Chapter 3
After Logan left the room, Darcy climbed into the bed and shivered beneath the blankets, waiting for her chilled body to warm up.
The man was a frick’n mindjerk!
How could she get so unlucky in one lifetime?
Conrad had been a therapist—and she’d barely escaped him.
He was a master at wielding psychology like a weapon, constantly analyzing every word she said and everything she did until she’d begun to doubt her own sanity.
The tiniest bit of disobedience on her part was ‘proof’ she was broken, couldn’t make good decisions, and needed endless therapy.
She was selfish if she didn’t want to have sex when he wanted it.
If she met her mother for lunch—without his approval—she was too dependent on her mother, which was unhealthy.
Disagreement was a sin; he was always right. Her opinions were flawed, irrational, and not worth hearing unless they coincided with his. He even tried to turn her best friend against her and isolate her.
Making friends had never been easy for Darcy at the best of times, so when he had insinuated to Amy that Darcy’s mental health was “questionable”, it had been a calculated attempt to separate them.
Lucky for her, Amy had seen right through the jerk and encouraged her to get away from him and his destructive grip.
They had found out a few years later that the girl Conrad had subsequently married had taken her own life.
Darcy shivered as the memories danced through her mind—memories that made her skin crawl.
It was why she knew—knew with every fiber—that getting away from Logan was imperative for her own sanity.
Playing mind games and allowing her mental processes to be manipulated once again wasn’t going to happen.
And yet—God help her—she was more drawn to him than any man she’d ever met. That made him even more dangerous. Her pulse hammered, her breath catching in her throat, threatening to suffocate her.
Think!
She could ask to borrow his phone again, but he knew she didn’t have any money for a taxi or an Uber. Fear clawed at her throat. She could also feel the trap closing around her, hear the soft, reasonable tone that would peel away her demands as ludicrous and make her doubt herself all over again.
As she got up to go to the bathroom, her mind raced like a hamster on a wheel. There was no way she wanted to walk around alone at night, even in this neighborhood, although she’d threatened to. When not in a temper, stupidity didn’t come easily to her.
When she heard a sneeze on the other side of the bathroom door of Holly’s room, an idea occurred to her. Timidly, she knocked and whispered in the darkness. “Holly? Are you awake?” She heard the bed creak and footsteps pad to the door.
“Yes, do you need something?” Holly was whispering too. It was crazy how people imitated each other’s actions, even when it wasn’t necessary.
“Can I borrow your phone? I need to let my mom know I’m okay,” she lied without a qualm. “And do you have a sweatshirt I could borrow? I’m cold.” She glanced down at her pajama sweats. They would have to do in place of asking for jeans. That might raise suspicion.
“Sure, hang on,” Holly whispered in reply. She padded away and then returned. “Here you go.”
Darcy cracked the door, grabbed the sweatshirt, and took Holly’s phone.
“I’ll give this back in just a minute, and thanks for the sweatshirt.
” She went into the bedroom where Holly wouldn’t overhear her and quickly dialed 911.
She told them she was sneaking out of her abusive boyfriend’s home and asked for an officer to meet her out front—no lights or sirens.
Then she hung up, deleted the call, and padded back to Holly’s door to return the phone.
She had about ten minutes to get outside.
Heart pounding in her throat, she pulled the sweatshirt over her head and slipped on her socks.
No witchy shoes this time. Cracking the door, she peeked into the hall.
There was no light beneath Logan’s door, so she had to assume he’d gone to bed—at least she prayed he had.
The rest of the house was dark and quiet.
Silently, she opened her own door wide enough for her to skinny through it, hoping it wouldn’t creak.
It didn’t, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Swiftly, she moved with the soft tread of a cat’s paws down the hall without making a sound.
Pausing at the front door, she held her breath and listened.
So far, so good.
Peeking through the small window in the door, she slipped outside and quietly closed it behind her as the police cruiser pulled up in front. Yeah! Then she ran to the car’s back door and yanked it open.
“Get me out of here,” she hissed to the officer as she tumbled into the rear seat. “Oh, and I need to report my car burglarized and my purse stolen. I didn’t get a chance to do that yet.”
“By the boyfriend?” The officer asked, glancing back as he pulled away from the curb.
“No, not by him,” she hissed in a whisper. Then, realizing what she was doing, spoke aloud. “No, not by him, by someone else. It was over on Apple Street by the Red Lark diner.”
“I’ll take you down to the station and you can file a report,” the officer replied, his older, kindly face frowning at her in the mirror. “Are you sure you’re alright? Did your boyfriend assault you?”
“Not in the way you think,” Darcy muttered, images of herself over Logan’s knee not once but twice that evening. “No, no,” she added hastily, “he didn’t hurt me.
That was a lie—it felt like he’d slapped her butt with a hot iron.
“I wanted to leave, and he didn’t want me to.” Technically, that was the truth—just shy of a few other admissions.
Darcy stared out the window at the softly glowing circles of streetlights that cast shadows in doorways and alleys as Officer Bentley, whose name was on his badge, drove her to the Birmingdale Police Station.
Birmingdale was an older suburb of the sprawling city of Independence, Missouri.
It was a mixture of old houses, remodeled business buildings, and new subdivisions.
The police station they pulled into was reminiscent of bygone times with its stone architecture and historic lamps lighting the front of the building.
As they pulled into the parking lot on the side, she noticed carved pumpkins lining the sidewalk to the front door.
“Who carved the pumpkins?” she asked, as he opened the back door for her and helped her out.
He grinned. “The local third-grade class got the honors this year. The elementary school grades take turns every year. The Chief and the Mayor vote on three winners, and their names go into a file for a chance at a college scholarship when they become seniors. And a nice pot of Halloween candy, of course, courtesy of the police station.”
Darcy grinned back. “I bet their parents appreciate that last part.”
“They appreciate both parts.” His eyes twinkled at her as he opened the door for her.
It must have been a slow night since Darcy spotted two other officers sitting in the bull pen as he escorted her to another room.
The glaring neon bulbs were harsh overhead, making her eyes water.
She filled out her paperwork and answered Officer Bentley’s questions, dodging the ones she didn’t want to explain.
The entire time she was in the police station, she was on tenterhooks, fearing Logan might come back to the room and realize she was gone.
Her mind raced as she tried to figure out how to get home.
She didn’t want to sleep in a cell bed until morning—who knew how well they cleaned those plastic cots?
The thought sent a full-body shiver through her.
Officer Bentley interrupted her thoughts.
“When you’re finished with your paperwork, Brother Patrick from the local Baptist church has paid for a cab from their travelers in need fund to take you home.” He smiled encouragingly at her.
Darcy nearly fainted from relief. “Thank you,” she replied, “you can’t know how much I appreciate it.”
He shot her a sympathetic look. “I think I can. And remember what I told you about getting a restraining order.”
Guilt flooded her—only for a few seconds, though. “Thanks, but I don’t need one. I won’t be seeing him again.” Her words were confident to her ear, but her heart sighed.
It was 3:30 in the morning by the time Darcy finally tumbled into her bed, sighing with pleasure. Pamela hadn’t been too happy when she’d barged in on her love-fest on the sofa. Yuck. That couch would need a thorough cleaning—or burned—before anyone sat on it again.
Yawning widely, Darcy snuggled into her pillow, exhaustion drawing her down quickly.
Her last thoughts were of Logan, his megawatt smile and teasing eyes, admiring her behind her closed eyelids.
What a shame he was a ‘mindjerk.’ Amy had come up with that description, and it was accurate as far as she was concerned.
She’d liked him until she found out his occupation.
Okay—more than liked him. She’d been in danger of falling for him. Maybe she already had.
The spanking thing...that was different, but not exactly a turn-off.
Playful swats were supposed to be erotic—and yeah, she could see that—but Logan hadn’t been playing.
His dominance, his command—it had been absolute, and directed at her.
And instead of scaring her, she had leaned into it. But if he had been playing?
Something warm curled in her abdomen. If the heat in his eyes had been about pleasure instead of punishment, she feared that she would have responded. She shivered at the thought.
Yeah. It wasn’t like she hadn’t thought about it before, but having the courage to suggest such a thing would give a man way too much control. She’d been down that road before.
Control.