Chapter Eight
AFTER WHAT WAS THEmost luxurious shower of my life, full of honeysuckle-scented products and long enough that I’m sure I tested the capacity of even this place’s hot water heater, I locked the bedroom door—with a chair under the knob for good measure—and passed the fuck out on that giant bed.
I hadn’t meant to. I was going to stay awake as long as I could, be vigilant. But it was like my body didn’t realize how exhausted it was until it was clean and warm and reclining in those thick, poufy blankets, and the next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes to a cool, quiet bedroom lit by just the faintest pink light.
It takes me a minute to realize where I am—to not panic. This isn’t the grimy twin bed and scratchy blanket I had at John’s place. Not the buzzing fluorescent lights I’m used to waking me up.
This is...
The past few hours come flooding back. The Mustang in the woods, Will and LJ finding me, the drive to this...this place, the food, the meeting with Rob, the tour from Tuck, the...everything of it all.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I’m shacked up at some place that’s clearly the result of some kind of criminal activity, with a bunch of strange men I have never seen before in my life, at least one of whom’s an ex-con and knows his way around a crossbow while another is built like a cage fighter and seems to hate my guts.
I shake my head. I can’t stay here. My hair is a mess, having dried in a tangle under my head, and I’m wearing a set of sweats—men’s—that I vaguely recall finding in a linen closet beside my ensuite bathroom—the ensuite bathroom, I correct myself.
Because I can’t stay here. Obviously.
Is it evening or morning? I wonder, gracelessly pushing myself up to sit and scrubbing at my eyes. I fumble around on the bedside table for my dumb phone to check the time, but it’s still dead—of course—just barely flashing the “plug in charger” symbol.
“Goddammit,” I mutter. Well, at least I have a first order of business now: finding a place to charge my phone. Once that’s taken care of, I can just...find a way to get some fuel in the car—assuming they brought the Mustang back around here somewhere—and then...
Then hit the road, I guess.
The prospect feels distinctly sad, like I’m giving up on a big gift. Because, well...in another life, under other circumstances, I don’t think I’d refuse the chance to live somewhere for free, work on some absolutely iconic cars, and have my roommates be...easy on the eyes, let’s say. You could certainly do worse than these four.
I think back to that lingering hug with Tuck and shiver a little in my bed.
Jesus. I’m obviously not thinking clearly. I need to get moving.
A digital clock on the desk near the reading nook says 5:04, with a dot next to the A.M.
Okay, so I really did sleep all day and then some. Well, good to be rested, I guess.
I grab my boots from where I’d left them outside the bathroom and pull them on, but hesitate at the pile of yesterday’s clothes.
I feel bad stealing these sweats, but my flannel and jeans are disgusting. And it’s not like these guys couldn’t afford to replace them, if they even notice they’re gone.
I pitch my old clothes into the bathroom trash, grab my dumb phone, and slip out the bedroom door.
The house is almost eerily quiet as I pad carefully down the massive second-floor hallway. The carpet’s thick enough to muffle my steps—it could probably muffle a bowling ball if I dropped one—but I still basically tiptoe my way out. There’s one heart-stopping floorboard squeak at the top of the stairs, but after I freeze, and no one comes, I breathe out and continue my way outside.
It’s a beautiful early Virginia morning—cool and blue and misty with just the hint of the day’s eventual heat playing in the breeze. The air smells like earth and pine sap and smoke as I creep out to investigate the driveway—and sure enough, the Mustang is sitting right at the edge of the curve.
Perfect,I think. Well, almost. It still needs gas. And I don’t quite know how to get out of these massive gates...but maybe they’re just motion activated from this side, I reason. It’s not like they need to lock people in.
Not until today, anyway.
I swallow my worries and just pray that I can drive off once the tank has a little fuel in it. So that’s goal number two: find gas. Battery for the phone, and gas for the car.
Think, Maren.
To my right stands the massive, five-car garage, like a miniature version of the house itself. That seems like as good a place as any to start, I reason. If I can find a jerry can—like for a lawnmower or something—that should be enough to at least get me out of the forest. And maybe, by sheer dumb luck, I’ll find a phone charger in there too.
The side door is unlocked, and I slide in with only the slightest creak. I don’t dare turn on the lights, but it doesn’t take me long to spot the trademark red-and-yellow of a plastic jerry can of gas. I jump over to it in three giant steps and give it a shake—success. At least a little gas is sloshing around in there. Perfect.
There’s no cars parked in here, but there’s plenty of gear—enough to rival MacAllister’s, honestly—and a broad workbench spanning the back wall. Various tools and gadgets are plugged in, their charging lights winking, and I’m just wondering whether I should investigate for a phone charger when the lights flare on above me.
“What the fuck?” growls a voice. “Who’s there?”
“Shit,” I yelp. From the other side of the garage, I hear pounding footsteps, someone coming down the stairs to the second floor.
A surly, dark face meets mine. LJ is here—and he’s not happy to see me.
“What the fuck,” he repeats, “are you doing here?”
This is bad, I think. So much for slipping out unnoticed. LJ looks ready to throw down. I can’t even compute what he’s doing in the garage, until I recall what Tuck mentioned yesterday after our little tour—LJ has his own separate digs.
I guess that means above the garage.
He’s wearing the same black tank as yesterday—or an identical one—and even in the dim garage light I can see his muscles rippling.
The full lips of his mouth curve in a snarl. “Well?”
“I...was looking for a place to charge my phone,” I say quickly. Not not the truth.
“Your phone,” LJ repeats.
“Yep,” I say, nodding in frantic sync with my heart.
He stares at me—at the jerry can in my hand. “Your phone’s gas-powered,” he states.
“Oh, this? No, I...” I can’t think of a reasonable excuse.
“You’re trying to run away.”
“No!” I insist, but immediately, I see there’s no point in lying to him. He’s not a bullshitter—and neither am I, for that matter. So I set down the can and fold my arms. “Okay, maybe. So what if I am? Why do you care if I stay or go?”
LJ doesn’t answer, just strides to a dark corner of the workbench and throws open a drawer. I stand there, pulse thumping, until he returns, bearing a thin black cable in one hand.
“This work?” he says. I blink at him.
“Uh—”
“For your phone,” he clarifies. “Pulled it off a meth head we caught in the woods a while back.”
“Right.” I shake my head and inspect it quickly. “Um...yeah. Thanks.”
He gestures for my phone, and I hand it over, then watch as he plugs in the cable and plugs the cable in to an outlet over the work bench. He glances at it, then at me.
“It’s charging,” he says.
“Great,” I say, lamely. “I guess I’ll just...wait.”
LJ glowers at me. His dark eyebrows are drawn in a hard set, his gaze laser-trained on me.
“I don’t know if I do.”
“If you do...what?” I ask, after a moment.
“If I care whether you stay or go.” LJ breaks his stare and looks off at the house. “They might. Probably do. I’m just not sure I do.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well...look, it’s generous of you guys to offer me a place to sleep and all, but—”
“I didn’t offer shit.”
Attitude much?I think, but swallow my retort and amend my statement. “Generous of them to offer, but I think it’s obvious that I can’t just stay here. Fixing cars or no. I mean, a girl on the run just randomly sheltering with a bunch of guys she barely even knows? It sounds...it sounds bad,” I finish stupidly. “Right?”
A flicker of amusement skates over LJ’s features. “And you’re not a bad girl, Princess?”
I grit my teeth. I’m willing to be civil just to get him to leave me alone, but he’s really trying my patience. “You know what I mean. And yeah, for that matter, maybe I’m not. I don’t know what you guys are up to here, but I don’t think it’s really my...scene.”
LJ is silent. He glances at my phone.
“You’re at 25% battery.”
For whatever reason, that feels like enough. “Thanks,” I all but snap. “I’ll be taking that back now. And the gas. Unless you want to stop me.”
“It’s a free country, Princess.”
I don’t even want to dignify that with a response. I just grab the gas can, stride across the room, yank my phone free, and march right back outside.
The sun’s nearly come up now, the sapphire sky streaked with orange at the edges as I march over to the Mustang. My phone vibrates in my fist as I walk—powering back on, I think at first, until it vibrates again, and then again.
Text messages, I realize.
But nobody ever texts me. No one except...
Panicked, almost frantic, I drop the can on the ground and flip open the phone. Sure enough, the messages are from John.
Where the fuck are you girl
You can’t just run out on me like that
I’ve got the sheriff and every deputy in the county looking for your ass
They know you’re mentally unstable. They won’t hesitate to use force
For your own sake, you’d better be dead already
Crack.
I don’t realize the phone’s slipped from my shaking hand until I hear it hit the asphalt.
“Fuck!” I cry, coming to after a second of stunned silence. I scramble to my knees, groping around for it. It’s banged up—the screen broken, the stubby antenna warped—but still functional.
The messages still there.
“Fuck,” I say again, sinking further into the ground.
Of course. I should have figured that John wouldn’t let me go without a fight. I might even be worth more to him dead than alive—who knows what bullshit he’s cooked up with the sheriff and filed in the courts?
“What’s going on here?”
The voice isn’t LJ’s. It’s Rob’s.
“Where do you think you’re going?”