Chapter 1 #3
Even though the neon sign by the road and the one above the door are dark, there’s still a light on inside. I tilt my head back and take a glimpse at the big moody sky, with its deep grays and purples, deciding just how much rain it wants to dispense.
I whip my head to the left at the sound of movement over the gravel.
My stomach sinks, feeling instantly unsafe.
On instinct, my hand moves to my back pocket, where I put the sharp-tipped key chain.
I stay completely still, waiting and listening.
The sounds of rushing water from beyond the riverbanks that loop halfway around the property, the chirp of bullfrogs, and the intermittent sounds of cicadas singing out in the ebb and flow of their calls.
But that’s it, nothing else. And yet, I feel it.
I’ve been hunted before. I know what it feels like to be watched and timed. The crawl of someone’s attention rolls along my damp skin, as if it’s powering me up. I know better than to wait and see—waiting only gives them time. Time isn’t something I’m interested in giving up any more of.
My hair whips across my face, blinding me for a few seconds as I react quickly.
I don’t think about where I’m heading; I only know I need to get far away from where I just was.
Taking long strides, I glance along the darkened side of the old building.
Nothing’s there except a tire lying in the grass, no cars or bikes left in the lot.
Not a straggler or drunk passed out in the weeds.
Shit.
I pull my phone from my purse and glance up at the double doors to the bar, stepping inside.
Finding Birdie’s number, I press call. The red glow from the sign that reads Sinners and Goddesses Welcome bathes my path as I move along the entryway.
The overpowering smell of bleach tickles my nose.
It should smell like stale beer, smoked barrels, and a hint of lavender from mixing bleach with Fabuloso.
It’s the only way to get this place fresh again before the next day, Birdie would say.
Only, there’s nothing floral or nostalgic lingering in the air now.
Something isn’t right.
The second I enter the main room, there’s enough light for me to make out filled garbage bags, a caddy with cleaning brushes, solutions, and putty knives.
But it’s the thick pieces of cloth piled on the floor, absorbing a deep, dark red liquid that had spilled out and pooled in a spot right in front of me that has every hair along my arms raising as a sinking feeling settles low in my gut.
In a panic, I take a quick inventory of what else shouldn’t be here—equipment I’ve never seen, jugs of unmarked liquid, a pile of shredded clothes, and a pair of men’s work boots neatly placed next to it.
Stepping back shakily, I’m careful not to make any more noise than I already have.
My body vibrates, remembering the way danger feels when it’s too close, the way it slithers just before it strikes, tearing everything apart.
I take another step back the way I came.
Don’t panic. And another. Quietly, I take three more steps back.
On the fourth ring, Birdie answers. “Wyn? It’s late, honey.
You alright?” she says faintly from the phone.
My foot hits the threshold, but before I can respond, a heavy arm wraps around me like a vise against my ribs, trapping both of my arms at their sides.
I can barely suck in a breath before a hand covers my mouth.
I bite it, but I can’t catch the palm; instead, I taste latex.
Frantically looking as the bar’s doors come into view, I try screaming, but only a gut-clenching groan escapes.
I’m held so tightly, my back pressed against a bigger, stronger, and taller body that barely budges even as I try thrashing out of its grip.
The deep voice grits out, “Calm down.”
“Fuck you,” I try shouting, but it comes out pathetically stifled.
He adjusts his hand along my mouth, still covering it and pinching my nose at the same time. Shit.
“I said. Calm. Down,” the low, deep voice repeats.
I stop moving, but my mind races for a way out of this. I’ve learned to follow directions the hard way. The scars on my palms and along the left side of my body burn in my subconscious.
I hear a muffled calling of my name from the other end of the phone that’s been kicked into the dirt and gravel of the parking lot. Birdie. “Wyn? Wyn, sweetheart, are you still there? Where are you?”
It’s an interruption that works as a distraction.
He moves us closer to where the phone lays, out in the open, under the night sky.
His hand moves a fraction away from my mouth, his wrapped arm loosening slightly, enough to allow me to let go, exhale from my gut, heavy my limbs, and drop. Deadweight.
I never hit the ground. It’s not enough. Instead, something pricks the base of my neck, then a stinging burn follows in the same spot.
No, no, no, no, no.
I know what it feels like to be stuck with a needle. I’m being drugged. Shadows quickly drench the outline of my field of vision like an old movie vignette. “No,” I try shouting again, but it doesn’t sound as loud as it should.
I move fast enough that I loop my fingers into my back pocket, and with the little energy I have, I raise my hand out and come down as hard as I can on his thigh.
“God. Fucking—Fuck,” he groans just as my arms become as heavy as my legs.
But he doesn’t drop me or hit me. He gently places me on the wood-planked floor.
Being drugged doesn’t feel freeing. It’s panic held in a soundproof box.
I try to even my breathing. Placing the tips of my thumb and middle finger together, I raise them to my mouth.
The whistle I try for is pathetic. There’s no way it’ll be heard.
I hold on to consciousness for as long as I can.
I take in every detail I see—a worn-in cowboy boot the color of the whiskey I just bottled this morning stepping beside my head, and in contrast to the stark-white shiny plastic-like pants that mold to a large, looming form.
I blink and take in the white PPE coveralls, the sleeves of it tied at his waist. I fight to keep my eyes open.
No shirt, a bare torso leading to shoulders, each capped with?—
That can’t be possible.
Dark shapes that look like paper airplanes turning into birds as they move to the center between his shoulder blades.
Words and then a compass below it. His hair is pulled back tightly at the nape of his neck.
I look at his hands and see one brown leather cuff fastened to his wrist, peeking out above his black latex glove.
“Julian?” I rush out as quickly as my lips allow.
He turns immediately toward me, steps closer, and towers over my weighted body. If it weren’t so dark in here, I’d see hazel eyes studying me.
I know it’s him.
But he doesn’t say my name, or anything in return. I only hear the sound of blood rushing in my ears.
The only thing I know, with every fiber of my being, is the person who made me feel something again, the charming stranger who I haven’t been able to scrub from my memory, a jeweler who made me smile, who made me feel lighter and more confident, who moaned the dirtiest things I’ve ever heard, is somehow here, right now. And he lied. Again.