Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
S avannah
Though I’ve tried not to let it affect me, Drake’s call still has me slightly unnerved. A few times I’ve looked over my shoulder because the lingering sound of his snide tone put me on edge. I shouldn’t allow him rent-free space in my head but I’m only human and I have someone else to consider I hold dear enough to die for—Gigi.
A lump forms in my throat as I think of her. The mere thought of something happening to Gigi chokes me up. No matter what I have to do, I’ll keep her safe from him. He’s a chameleon, a master of manipulation, and he has a knack for reading the room so he can fit in. His words are sweet, but his actions sour any relationship that’s more than superficial. He was sweet. He was kind. He said he loved me.
He lied.
I’ll never forget the night we broke up. Tired of being caught in a cycle of vicious emotions, I’d had enough. I told him we were through, and he smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile, more like the leer of a shark. He asked me if he could give me a kiss goodbye. I’d kissed him a hundred times and, since I’d lost any emotional connection to him, I agreed. It started sweet but soon grew forceful. He pinned me, yanked up my skirt, and held me captive, ripping my hair as he brutally forced himself inside of me. The more I tried to fight him, the more violent he became, tearing tender flesh as he drilled himself inside of me. I fought. I begged. He ignored me. But instead of crying, rage festered inside of me. I told him I was going to go to the police. He said “Go ahead. They won’t do anything. I’m a senator’s son.”
I went home and cleaned myself up. I lay in bed. The rape was horrible, but the implication that he could get away with it left me curled up in my bed, numb, and confused. Was he right?
He continued to call me repeatedly and my father grew suspicious. My father knew something happened, so I told him Drake threatened to hurt me. He took me to the police and insisted on a restraining order. I blink back tears remembering that time in my life, now thankful that I never told him the truth. Two weeks later, my parents were dead.
The pain and trauma from that time haunts me but the strain in my voice fits the song. As I finish Roy Orbison’s “Crying”, tears blur my vision, but I’m met with a round of applause. As I catch my breath, I address the audience one final time before ending the evening.
“Thanks for coming out tonight. My name’s Savannah Grace and I’ll be back next week.”
As the bar fills with chatter and laughter, I begin the familiar task of gathering my purse and guitar. I’m not afraid of him but am mentally preparing for the possibility of an encounter and, though my thoughts are scattered, I need some sort of strategy. Should I tell Sam or play the waiting game?
For now, I shake off troublesome thoughts as I toss my hair back and head to the exit leading to the parking lot.
“Night, Sam. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I call over to him.
He nods. “Give my girl a kiss for me.”
“Will do.”
I toss a wave as I exit the building. Once outside, I smile. The parking lot is nearly full, and I pause to take in the scene. As much as Sam’s helped me achieve a dream, I’ve also helped him achieve his. A warm, satisfied feeling wraps around me. This is his vision and it’s coming true.
“Cough.”
The sound makes me snap to attention, and anxiety pools within me, instantly capturing my thoughts. I stop, listen, and place my finger in position on the container of pepper spray on my key ring until I’m confident in continuing to my car.
Every step I take leaves an imprint in the digital world and as I look at the security camera overlooking the lot, I remember how adept Drake Caruso is at navigating the dark corners of the internet. I can’t help but wonder what he’s learned about me. His reputation for stalking isn’t unfounded—he’s well-connected and has access to resources most people can only dream of. Drake’s father is a powerful figure, a senator with a seemingly reputable commercial real estate business as a front. Rumors swirl about a nefarious shadow operation and Drake hinted at his involvement in clandestine dealings. His real estate business looks legitimate enough. He boasted of lunches with politicians and dinners with prominent, affluent individuals, solidifying his walk from college graduation to a position as his father’s right-hand man and eventual successor. My heart races at the thought of him spying on me.
Snatching a look over my shoulder, I continue to my car. For peace of mind tonight I need the comfort of home, a big bowl of freshly popped popcorn, and singing every word of “Under the Sea” with my best little girlfriend as we watch The Little Mermaid for, what seems like, the millionth time.
As I press the key fob, the horn honks, and the doors unlock with a satisfying click. I barely have time to wrap my fingers around the handle when a sudden noise, once again, pierces the quiet night.
The sound is a gunshot to my rattled nerves. My body tenses as if preparing for attack. Survival instincts kick into gear and I scramble to get in the car.
Fumbling for the door handle, I finally manage to pull it open and slide inside the car. My hand automatically reaches for the steering wheel, using it as an anchor as I sink into the seat. Just as I'm about to slam the door shut and speed away from, what in my mind could be a potentially dangerous situation, the sound again catches my attention. It's faint at first, but then it grows louder and more urgent. Is that ... a moan?
It sounds like someone is hurt.
Curiosity wins over fear. I stick my head back out of the car, my ears acting as a satellite to pinpoint where the sound is coming from. Cautious concern and empathy for whoever may be hurt or in need of help outweighs any thoughts of danger. I step out of the car slowly, keeping my hand on the door handle as I listen.
It’s not a moan I hear. It’s a grunt.
I exit the car and take a few steps. Barely making it ten feet away, I see someone lying on the ground by a motorcycle, their bent, jean-clad legs blocking a full view.
“Hello? Are you hurt?”
My words come out on a shaky whisper, caution evident in my tone. I take one step back as the person stirs. Peering, I get a clearer picture of scattered tools nearby.
“I’m not hurt, but I can’t say the same for my bike.” Ian leans up, his eyes widening with recognition.
“Hey, Savannah. Is your show over? It’s kind of early.”
“I’m on a different schedule today.” I had no desire to elaborate on my personal life but, after working around him for a few weeks, our initial animosity has faded to a more civil level. I gesture to the sleek machine. “You have a nice bike there.”
“Thanks. I like it but I’m still getting used to being my own mechanic.” He stands and brushes off his jeans which reveal smudges of oil and grease.
“I’m guessing you didn’t get that around here.” I tip my chin toward the bike. “Would a Harley dealership pick it up and take it to a shop?”
“There’s no Harley dealership around here. The closest one is in Melody Lake. That’s a four-hour drive. Discord Flats has a bike repair place. That’s about a hundred miles away.”
“Discord Flats?” I feel a sudden chill. “Isn’t that the town with that motorcycle gang, Sinful Sons?”
“Yeah. I’ve been there once. Just in and out of town. I picked up a part for the bike. It was a nice ride, but I should’ve just had them ship it to me.”
“I’d think, if you bought the bike there, they’d want to keep their customer happy.”
“I didn’t—buy it there, I mean. The bike was a gift from a friend.”
“Oh, wow! That’s some friend.” The words fly out of my mouth, and I instantly regret the tone. I wish I could bite them back but it’s too late. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound snarky.”
He doesn’t seem offended. In fact, his words are touched with sadness.
“It’s okay. You’re right. She is quite a friend. One of the few I’ve got. Dash Barrows’ widow gave it to me.”
“Oh, I remember. The writer. What’s her name? Sky something?”
“Eden Skye’s her pen name. Her real name is Skylar—or Sky. That’s what everybody calls her.” He thumbs over his shoulder. “He loved that bike. I’m trying to keep it nice. She also gave me one of his guitars.”
Sadness drapes his eyes, and sorrow etches his features. There’s no mistaking the heartbreak in his voice and it hits me with more of a punch than a prick. For a moment we share the deep pain of love and loss. Battered hearts have a language of their own.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
My words hang in the air as his expression softens, revealing a vulnerability that tugs at my heartstrings. The mention of Dash's passing brings a somber heaviness to the conversation. I know I should end it here and make my exit, but I can't resist staying a little longer.
Ian’s expression softens. “I appreciate that. Dash was a hell of a guy.”
“Can you fix it?” I look over his shoulder toward the motorcycle.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Not now, anyway. I don’t have the right tools with me.”
How are you getting home?”
My question is met with a shrug and a defeated tone. “Uber, I guess, or I can go back into the bar. Sam’ll give me a ride when the bar closes.”
“But that’s not ‘till later. A couple more hours, at least.”
His palms turn up as he shrugs. “I don’t see as I have a lot of options.”
I tell myself I’m not his rescuer. I’m not. I’m not his resc— “I can drive you home.”
My words take flight despite my intentions. He gives me a tentative look.
“I can’t let you do that,” he says with a hint of hesitation. “Besides, I’m kinda dirty.” He looks down at his jeans.
I brush off the concern with a sigh. “It's only a ride, and I have something you can sit on. You’d do the same if the situation was reversed, I’m sure.”
“Maybe.” A coy smile appears and awakens a playful twinkle in his eyes. “You sure about offering me a ride, Savannah?”
His sexy smile reawakens old feelings. It’s been a long time since I thought someone sexy, and his scampish look nudges my dormant libido. I press my lips together and bite the inside of my cheek, the pinch a reminder to stay focused.
* * *
As the engine comes to life, I drift from the parking lot to the road. “I have to pick up Gigi first, but then I can take you home.
“I’ll pay for gas.”
His offer catches me off guard and I shake my head. “That’s not necessary.”
“Stop, Savannah. You’re doing me a favor. The least I can do is pay for it.” His tone incites an internal shiver.
“We’re good, Ian. Unless you live on the outskirts of Melody Lake or Harmony, we're good. I’ve got a full tank.” The ring of my cell phone interrupts our conversation and I answer it through the car’s speakers. “Hello?”
“Where is you, Momma?”
I’m on my way, sweetie. I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay. Love you, Momma. Bye.” Gigi’s voice echoes through the car before she hangs up.
Ian turns to me with a smile on his face. “Someone misses you. She’s pretty clever to know how to call you.”
“It’s easy for her. All she has to do is push a button. Her babysitter has me on speed dial. Gigi knows how to press the number one but doesn’t understand the concept of time yet. She likes to keep tabs on me.”
“I think it’s sweet. She’s a good kid.”
I chuckle as I steal a glance at him. “I’m surprised to hear you say that, considering you were a victim of her temper.”
“It’s no big deal and it’s done and over with. My shirt washed out just fine.” He pauses. “So, back to what we were talking about—me compensating you for giving me a ride.”
I shift my eyes and shoot him a disapproving look before turning my eyes back to the road.
“I mean it, Savannah. I want to give you some money.”
“Nope—and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
"In that case, I'll wash your car for you." He takes a deep breath and sniffs the air. " And detail it. What is that disgusting smell?"
A laugh escapes me. “That’s the smell of spilled milk that’s soured. It’ll never come out.” I sneak a peek at him. Confusion wrinkles his brow. “I drive with the windows down a lot.”
"What about?—"
I hold up my hand, effectively cutting him off. “Stop, Ian. It’s just a freakin’ ride. Can’t you just accept a simple act of kindness?” Exasperation is evident in my tone.
"No."
No? I snap my head toward him and see he’s serious.
“I’m not good at that; accepting favors. I prefer to pay my way. Maybe it’s kindness. Maybe it’s pride. I haven’t figured that out yet.”
His humble reply catches me off guard and the sound weighs heavy on my heart. I shake my head in disbelief.
“Not everybody expects something from you, you know? Sometimes, people do something nice without expectation of payback. They do it just because they want to.”