Then it’s all down to business. Cut sorts out my stuff while Horse takes me in his arms again and carries me up to his second-floor flat. While I worry about the weight strain I must be putting on his back, this is the easiest mode of transport since I came out of hospital. Not very independent, though. My physio wouldn’t be pleased.
My earlier assumption that Cut’s got something better to do is proved right as he hangs around only as long as it takes to say goodbye, and then the two men pull each other in for a one-armed man hug, accompanied by back slaps which would probably knock me over if they tried that on me. As Cut wishes him good luck and hopes that all goes well—well, that’s what I interpreted from the man-speak—he comes over and takes my hand. Still bemused at everything that’s happened to me, at last remembering my manners I thank him for his help, which he dismisses with a wink and a wave of his hand, then he leaves, and I’m alone with this mountain of a man.
Men have never intimidated me before. Shit, in my previous life, I’d go after anything that attracted me, anytime, anyhow, and anywhere. I used to amuse Zoe with all my conquests—I loved sex. Why should I be ashamed about that? Never felt the need to tie myself to any one relationship; just enjoyed sampling as many of the various goods as I could. Now, desire has completely left me, and instead of causing my lady parts to quicken, my breathing speeds up and my palms start sweating. I’m trapped in a wheelchair and unable to fight if any man wants to take advantage of me. Was I stupid agreeing to come here?
Horse looks down at me and I shift uncomfortably at his gaze—he’s not said anything since Cut left. He seems to be waiting, but for what I don’t know. I start feeling scared. As I’d been before, I wouldn’t have said no to putting him through his paces in the sack, but now? Nope, not even a flicker of desire. If he makes any approach, I’ll have to make sure he knows that isn’t on the agenda. Unless he uses force, of course, as I’m in no state to be able to press a refusal.
It’s awkward, trapped in my wheelchair in the home of someone I don’t know. Wanting to break the silence, I ask, “So, what happens now?” Twisting my hands in my lap, I hope he’s not going to ask for more than I’m prepared to give.
He lifts his chin and narrows his eyes as if he can read my fears, then raising his head, his hands come up to massage his neck. “I’m pretty confident I’ve got everything squared away, but I’m waiting on a call to confirm it. Might take a couple of days so we’ll hang out here until I get the okay. For now, I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking hungry. Want some Chinese or something?”
I don’t have much of an appetite nowadays—food is something I eat by rote, just enough to keep me alive. Even that holds no particular pleasure for me anymore. But he’s a big man and probably needs feeding, so I shrug. “If you want.”
Horse nods, asks whether I’ve any preference—I don’t—and places the order. It’s going to take about an hour to arrive. He puts on the TV, and I manoeuvre my chair until I’m in front of it, then settle in to watch programmes about motorcycles I’ve no interest in. I’m more concerned about what’s going to happen to me, and whether Zoe got away safely.
The news comes on.
“Hey, Horse! Look!” My finger points to the screen and he comes to my side. Together we watch as the newscaster makes his announcement, letting the nation know that Zoe Baker has gone missing and that her partner, Ethan St John-Davies has put up a bloody quarter of a million pounds reward about information as to where she’s gone. There’s even a frigging picture of her! Minus bruises, of course. It must have been taken on a good day.
Oh my God! Two hundred and fifty thousand fucking pounds. That’s hard for anyone to resist. What if Horse, Cut, or their mate Josh, who he’d told me helped Zoe escape, decide to drop her in it for that amount of money? My heart starts pounding as I glance warily at the huge man standing beside me.
“Fuck! Christ, I hope she got away safely.” Horse smooths back the hair that’s flopped down over his forehead. He’s frowning and half mumbling to himself, “Her disguise was quite good―even Josh didn’t recognise her at first. Hopefully it’s enough to keep her out of his clutches.”
The words I overhear cause tension to leave me in a rush, and I sigh with relief. If nothing else proved this man had good intentions, what he’d just said did, and it filled me with warmth. That amount is one heck of an incentive to turn Zoe in. I cross my fingers and, though not particularly religious, send up a quiet prayer. Anyone who watched that news item would be on the lookout for her now. I can only hope she’s got a good enough plan to keep herself safe.
We talk a little as we wait for the phone call he’s expecting, but neither of us shares much. I’ve only just met the man, so I’m not going to tell him the story of my life, and he’s obviously a private person and doesn’t let on much about his. We spend the evening watching TV, then, when there’s nothing on to interest us, I try to read a novel on my iPad while Horse flips through car and motorcycle magazines, as well as some more artistic ones which make me ask him how he earns his living. When I find out this huge man built like a brick shithouse is an artist, it surprises me. His hands look too big for finely detailed work. Seeing my interest, he gets out a portfolio of some of his work and I’m amazed. What a talent he has!
The one thing he still refuses to let on is where he intends to take me. The only answer I get is a sly smile and the response that he’s waiting to check it’s going to work out before he lets me in on the secret. I’m starting to feel wary and worried about what he’s got planned. If it was, say, a cottage in the Outer Hebrides, why wouldn’t he tell me? Sure, it might be a bit cold this time of year, but that I wouldn’t much mind. It’s not like I go out much, so it wouldn’t bother me to be snowed in.
I go to bed in his spare room; my fears relieved when he showed me to the spare bed. But perversely, part of me is upset he’s made no move on me, yet more confirmation any desirability I had as a woman has gone. Men don’t see me any longer, they see the chair, and that’s an immediate turnoff.
It’s three in the morning when Horse gets the call. The walls are thin in this modern apartment and his voice is loud, so I can hear his side of the conversation easily, though it doesn’t make much sense to me. I hear my name mentioned, then Horse replying, ‘Yep’ several times. The call seems to end abruptly, with none of the lingering goodbyes women tend to use.
The light goes on in the sitting room. After tossing and turning for a while and realising Horse is still apparently up, giving up on sleep for the night I decide to go and join him, suspecting the call might have been the one he was waiting for and he might have news for me.
He’s sitting on the couch with a laptop open in front of him and looks up, one eyebrow raised in question as I wheel myself in. “You alright, babe?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I heard you on the phone.”
“Sorry.” He grimaces. “These walls are like paper. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
I shrug to show it doesn’t matter.
“Well I might as well tell you now, everything’s been sorted.” As he glances toward me, his eyes are twinkling and one side of his mouth is turned up. “You’re coming with me to Tucson as soon as I can get the flights. I’m booking them now.”
Tucson? What? I open and shut my mouth a couple of times and swallow. The only Tucson I know is in the States. Surely, he can’t mean he’s taking me there? My brow creases in consternation as I ask for clarification. “You’re not talking about that place in, where is it now…” I break off, realising I have no fucking idea where exactly it is.
He looks up, a boyish grin on his face. “Arizona.”
My frown deepens. “Ari-fucking-zona? Why the heck would I want to go there?” I’d have preferred the Outer Hebrides.
“To be safe.” His reply is a simple one. “It’s far out of St John-Davies’ reach, and I’ve got friends there. I can promise you’ll be well protected.”
“But,” I wave my hand at my chair, knowing
I’m going to have to point out the obvious, “I can’t go on a plane like this!”
“Of course you can!” Horse suddenly stands and comes over to me, his hands on the arms of my wheelchair. “What the fuck d’you mean you can’t? Christ, woman, you can do anything you fucking want to!”
Of course I fucking can!
Which is why, somehow, just forty-eight hours later, I find myself being wheeled through London Heathrow Airport toward the departure gate for a direct flight to Phoenix, Arizona. Horse has made me wear my prosthesis, and my crutches are attached to the back of the chair. He’s organised and, despite my objections but to my relief considering my limited finances, paid for the tickets and everything, even arranging for his mate Cut to take us to the airport.
The crowded airport is just as overwhelming as I expected. Either people address Horse and expect him to speak for me as though I lost my mind as well as my leg, or they go to the opposite extreme, leaning over their desks and making sure they speak to me slowly and clearly as if I’m deaf. As we go through check-in and passport control, I start fuming. And getting through security? I had to take off my flipping leg as well as having the other one x-rayed due to the number of metal pins in it! At Horse’s insistence, they took me to a private area to do it, but even so, unstrapping my leg in front of strangers and watching them examine it was an embarrassing start to the journey. Once they let me through, Horse was waiting with my bag and a sympathetic look on his face. For a moment, his hand rests gently on my shoulder.
Although I know which city we’re heading to, I still haven’t been able to get Horse to tell me anything more than we’ll be staying with some of his friends. His evasion suggests there’s something about the situation that I might object to if he came clean. But, however much I’ve pressed him, he won’t tell me a darn thing he doesn’t want to share. I suspect he doesn’t want to get into an argument.
If I were a normal person, I’d be excited to travel to the United States―it’s something, when I had two working legs, I’d always wanted to do. But at the moment the very thought of the practicalities involved in a ten-hour flight worry me. Not being a normal person, I deliberately forewent my second cup of coffee this morning and haven’t drunk anything since I arrived at the airport, despite Horse’s encouragement. When making the booking, Horse informed the airline of my disability and confirmed that he'd be the companion the rules require, as I’ve got limited mobility. But I’m still worried. What the fuck happens if I need to go to the loo?
Toilets on planes are tiny at the best of times, how would I be able to manage? I can’t balance on crutches sufficiently to be able to walk up the aisle—if there were the slightest bit of turbulence I’d fall over. Christ, my bladder feels full just with the worry of the realities that the majority of my fellow passengers would never consider. It’s not the first time I’ve cursed my predicament. And Horse wonders why I’ve considered ending it all?
With the worry of how I’ll keep comfortable on the plane in mind, I leave making use of the full-sized disabled facilities at the airport to the very last moment, rushing in when the call for boarding is announced.
As it turns out, the flight isn’t quite the nightmare I feared. Horse wheels me down the gangway to the plane’s doorway. I’m then transferred into a smaller chair that they call an aisle seat, and the stewardess pushes me down the aircraft, and I’m able to shift myself over to where I’ll be sitting on the outside of a central block, with Horse beside me. It means the other passengers can get out via the opposite aisle, without needing to clamber over me. I’m so thankful that I’m not sitting on the window side. When the dreaded time comes when I can’t hold off any longer and have to answer the call of nature, I once again use the aisle chair, and Horse accompanies me, helping me get my balance in the slightly larger disabled cubicle before discreetly leaving me alone. It’s awkward, but by using the handrails, I’m able to sort myself out, make myself decent, and unlock the door. We then reverse the process to get me back into my seat.
All in all, relatively dignified, though I know I’m blushing red as I return to my allocated seat, keeping my eyes downcast to avoid the glances of able-bodied people who can barely hide their curiosity, probably wondering what was wrong with me and how I managed to do my business alone. I hate this! I hate being different!
Halfway through the flight, I’m suddenly gripped by pains in my lower left leg, which makes me gasp and lean forward to rub it. My hand hits the hard metal of the prosthesis. Tears come to my eyes in frustration at the phantom pain I can do nothing about, and once again reminding me of the loss of my limb. Horse knows I’m hurting, but he wouldn’t understand, so I don’t try to explain. But thank goodness he hands me some Tramadol, which has the side effect of making me sleepy. The next thing I know, we’re coming into land at Phoenix and, at last, I’m arriving in the country which will be my new home. For how long, I have no idea.
It’s new and different. It’s exciting and bewildering. It’s frightening. How the fuck has my life been turned upside-down again in only a few days?
Last off the plane, having to wait while they recover my wheelchair from the hold, I’m finally being taken through the unfamiliar but modern and accessible airport. Looking at my Apple Watch―the one luxury I’d treated myself to after my accident, I see the temperature outside will be warmer than it was when I left England. Here it’s about twelve degrees Celsius. Or fifty-three Fahrenheit, I see flashing up on a large display. I suppose I’ve got to get used to the American way of doing things now.
Horse pushes me to baggage claim and collects our luggage. I wheel myself from there; he’s got enough to carry with our bags. We go through customs without a problem, and then out into the arrivals area.
Suddenly a loud voice shouts ‘Horse!’ and a man, only an inch or so shorter than my companion and wearing black leather comes across to greet us, slapping Horse on the back and pulling him in for a manly hug. Another similarly clad man comes across and does the same. Loud voices exchange greetings, ‘Good to see ya’s’ fly over my head and, as the men acknowledge each other, I take a moment to get my first good look at what are apparently Horse’s friends, and with whom I’ll be staying with for the conceivable future.
I’m not naturally a shy or retiring person, but I’m only five-foot-two, and couple that with the fact I’m sitting down, I feel very small and shrink further back into my chair as if it could hide me. When I hear my name, it takes me a moment to respond.
“Babe, Sophie, this is Dart and Slick. They’re here to take us down to Tucson.”
Swallowing a couple of times, I get up my nerve and look up to see two men beaming down at me, their eyes taking me in from head to toe.
“Hey, I’m Dart!” The man with long dark hair tied up in a bun reaches his hand down to me and gives me a wink. I lift my hand and shake it. I notice that with his aquiline features and dark brown eyes he’s a very handsome man.
“Slick.” The other, also a good-looking man with a shaved head, does similar. Both look curiously at me. I hate what they see—a disabled woman in a wheelchair. In the old days, I’d have been wondering how quickly I could get one or the other, or both, into bed. And what’s with those strange names?
“Have a good flight?”
At least they’re speaking directly to me; so many people wouldn’t. I nod. “Yes, it was alright.” For once I can’t think of much else to say. I’ve met a lot of men in my life, but with the exception of Horse, never such tough and intimidating ones as these before. I find myself wary of saying the wrong thing. But I suppose if I need someone to protect me, they certainly look up to the job.
“Let’s get moving then.” Slick’s eyes flick around as if he’s worried about something, and as I see men in uniform eyeing them up, I start to suspect the amount of security around isn’t making either of them feel comfortable.
Without further ado, Dart comes around and starts pushing my chair, and Slick takes one of the bags from Horse. We g
o outside, and a short distance away there’s a black SUV and another leather-clad man waiting. At our approach, the new man opens one of the rear doors allowing me to get a look at what he’s wearing.
Shit! Now, I’ve watched Sons of Anarchy like most people I know, I mean, who wouldn’t lust after Jax? So I recognise the leather vest as the cut it’s called here as soon as he turns his back. The wording across the top reads Satan’s Devils, and across the bottom, Tucson Charter. Horse’s friends belong to a biker club? My mouth goes dry. What the fuck have I got myself into here? I start to wonder whether, after all, it might have been safer to take my chances in England. The Outer Hebrides suddenly sound a decidedly attractive option.
But I have no opportunity to change my mind about going with them, as without ceremony Horse lifts me and plonks me into one of the seats, then folds up my chair and it disappears into the back. I just have time to notice the cut of the man who they didn’t bother introducing to me and who’s now in the driver’s seat, says ‘Prospect’ on the back, before all three get in the car, and we’re quickly on our way.
Chapter Four
Wraith…
Glancing at my phone, I notice it’s almost ten o’clock. The clubhouse is relatively quiet as it’s Tuesday. The weekends are our party nights, but there are still a few members around taking advantage of the sweet butts, and Adam’s at his regular spot, monopolising one of the arcade machines and, of course, Hank’s behind the bar. Spider will be out manning the gates, and Marsh, our other prospect, has gone down to Phoenix along with Dart and Slick to collect Horse and the mystery woman, Sophie, as I now know she’s called.
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