiful home.
“It’s nice,” I tell him, and it is. The walls are white and empty, but it’s clean and it smells fresh. It’s a hell of a lot nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived.
The tiny apartment I ran from was full of damp and black mold, and the whole place was probably the same size as this room.
“Let me show you around,” he says, stepping past me and towing me toward an open kitchen with black cabinets and wooden countertops. “Kitchen,” he says with a smirk. “That door leads out onto the yard. The garage is through there.”
Tugging me forward, he leads me to the stairs, not pausing as he starts to climb, forcing me to go with him.
“My room,” he says, pointing to an open door. “That’s the bathroom.” He gestures to the closed door on the opposite side of the landing. “And you can take your pick of either of these rooms,” he says, throwing open the two closed doors to reveal two bedrooms.
Both rooms have twin beds with black bedding on them, but nothing more. There’s no other furniture or anything on the walls to suggest they’ve ever been used.
“I don’t have many guests,” he says with a soft, low laugh. “We can order you some furniture or whatever else you want or need.”
“This is fine,” I say quickly, not wanting him to spend money on things that I have no intention of using. I’ll stay the night, but in the morning, I’m going to figure out how to get back to town, and then I’ll find a bus and leave.
“I’ll go and grab your bag while you figure out which room you want,” he says, releasing my hand and heading down the stairs before I can protest.
Pausing between the two doors, I freeze, unable to move. Before I can even process what I’m doing, I’m spinning around and moving away from the empty rooms and toward his room. The door is open, so I’m not invading his privacy as I peer around the door frame and take in his space.
His room is large, easily twice the size of the other two rooms. His bed is massive, a California king, or maybe even bigger, like he had it custom-made. The comforter is a crisp white, clean and fresh, but anonymous.
The rest of the space doesn’t tell me much about him either. The walls are white, the hardwood floors are stained a dark brown. But there’s no personal items. No pictures or photos, only a TV on the wall. It’s an entirely blank canvas, and I don’t know why I find that disappointing.
At the sound of his footstep on the stairs, I dart back to the other bedrooms and instinctively pick the one closest to his, stepping inside and taking a tentative seat on the edge of the mattress. It sinks beneath my weight, and I have to hold back the moan of pleasure that tries to burst free.
Even one night in a comfortable bed is going to ruin me.
I’ve spent months sleeping on the ground with only a thin mat protecting me from the bottom of the tent and the dirt below.
My tiny canvas home was better than ending up on a park bench or actually sleeping rough, but it’s a long way from a thick mattress and clean bedding.
“I have my own bathroom, so the other one is all yours. I’ll grab you some towels,” Warrick says, stepping into the room and placing my ratty backpack onto the floor at my feet.
“Thank you,” I say, and I am grateful. Showering in privacy is a luxury I haven’t had for a while, and I’m almost as thankful to not have to keep my shoes on while I get clean as I am to have a real bed to sleep in, even if it’s only for one night.
“Why don’t you get settled and then come on downstairs. Do you want a coffee or something else to drink?”
Wrinkling my nose, I try not to let him see my revulsion.
“Not a coffee drinker then?” He laughs.
“Err, no. Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I have water and soda and some juice too, so come on down when you’re ready,” he says, eyeing me like he wants to say more, before he turns and leaves, pulling the door mostly closed behind him.
The moment he’s gone, I start to panic. I can’t stay here. I can’t be around this man. I shouldn’t trust him. I shouldn’t feel safe. I shouldn’t want to take a shower and then strip off and sleep in this super soft bed.
But leaving feels insurmountable too, and not just because I’m miles from anything familiar. But because a part of me is so relieved to not have to spend another night only sleeping a few minutes at a time, waking every time the wind rustles the tent or I hear an animal snuffling past.
Tears burn at the backs of my eyes and then spill over, dripping down my cheeks as I fight to stay silent.
I know that Warrick probably won’t be able to hear me, but the relief I feel at even having one night where I’m not scared or cold or uncomfortable is more than I’ve had since I ran from BJ’s in terror at being forced to have sex with strangers at Benito’s whims. The feeling is so big it’s overwhelming.
More tears fall free as I slip from the bed and curl into a ball on the floor.
How did I let this happen? How has my life become so broken that I lose it over the offer of a safe place to sleep?
My emotions overwhelm me as desolation, fear, and shame consume me.
But then suddenly I’m not on the floor anymore.
I’m engulfed in huge, strong, warm arms.