Chapter 6
Freya
Istared out the window of the diner at the gusts of snow buffeting the glass. The weather was absolute shit, and even so, I felt I’d made a mistake, deciding to stay the night. I should’ve hit the road the second I walked out of that prison.
I’m still too close to Jed Clearwater to even breathe. Knowing he was just a few miles away, seething in a cage, wound me up to a fever pitch.
Which, of course, made me hate myself all the more. It was so stupid.
It was just a method acting, right? Using my old crush on him to psych myself into character. Not that it had worked. He’d resisted my womanly wiles with the greatest of ease, and kicked my ass out. Brutally. So much for my powers of seduction.
It enraged me. It was dumb, and vain, but there it was. That arrogant bastard. How dare he. He could have suffered a pang of frustrated lust for me, for fuck’s sake. He could have given me at least that much cheap, meaningless satisfaction.
But I couldn’t rationalize away the truth right in my face. Jed Clearwater still excited me…but the feeling was not at all mutual. Not even dolled up and tricked out as I had been. Which settled a burning question I hadn’t known I was still asking.
I wanted to kill the part of myself that responded to him. Just fucking euthanize it like a rabid dog. It made me so ashamed. Talking dirty to him made me flushed, wet, weak in the knees. How could this be happening? What the fuck was wrong with me?
Jed Clearwater had set up my brother to die. For money. And look at the state I was in. God, the cognitive dissonance literally hurt my head.
I looked down at the sad tomato soup, the charred grilled cheese sandwich, the cold, weak coffee. No point. I was vibrating at too high a frequency to swallow.
I should get back to the hotel room, take a nice, long shower, wash the pink streaks out of my hair.
I wouldn’t need them until the next time Jed consented to let me visit, whenever that would be.
Maybe never. My employees in Seattle didn’t need to see the pink Sandee hair.
The bleached blonde hairdo would be weird enough for them.
I took a sip of the nasty coffee, grimacing, and fished up the hem of my puffy jacket, unfastening the hidden zipper and taking out my smartphone.
My Freya Masters smartphone, anyhow. I fished out the battery, too, and assembled the thing.
It was time to contact Holly, my sweet little niece.
Nine years old tomorrow. Shane, her dad, had disappeared off the face of the earth, so I couldn’t disappear on her, too.
I made a point of contacting her every day when we weren’t together.
But I wasn’t in any state to actually talk to her.
Holly was very intuitive. She’d know right away that I was all messed up.
It would make her more worried, not less.
I opened up our chat, and typed in a message.
hey honey what’s up
Holly responded instantly.
finally. where r u?
I laughed softly under my breath. That girl was a Masters, through and through.
I’m out taking care of business. Home soon. Just checking in on you. hugs&love
But where?
Holly demanded.
I’m in a diner, getting food. If you could call it that.
I snapped a quick pic of my uninspiring meal and sent it, after making sure there were no identifying symbols in it, on a napkin or a menu or a placemat, or whatever. Holly was laser sharp. She would focus right in on that.
Not loving my meal, but whatever. Is Uncle Ethan with you?
No he’s gone 2. Sally and Angelo and Camilla are staying with me. come home please I miss you
Holly typed.
Tears prickled in my eyes. So neither of us were going to be there tomorrow for Holly’s birthday. That sucked. Shitty timing, but visiting days at the prison were what they were. And when Jed finally agreed to meet, I had to jump at the chance.
Be there soon sweetheart. Signing off. Love u.
I disassembled my phone and tucked it back into my coat hem.
Time to brave the weather. I paid for my uneaten food, and braced myself for the blast of bitter cold outside the front door, which slashed through my coat as if it wasn’t there.
I was grateful to get into my old Mercedes and crank up the heat.
The Dew Drop was close, only a half a mile down the highway.
I could have walked, if there were a shoulder on the road.
If it weren’t so cold. If I weren’t wearing those high-heeled boots. Silly Sandee footwear.
Ironic, that I’d packed my Badass Bitch Bag of defensive doo-dads into the hidden hem pocket in my quilted coat before going to the diner.
It was childish, but I felt braver and smarter when I had it on me.
But I hadn’t thought to change into my combat boots, which genuinely could make a difference if I had to fight or run.
By this, one could observe the Jed Clearwater effect on my brain. Like a monster dose of psychedelic drugs.
The bag was too big, puffing out the bottom of my coat, but I’d taken out all but the absolute essentials.
Rose and Milla would laugh at me. I had dubbed our trio “the Badass Bitches” years ago.
An aspirational name, but we did our best. Milla was the daughter of a colonel who my brothers had served under in the military, so I’ve known her since I was a teenager.
Rose we met when we were in college. Milla was an artist, Rose was a chemist, and I had done my best to corrupt both of those fine, talented, upstanding girls into naughty badassery.
To that end, I came up with a gag gift for them three years ago. The Badass Bitch Bag. One for each of us, and I was constantly adding bits and pieces.
The BBBags, as we called them, were ostensibly travel make-up kits. Rigorously pink, decorated with hearts, stars, kittens, and rainbows, and vague and pleasant statements along the lines of “If you can dream it, you can do it.”
God knows, I could definitely dream it, as paranoid and defensive as I was.
The BBBag had lots of goodies, some of which genuinely functioned as high-quality make-up.
A boxcutter blade made of super-hard resin was hidden in the pressed powder of a very nice trio of rust, bronze, and gold eyeshadow.
The case itself became the boxcutter’s handle, and the blade snapped into its plastic housing once the powder was knocked out.
There was a lipstick case—pink, of course—with a decorative ring that could be slipped onto a fingertip.
It braced a sharp, serrated pop-up resin blade that a girl could hide behind her fake fingernail.
There was a glittering bottle she could spray on her nails that would change their color if they were dipped into a drink that had roofies in it.
There were perfumed make-up wipes treated with a powerful sedative that could bring a strong man down in seconds if she slapped it over his nose.
There was a packet of eco-friendly tampons, the cotton carefully wrapped around an aerosolized bottle of Tamloxid 343, a drug I’d learned about from Rose, which worked like a truth serum, in concentrated doses.
There were tracers, for tagging people who needed to be watched.
All kinds of crazy stuff. Whatever would fit in the silly looking little girlie bag.
Of course, I had not brought my BBBag to the prison.
Chances are, I would have made it through security with it, considering how carefully I had designed everything, but there was no point in risking it.
Nothing in that bag would ever be useful to me with Jed Clearwater.
There would always be a wall of glass between us.
But I liked to keep it with me whenever I could.
When I had my BBBag, I felt as if I had my Badass Bitches right there with me, on my side, keeping me strong.
Also, the BBBag represented Sandee’s persona to a tee.
Pretty and harmless, frivolous and feminine, maybe even a little silly… but underestimate her at your peril.
Of course, it was all just a mind trip to make me feel tougher. But what the hell. If it worked, I’d use it. So the BBBag lived in my coat, along with my Freya phone, my extra cards, my emergency cash.
I pulled into the Dew Drop and drove around to the small parking lot in back.
The streetlight that had illuminated the lot was no longer lit.
It had been when I’d left the hotel, even though it was barely dusk.
I had noticed how the snowflakes blowing every which way had been lit up by its sickly orange glow.
Not anymore. The only light now was over the back door of the hotel, and with the snow blowing this thick, I could barely see it. I fished out my keycard.
The only parking spot was next to a big black van.
Brrr. Classic no-no for a girl alone. I thought about driving back out in front of the Dew Drop, but the signs said No Parking, and I was too tired to be paranoid tonight.
Besides, sleazy predators wouldn’t be out on the prowl in weather like this.
They’d be snug and warm at home, watching unsavory stuff on their computers and sipping hot tea as they plotted their evil deeds.
I was still dressed like Sandee, with those stupid shoes, so I couldn’t even sprint to the back door. I was going to have to slip and slide, wobble and mince.
I couldn’t wait to peel the damn things off and stuff them definitively into the garbage. Come on, Masters. Shake your ass.
I pushed the door open, and the wind caught it and slammed it violently wide.
The snow swept in, a full frontal attack, burning against my face, blowing up my pleated skirt, stinging my bare legs.
Down my neck, up my cuffs. I steadied myself against the blast and struggled out, digging my heels into the snow so I could stay on my feet in the wind.
And suddenly, I heard that sound. A woman’s worst nightmare.
Click. Thunk. The growling rasp of the van door sliding open, and oh, shit...
They boiled out before I could inhale to scream. Men in ski masks, rushing me.
I shrieked bloody murder, kicking and struggling, but the wind and snow muffled my voice.
They tossed me flat onto my back, knocking out my wind.
I choked helplessly for air, and one of them grabbed my hair and jerked my head up.
His breath smelled like something long dead. “Bitch,” he hissed, grabbing my throat.
His voice broke off, transforming into a startled, high-pitched grunt, and after a second, he landed on top of me, right on my head. Smothering me. Unmoving.
He was massively heavy. Dead weight, crushing me into the deep, powdery snow. I wiggled desperately, gasping for air, trying to get my head out from under him just to breathe, but it was all just snow, snow, snow. Hot, sticky liquid. Blood.
Muffled grunts, thuds, gasps. Shouts. I screamed with effort as I managed to shift the heavy, bleeding thing lying on top of me just enough to lift my face to see what was happening. Fighting men were silhouetted against the dim glow of the hotel door.
I saw the largest shadowy figure leap up, delivering a chopping blow that knocked him to the ground.
Another man attacked the shadow man with a hoarse bellow of rage, but the shadow seized and spun him, faster than my eyes could follow, and rammed his head into the passenger window of the van, caving in the window.
Broken glass tinkled. Someone leaped onto the shadow man’s back.
He flung himself and the piggy-backing guy backward against my car.
He twisted and spun, grabbing the attacking man’s head.
Crack…crack…crunch. Three blows, and the guy slid down in front of the open door of my car and lay there, unmoving.
Thttp, thttp. I heard dull, thudding pops as silenced bullets peppered my car, striking the huge body that lay on top of me like hammer blows. The shadow guy hit the ground, rolling, a gun coming up, taking swift aim...
Bam. Bam. Bam, he shot back. Then, silence, for a long, breathless interval.
The shadow man rose from the ground with the seamless, effortless ease of smoke rising. I focused on the gun in his hand as he moved toward me.
I was frozen. Literally, figuratively. Trapped in the snow under a cooling corpse, my mind blank with terror. He was the angel of death. He would rip out my heart and eat it.
But he just rolled the body off me with a sharp shove of his foot. He grabbed me under the armpits and hauled me to my feet, turning me so the light fell onto his face.
He wasn’t a pit of light-swallowing darkness in the shape of the man. He wore a Kalaharee prison coverall—but it was crimson, not orange. Because he was drenched with blood, head to foot. I just gazed at him, slack-jawed. Shaking violently.
“Hello, Sandee,” he said quietly.
It was Jed Clearwater.