Amour Toxique: Books 1-3 Boxed Set (Books 1-3 Series Boxed Set)

by Dori Lavelle

I wedge myself into a corner of the truck bed and curl myself up as tightly as possible, the way I did in the dumpster. I need this man to drive me somewhere far away. Damien will expect me to be on foot.

  I count the seconds, waiting for the driver to return. At last, I hear heavy boots hitting the ground. Something hard is thrown into the back, hitting me on the ankle, the one with the bracelet. I grit my teeth to stave off the pain and prevent myself from crying out. A few loud heartbeats later, the driver’s door slams shut.

  The engine sputters before roaring to life. Then the truck rumbles under me, jerks, and starts moving. I laugh silently as tears of relief leak from the corners of my eyes.

  48

  I place a hand on my abdomen and suck in a breath.

  We’ve been on the road for at least fifteen minutes—a good thing, as it puts more distance between me and the Hotel. If only I didn’t need to urinate so desperately. My bladder is protesting and the truck shows no signs of coming to a stop. Doesn’t this town have any traffic lights?

  When the truck comes to a halt, I almost cry out with relief. I’m so ready to get out.

  We must be near the sea, because I can hear the sound of waves crashing.

  Careful not to be seen in the rearview mirror, I lift my head a few inches, expecting to find cars lined up at a traffic light. My heart drops.

  The few cars behind us are parked on the curb in front of one-story brick houses with carpets of manicured lawns in front. This is no temporary stop.

  Faced with worse problems, I ignore my bladder. I’d banked on getting off the truck before the driver made it to his final destination.

  I haul the blanket over my head, leaving a small opening for my eyes. To my horror, the lights in the house we’re parked in front of go on, and the door opens. A pregnant woman appears in the doorway. Next to her stands a boy of about two or three.

  The driver’s door squeaks open and I shrink lower into the bed of the truck.

  My eyes are wide open under the blanket, my heartbeats counting the seconds before something happens. Maybe he’ll go straight into the house without coming around to the back of the truck. That would give me plenty of time to clear out. My mind is too much of a mess for me to consider an alternative.

  The driver shouts something in Spanish and the woman in the doorway responds with laughter. I squeeze my eyes tight when his footsteps move to the back of the truck.

  There’s a commotion near my feet; he must be reaching for whatever object he threw into the truck at the gas station, the one that struck my ankle. The space around me empties as he removes more things from around me. I feel a quick tug, and then my safety blanket is yanked clean from my body.

  For the first time since we started our drive together, our eyes meet. He’s somewhere in his late twenties, with a goatee and a bushy ponytail. The expression on his face rapidly transforms from shock to confusion.

  I raise a hand to show him I mean no harm. I want to say something, to explain, but fear won’t let go of my throat, making it difficult to get any words out.

  “¿Quién eres?” he asks. Despite my limited Spanish, I understand the question.

  I swallow hard to open up my throat. “My name is Ivy. Ivy Hollifield. I—”

  “What you want?” he asks in English.

  “A ride… that’s all. I just needed a ride. My husband is after me. He’s dangerous.” Maybe this man and his family can offer me shelter. “I need help.”

  The man lowers his gaze to my other hand, the one stretched out next to my body. My fingers are wrapped around the knife I stole from the hotel. One half of the blade is covered by the dish towel, and the exposed area is glinting in the light of the moon and streetlamps. I cover it up but it’s too late.

  “Fuera de aquí!” His voice is edged with ice. I don’t understand the words, but his body language conveys his meaning perfectly. He’s not going to give me a chance to explain. He must believe I’m some kind of criminal. I don’t blame him.

  I scramble to my feet, and without giving him a chance to do or say anything else, I climb over the edge of the truck bed.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice is smothered in tears. Then I scamper off into the night.

  As I weave my way through the streets of an unknown town late at night, a pebble digs into the sole of my foot. It’s not the first. I wince but continue walking. I wish I hadn’t forgotten my shoes in the dumpster. Then again, how far would stilettos have been able to get me?

  I have no idea where I’m going, or what awaits me at the next corner. But I can’t stop now. I need to find a place to hide, to rest.

  I run my hands up and down my arms, creating friction to warm my skin. The balmy air has cooled. I crave a hot shower more than anything.

  After walking down the deserted street past several closed shops, I spot a liquor store. A muscular woman with pigtails is squeezed into the doorway, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curls around her face. She blows out another puff of smoke, and to my surprise, gives me a small wave.

  Talking to a stranger is risky, but I need help, unless I plan on spending the entire night walking.

  “Hello.” I take a few timid steps toward her. “Do you speak English?”

  She gives me a toothless grin. “Inglés... un poco.” She tosses her cigarette onto the ground and crushes it with the tip of her snakeskin boot. She’s a strange-looking woman, no older than thirty, with big muscles and pink ribbons in her hair. Her nails are also painted bright pink. But who am I to judge?

  “Can you help me, please?”

  “I help you.” She doesn’t take a step back, isn’t repulsed by my smell. She stretches out a hand and I shake it, tears flooding my throat. She might just be bored and in need of someone to talk to, but her small gesture of kindness means everything to me.

  “Is there a motel around here?” I take my time with each word to ensure she catches everything I’m saying.

  “Motel?” The woman places a finger on her pink lips.

  “Yes, a motel.” I bring my palms together and press the side of my head against my hands. “For sleeping.”

  “Aaaah.” Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Motel. Yes, yes. I know motel.”

  Given the language barrier, it takes about ten minutes for her to explain to me where the motel is located, and I’m still confused.

  A simple solution crosses my mind. “A map. Do you have one?”

  She blinks at me.

  “Mapa?” I’m not sure I’m making sense, but her eyes brighten, and she nods and holds up a hand. She disappears into her shop and returns with a folded map.

  Things are smooth after that. She invites me into her shop and finds a pen. I watch over her broad shoulders as she draws circles and lines on the map.

  I also ask her where the police station is, and she circles that too.

  The distance between the liquor store and the police station seems shorter, so I decide to try and get a bed for the night first. If I do, I’ll go to the police station in the morning. All I can think of now is getting a shower and some sleep.

  I thank the woman for her help. Before we part ways, she lets me use her bathroom and gives me a can of soda for the road. She tells me her name is Marissa. I tell her mine and say goodbye.

  The motel is closer than I thought, no more than fifteen minutes from Marissa’s store.

  When I finally reach the front door, my body collapses against it, pushing it open.

  49

  The lobby is dark and musty, decorated with dusty fake plants in the corners.

  Someone is reading a newspaper behind the counter, which has a cross engraved into the blond wood.

  As I approach, the paper lowers to reveal a thin, unsmiling face. I guess him to be no older than twenty-five. Round, dark eyes narrow to slits as they take me in.

  My stomach clenches as I wait to be turned away.

  “¿Qué desea usted?” he asks in a rough voice, his lips pinched.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t
speak Spanish.” I lean against the counter, feigning confidence I don’t have. “Do you speak English?”

  “What do you want?” Despite the thick accent infused with irritation, his English seems good.

  “I need a room. Do you have a vacancy?”

  His gaze travels from my dirty, stringy hair, over my filthy clothes, then down to my bare feet before returning to my face. “You smell bad.”

  “I know.” I’m beyond feeling offended. “I had a rough night. Please, I need a room for the night.”

  “Do you have money?” His tone tells me he doesn’t believe I do.

  I bite my bottom lip, but release it when I taste a mixture of sweet and sour. All kinds of rotten food must be sticking to my lips, along with my dried-up vomit.

  I decide to be honest again. “No.” I tighten my hands around my can of soda, my sole possession at the moment. The sound of metal against the can draws my attention.

  I lower my gaze to my fingers and look back at the man, smiling. “I have this.”

  Placing the can on the counter next to a stack of folded newspapers, I remove the wedding band Damien gave me a few days ago, drawing it away from the diamond ring now caked with dirt.

  I use my thumb to wipe some of the dirt from the band and hold it up to the man.

  “If you give me a room, you can have this.” I refrain from telling him about my psychopathic husband. I don’t want him thinking I might bring trouble. Right now, I’m just a homeless woman in need of a place to stay.

  The man attempts to take the ring, but I move it out of his reach. I won’t risk letting him take it only to kick me out of his motel with nothing.

  “Can I have the room? I’m sure this ring is worth more than a night here. Maybe thousands.”

  I have no idea of the ring’s true value, but I find it hard to believe that Damien would give me a cheap wedding band. In the morning, I’ll find a way to sell the diamond ring for money, hopefully enough to get me out of town.

  Licking his bottom lip, he narrows his eyes at the dirty diamond ring, points at it with a thick finger. “Give me that one.”

  “No.” I start to put the wedding band back on my finger, to scare him into thinking I’m about to walk away.

  “Fine, fine,” he grunts. “Give it to me.”

  “Give me a key.” I stretch out my hand, my chin raised in confidence.

  He rises from his chair, clears his throat, and reaches into a drawer. He pulls out a key and places it in my palm. “Room number ten.” The moment I wrap my fingers around the rusty key, he holds out his hand. “Payment please.”

  I hesitate. “Actually, this ring could be worth a couple thousand dollars at least. It’s worth more than one night.”

  His shoulders slump forward slightly. “How long?”

  “I’ll know tomorrow. I need you to promise that I can keep the key for as long as I need the room. Two days, maybe three.” I don’t want to spend more than one more night in this town, but I still have no idea what tomorrow will bring.

  “Give me the ring. You can stay two nights.” He holds up two fingers.

  I’m in no position to argue further, so I take the deal. If I have my way, I’ll be long gone before two days are up.

  The man takes me to room number ten and orders me to leave it as clean as I found it. Before he goes back to the lobby, I ask him a few questions about how to get to the nearest big town. He tells me it’s Guadalajara, and there’s a train that goes there once a day. I thank him and he grins at me, happy to have gotten his hands on my ring.

  He thinks he got the better deal. In my opinion, we both got something of worth.

  50

  The room is simple, with a single bed, a stained rug, a lamp, and a small desk with one chair pushed under it. Apart from an old clock on the wall above the desk, there isn’t much else—no plants, pictures, or even a curtain at the window. But it’s my safe haven for now.

  Two frayed quilts cover the bed. I peel one off and use it to cover the windows, tying the ends around the empty curtain rod. I make sure the door is locked, then place the chair underneath the handle for extra security.

  The windows are large enough for me to climb through, should it come to that. But if I’m able to climb out, what would hinder someone from climbing in from outside?

  The thought leaves me cold, but I’ll lose my mind if I worry too much. At least I can see the small parking lot from my room. I’ll know whenever a car drives in.

  There’s nothing I want more than to throw myself onto the bed and go to sleep, but instead I go into the small bathroom. The shower is barely big enough for one person to fit inside, the basin is cracked, and the toilet cover is missing.

  I peel my clothes off as quickly as possible and jump into the shower. The jet of cold water shocks me, but I recover quickly. I allow the cold water to run over my hair and skin, then scrub as much grime off as I can with the one tiny bar of soap I found near the sink.

  Finally, feeling a bit more refreshed, I turn off the shower. Even though a faint stench lingers in the air around me, it’s not stomach-turning. Another shower in the morning should chase off any additional smells.

  Before leaving the shower, I touch the bracelet on my ankle, trying for the millionth time to remove it. I could sell it along with the diamond ring. But the piece of gold metal is as tough as ever.

  Dripping, I glance around the bathroom for something to dry myself off with. A rough towel on a rusty hook next to the toilet beckons for me. When I’m done drying my skin and hair, I wash my clothes in the sink, after removing the now soggy photo of Damien and me from the back pocket of my pants. I also rinse the kitchen towel I had wrapped around the knife. I’ll tuck the blade under my pillow before I go to sleep.

  My clothes might not be able to dry completely before morning, and there’s no way I’m going to sleep with the window open. But that’s fine. Clean, damp clothes are better than dry clothes soaked in rotting food.

  Wearing my damp but freshly washed panties and bra, I climb under the quilt, pulling it up to my chin. I keep one eye on the door, and one hand on the knife under my pillow.

  Despite my exhaustion, I toss and turn for hours, imagining Damien bursting through the door and dragging me back to my prison. At times the images are so vivid inside my head that I sit up in bed, trembling with fear. But the hours tick by and he doesn’t show up.

  When the clock strikes 3 a.m., I drift into a troubled sleep. An hour later, voices in the corridor outside disturb my sleep. Head swimming and heart pounding, I sit up and listen.

  The voices belong to a man and woman. They’re getting closer.

  It hasn’t even been one night and he’s already found me.

  I jump out of bed and get into my cold, damp clothes, which still smell sour. I glance out the window. Before I went to sleep, a single car had occupied the parking lot—a beaten-down white Toyota Corolla. Now there’s a taxi parked next to it. No one is inside.

  The voices get louder for a moment, and then silence returns. Could it be a false alarm?

  I have two choices: relax and go back to sleep, or assume Damien is standing outside my door right this minute and make a plan. Maybe I should run for it. But what if I jump out the window and someone in the lobby sees me through the window? How far would I be able to run before he catches up?

  I’m holding my makeshift curtain with one hand and my knife with the other when I hear the voices again. It sounds like an argument, and the voices don’t sound familiar.

  No footsteps approach my room. A few minutes later, the argument stops. Not long after, I detect movement outside. A man dressed all in black exits the motel and heads for the taxi. He gets in and drives off.

  Ten minutes tick by, then fifteen, then thirty. Deciding it was a false alarm after all, I undress again, hanging my clothes over the chair at the door.

  An icy shiver touches the base of my spine as I climb back into bed. Under the covers, I consider my options.

  I
f I manage to get out of Mexico, where will I go? I’m desperate to return home, but where is that, exactly? The dorms? My mother’s place? Where do I belong? Everyone I used to know believes I’m dead. And Damien is no fool. He knows I’ll seek safety somewhere familiar.

  No, I can’t go anywhere familiar until I’m one hundred percent sure that Damien is behind bars and cannot come after me. Until the coast is clear, I have to find a safe place somewhere far away from Boston and Oaklow. My old life as I knew it has crashed and burned. I’m never getting it back. I’m not the same person I was before he kidnapped me.

  Right now, my focus should be on getting out of Mexico. I hope the cops will be able to connect me with a U.S. embassy or consulate. Surely they can issue me temporary travel documents and facilitate my safe return.

  51

  An impatient rap on the door yanks me from sleep. It can’t be long since I closed my eyes. It’s still dark outside.

  Two voices seep in through the cracks in the door, along with light from the corridor. One of the voices belongs to the motel owner, the other to a woman. Could it be someone sent by Damien? Anything is possible at this point. Maybe he’s standing right there next to them.

  My body is heavy as I pull myself up and cower near the headboard. Despite the fact that I’m shaking with cold, fear-induced sweat dampens my armpits. It’s a struggle to think straight. But I have to think fast—act fast.

  The knocking gets louder and more persistent. Knock, knock, knock. Thud, thud, thud, my heart responds.

  “Open the door right this second.” The woman’s husky voice is angry. I detect a British accent.

  A quick glance out the window reveals nothing new. No new cars parked in the lot—but that doesn’t mean anything.

  On tiptoes, I hurry to the door, lift my damp clothes from the chair, and get dressed in the semi-darkness, ignoring the coolness of the fabric. In my rush I almost trip, but I get my balance back in time before I fall.