Chapter 6
Kayla
The cold seeps through my dress like ghostly fingers.
I can’t stop shivering. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve tried Roman’s number, each call going straight to voicemail.
My breath clouds in front of me, disappearing into the darkness of the car.
Outside, there’s nothing but the empty road and the vast Montana night pressing against the windows. I’m completely alone.
“Please,” I whisper, hitting redial again. “Please pick up.”
Nothing. Just his recorded voice telling me to leave a message. I’ve already left four. Each one more desperate than the last.
The temperature display on my dashboard now reads thirty-eight degrees.
Not freezing yet, but getting there fast. I pull my jacket tighter around my body, cursing myself for not keeping an emergency blanket in the trunk.
Another several minutes pass as I stare out at the abandoned gas station across the street, its broken windows like empty eye sockets in the moonlight.
This is ridiculous. I can’t just sit here all night, waiting for a husband who clearly doesn’t care enough to check his messages. Club business, I huff to myself. Hope it was important.
I scroll through my contacts, trying to think who else I could call. I have no family. Morgan is currently in Arizona visiting her mother. There’s no one else I feel comfortable calling this late, asking them to drive out to the middle of nowhere to rescue me.
Except…
I scroll through my contacts until I find the number for the Devil’s Rejects clubhouse. Roman made me save it for emergencies only. Well, this certainly qualifies.
The phone rings five times before someone picks up.
“Yeah?” a male voice, gruff and impatient.
“Hi,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “This is Kayla Sullivan, Roman’s wife—old lady. Is he there?”
There’s a pause, the sound of muffled voices and laughter in the background. “Who?”
I clench my jaw. “Roman. Sullivan.” I say each word slowly, as if I’m speaking to a child. “Viper?”
“Oh, Viper.” The man’s voice changes, becoming slightly more respectful, though no more helpful. “He’s not available.”
“Not available?” I repeat, anger creeping into my voice. “What does that mean?”
“It means he’s not available to talk right now.”
I take a deep breath, trying to control my temper. Getting angry won’t help me get what I need. “Look, I understand he’s busy, but this is really important. Could you please just tell him his wife is on the phone? Tell him my car broke down and I’m stranded.”
“Like I said, he’s not available.” The man’s voice takes on an edge of condescension. “He’s handling club business.”
“Club business,” I repeat flatly. Of course. The sacred, mysterious club business that always, always takes precedence over me. “Can you at least go tell him I called? Tell him I really need him to call me back?”
I hear him sigh heavily into the phone. “Look, lady—“
“Kayla,” I correct him. “My name is Kayla.”
“Whatever. Viper’s busy. He can’t be disturbed.”
My grip tightens on the phone. The cold is really setting in now; I can barely feel my toes in my thin dress shoes. “My car broke down in the middle of nowhere. I’m freezing out here. I need help.”
“So, call a tow truck.” His tone is dismissive, as if I’m an idiot for not thinking of this myself.
“I called a tow truck,” I snap. “They can’t get here for hours. I need my husband.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” He sounds bored now.
Something snaps inside me. The fear, the cold, the loneliness, and now this; it’s too much.
“You know what? You’re an asshole,” I hiss into the phone. “Just tell my husband his wife needs him, you condescending prick. If he still gives a shit, that is.”
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to pass that message along,” he says sarcastically, and then the line goes dead.
I stare at my phone in disbelief. He hung up on me. The bastard actually hung up on me.
“Fuck!” I slam my palm against the steering wheel. The sudden pain is almost welcome—at least it distracts from the cold for a moment.
I try Roman again. Voicemail.
I end the call and drop my phone into my lap. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Crying won’t help; it’ll just make my face cold and wet on top of everything else.
I’m going to have to start walking soon, I realize. In heels. In the dark. On a deserted road. It’s not safe, but neither is staying here until I freeze.
I’m about to slip my phone back into my purse when headlights appear in the distance, cutting through the darkness.
My heart leaps. Maybe it’s Roman. Maybe he got my messages after all.
I sit up straighter, squinting to make out the approaching vehicle.
As it gets closer, my hopes plummet. It’s not Roman’s motorcycle. It’s a pickup truck, large and dark.
The truck slows as it approaches my car, and something about it sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature. It pulls to a stop about twenty feet behind me, high beams blinding in my rearview mirror.
I can’t see who’s inside. Can’t make out anything beyond the glare of those lights. But a feeling of dread washes over me, so powerful it makes my hands shake.
This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
I slide down in my seat, making myself as small as possible.
Maybe they won’t notice me. Maybe they’ll think the car is abandoned and drive on.
My heart hammers against my ribs, so loud I’m sure whoever is out there can hear it.
I fumble for my phone with trembling fingers, hitting Roman’s number again. Straight to voicemail.
“Roman,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Roman, please. Someone’s here. I’m scared. Please call me back. Please—”
The truck’s engine cuts off. A door opens and slams shut.
I hear footsteps crunching on gravel, approaching my car. I hang up and dial 911, my fingers slipping on the screen.
“911, what’s your emergency?” a woman’s calm voice answers.
“I’m on County Road 16,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “My car broke down, and there’s someone—”
A shadow falls across my window. I look up to see a figure looming there, face obscured by a ski mask. The door handle rattles as they try to open it. Thank God I locked the doors.
“Someone’s trying to get into my car,” I gasp into the phone. “Please send help, I—”
“Ma’am, can you give me a more specific location?” the operator asks. “Are there any landmarks nearby?”
The figure moves away from the window. I crane my neck, trying to see where they’ve gone. “I’m right across the street from the—”
There’s a sudden, deafening crash as something smashes into the passenger window. Glass shatters, spraying across the seats. I scream, dropping the phone, instinctively covering my face with my arms.
“Ma’am? Ma’am, are you there?” The operator’s voice sounds tiny and far away.
Before I can reach for the phone, a gloved hand snakes through the broken window, unlocking the door. It swings open, letting in a rush of cold air.
“No!” I scream, kicking out, trying to push myself to the other side of the car. “Get away from me!”
A hand grabs my ankle, yanking hard. I scrabble for purchase, my fingers clawing at the seat, the dashboard, anything. But I’m dragged inexorably toward the open door.
“Help!” I shriek. “Somebody help me!”
My attacker says nothing, just keeps pulling. I kick with my free leg, my heel connecting with something solid. There’s a grunt of pain, then a muttered curse. The grip on my ankle loosens for a split second.
I lunge for the steering wheel, trying to pull myself forward, away from those hands. But then there are arms around my waist, dragging me bodily from the car.
I’m thrown to the ground, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. Before I can recover, a boot presses into my back, pinning me down. I try to scream again, but a cloth is shoved into my mouth, gagging me.
Rough hands grab my wrists, binding them behind my back with something that bites into my skin. Zip ties, maybe. My ankles are next, tied so tightly I can feel my circulation being cut off.
Everything is happening too fast. My head is spinning, panic making it hard to think. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
Then, a bag is pulled over my head, plunging me into darkness. I can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t scream. The cloth in my mouth is choking me, and I gag, terrified I’ll vomit and suffocate.
I’m lifted off the ground as if I weigh nothing, thrown over a shoulder like a sack of flour. My kidnapper — oh God, I’m being kidnapped — carries me a short distance, then dumps me unceremoniously into what must be the back of the pickup.
The impact sends pain shooting through my shoulder, and the side of my face slams hard against the pickup bed, but I can barely register it through the panic.
I try to wriggle, to kick, to do anything, but I’m bound too tightly.
The truck bed smells of oil and something else, something sour that makes my stomach heave.
The truck bed creaks as my captor climbs in. Something presses against my back, a boot, maybe, holding me down as hands pat over my body. Searching for something.
My purse. My phone. They’re looking for ways to identify me, ways I could call for help. But they’re still in the car, where I dropped them when I was attacked.
The boot leaves my back, and I hear movement again. The truck rocks slightly as my captor jumps down, then slams the tailgate shut. Moments later, the driver’s door opens and closes. The engine starts with a growl that vibrates through the metal beneath me.
We begin to move; the motion making me slide across the truck bed. I curl into myself as best I can, trying to brace against the cold metal. The wind whips at the bag over my head; the thin fabric of my dress offering no protection against the freezing night air rushing past.
I can’t see where we’re going. Can’t call for help. Can’t even move. All I can do is lie here, bound and gagged, terror washing over me in waves.
Roman, I think, a silent prayer to a husband who didn’t show up when I needed him. Roman, please find me.
Will he ever get my messages? Will he look for me? Will he find me before it’s too late?
Or have I become just one more thing he’s willing to sacrifice for the club?
The truck speeds up, carrying me away from my car, away from any chance of rescue, into the unknown darkness.