As soon as she could after landing, Payton pushed off the plane and ran down the main tiled corridor, pushing past anyone blocking her way to the main entrance. The noise of the crowd overwhelmed her. Any one of those people could be working with them. They could find her at any second. The woman could’ve easily been slouching against a post with a gun under her shirt.
Children swarming around the baggage claim, people talking on their phones—a barrage of constant irritants only served to heighten Payton’s already agitated state. There was no need to stop, having brought her small bag on the plane with her. She ran, bag in arms, following the signs toward the exit, darting through hallways and tunnels, the weight of being discovered pressing down on her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Bursting out the airport doors, Payton stood on the sidewalk gulping in air as she tried to catch her breath. This had to stop. People were looking at her, trying not to stare. One young woman in a tan trench coat threw a dollar at her head like she was homeless.
Did she really look that bad?
There was a restroom right by the front sliding glass doors, and Payton darted again through the crowd, pushed through the door, and looked in the mirror. The fluorescent lights turned her face a shade of gray and she was sweating and pale. There was a mark she hadn’t even known about running up the side of her forehead and her damp hair stuck out from her scalp. What a fucking mess. She turned on the warm water and splashed a handful on her face, then wet her hair and let it hang down so she could run her fingers through it and rinse it in the sink.
She was losing her mind. If she didn’t calm down, she was going to get arrested or worse, no matter what was happening with the people who’d taken her. She had to let the tension wash away, at least enough for her to function normally. Panicking would only serve to make things worse, and a clear head might just give her an early warning.
When she was younger, whenever she was stressed, she’d look straight ahead, focusing on the front of her nose, and clear her mind. There was nobody there. Nobody was going to hurt her. Back then, she’d been able to convince herself she was safe, at least for a short while, even though it hadn’t been true. It probably wasn’t true now either, but she had to try.
Taking one last deep breath, Payton stepped out of the restroom and back into the swarming mass of people. Looking out for threats had become natural a long time ago and now that she was calmer, it was easy to keep her eyes up—looking to see not only where she was going, but also who was around her—without even being noticed. So long as she kept that up, it might be possible to identify potential threats. It gave her something to do other than worry about whether or not danger was around the corner, but it also kept her from forgetting what was coming after her.
There was no forgetting the fear, and only God knew what she was going to see when she eventually stopped and closed her eyes. No, she wasn’t getting over her fear; she was just trying to focus it and stay alive.
San Diego was humid, but it was temperate. She could smell the difference in the air, letting her know that she was close to the ocean. She hailed a cab and got in.
“Where are you going?”
She’d heard about a new library close to the airport. Topped with a massive steel dome, it felt somewhat safe for her, and it was the perfect place to start her search anonymously.
“I wanna go to the Central Library, but first could you stop at a drug store real quick?”
“Alright.” The driver pulled out and onto the street. “So, are you from San Diego?”
Payton stared out the window. No point giving anyone more information than strictly necessary. “I don’t feel like talking.”
“I’m sorry,” the driver pulled a face that didn’t look entirely sorry. “I’ll leave you be, then.”
The driver pulled up to the curb alongside a drug store and Payton dashed in, grabbing the first suitable foundation she could find, along with a few other necessary purchases. Back in the car, she took out the compact and attempted to make herself look less dead and more “don’t call the cops on me.” The driver looked back at her and sighed, but just kept weaving through the lanes. As soon as she parked again, Payton quickly paid the fare out of her cash wad and fled. Her money wasn’t going to last forever. She was going to have to start walking soon or catching public transport—either that or get a job. But first she needed to find her feet.
Swinging her bag over her shoulder, Payton walked into the library, trying not to stand out. She sat down at the first computer she saw and started searching for a neighborhood to hide out in. Where she lived, what job she looked for, it all came down to keeping herself hidden. On the plane with adrenaline still coursing through her, fighting back had seemed like a great idea, but now? Sitting out in the open at the computer terminals in the library, her skin shivered with the feel of hundreds of eyes on her. Keila’s words echoed in Payton’s mind and the shivers increased, but for a different reason.
Payton didn’t believe for a second the blonde woman had had a vision of her, but whatever her excuse, choosing Payton to be the one hadn’t been a coincidence. Her abduction hadn’t been a random snatch and grab. Who was she fooling? She could run again, hide somewhere else here, burrow into a miniature apartment in a rundown neighborhood all she wanted. It was exactly what she’d done in Chicago, and in the end it had done jack shit. Whoever they were, they’d still found her.
This was it. She couldn’t run again; she didn’t have a choice. Whatever happened, it was going to happen here in San Diego. And how she was going to defend herself when that moment came was the most important thing. More important than where she lay her head at night or what she did to bring in money. If whoever was after her caught up to her again, Payton wasn’t sure she’d survive it that time.
But what would work? She was tiny compared to most men, and completely inexperienced. She’d frozen when she was faced with that guy back at the house, and she was never going to let that happen again. She needed to be able to fight back—at least to be able to run again—rather than end up drugged and tied up on the floor. Searching for self defense, at first the results seemed overwhelming. Everything from martial arts training to commercial courses fired back at her. She needed something where her size wouldn’t be a disadvantage, and something she could pick up fast.
There were countless videos showing how to disarm men, and how to respond in case of a surprise attack. They made it all look so easy, but she wasn’t sure if she could do it in real life. She needed practice, a way for her to really test herself, and to work on her body. While there could be some value in learning martial arts, from what she’d seen, they took years to learn. She needed something that she could use right away—something deadly.
She clicked on a video of a man down on the ground with a knife held to another man’s throat. The two men were moving faster than she’d ever seen, making contact every few seconds, darting around in a frenzy. That was more like it. Payton wanted to learn how to do some actual damage, not how to kick her foot over her head.
This video had something, a fierce style called Krav Maga. Every video she watched had the same fast-paced motions. The instructors didn’t mess around and the demonstrations seemed to embody pure rage and aggression—the need to defend yourself—even kill if need be. In fact, killing seemed to be the focus. Was this what she’d been looking for? FAQs on the websites she visited only confirmed it: Krav Maga was designed to be simple and picked up quickly and better yet, designed to defend against the most brutal of attacks. The technique used body weight and power to level the playing field just enough for you to get the hell away. Perfect.
She clicked around and found a gym offering beginner classes just a few blocks from a beach, and a small smile formed on her face. The universe might finally be smiling on her. She’d find an apartment nearby if she could. A place near the beach, where she could go out and listen to the white noise, even dip her head in the water—that sounded divine. If this place had a hope of being home, s
he needed to relax and take the time to really decide what she was going to do. A few more clicks and she found a small long-term stay chain nearby, with several single-room apartments still available. That would be easier than dealing with a roommate. The price suited her meager budget until she found a job, and she could just about see the water from the building’s parking lot. That was it.
Three hours later, she stood in the single room of her new space. It was furnished, sort of. If you counted a faded couch, a table with one chair, and a bed topped with a dusty quilt as “furnished.” But it was cheap and now it was hers. It didn’t matter to Payton what the place looked like. She never called anywhere home for long. It was nothing more than a hotel to her—four walls and a roof, and no one busting down the door that night, with any luck.
She dropped her bag and explored the neighborhood in the setting sun. There were a couple of restaurants within walking distance, as well as a grocery store, and she put in an application for work at a couple of them. She wasn’t sure about any of them, and didn’t get a definite answer, but it didn’t matter. She had enough cash to live on for a while at least, and there was no telling how permanent the arrangement would be. She needed somewhere she could sleep for the time being. The rest could come later.
As she was walking down the next block, her head was starting to spin. She hadn’t eaten much of anything in God knew how long and the stress of the day had definitely caught up with her. Half a block away sat a dive bar. It wasn’t right on the water, but it looked empty enough that nobody would encroach on her space. Walking in, Payton immediately felt at home. The place was dark, basic, with sand covering the floor and black walls with red lights. There was no one much inside, let alone anyone paying attention to her. Yep, she could definitely go unnoticed in a place like this, where any patrons were more interested in when their next drink was coming than in who was serving it. She walked up to the bar and sat down. The bartender had her back turned, but she looked out of place with the surroundings, a tall black-haired woman with an air of elegance.
“Hey,” Payton called.
The bartender turned around and looked at her like Payton had just thrown something at her. Maybe she was more used to that in a place like this? “My name is not hey.” The woman turned back around to whatever she was doing.
Fuck.
“I need a drink. Please.” Payton started drumming her fingertips on the bar. “And have you got any work going?”
The bartender turned and placed her hands on the bar. “What are you drinking?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Equis and a Tequila.”
“Oh, you want a tequila?”
Okay. Maybe she could charm the woman with a tip. Payton took out a hundred-dollar bill and the woman turned around to make her drink. “I’ll be right back.” She hadn’t stopped to shower with everything going on and she could almost feel the fear from that morning still coating her skin. That coupled with the warmer weather in San Diego and she felt like dunking herself in the ocean fully clothed. Until she went back to her apartment, this was going to have to do.
Payton stepped into the bathroom and splashed her face with cool water before washing her hands and half her arms with the provided liquid soap. Walking back to the bar, a large man had sat on the barstool right next to hers. He leered at Payton as she walked past. The skin on his hands was covered by a layer of dirt or grease and his black hair stuck out on the side of his head. His eyes were glazed over when he chuckled to himself and walked over.
“Fuck off.” She tried to push past him when he got in front of her.
He shook his head. “Don’t gotta be like that.” He walked closer and put his hands on her sides, trapping her. Panic rose up inside Payton, nearly choking her, until a single frame from the video that morning popped into her mind. Then another, and suddenly she was no longer afraid. This was your garden-variety barfly, and if she was going to make a stand, now was as good a time as any to start. Dropping down, she ducked under his outstretched arms and then once she was clear of his body, she kicked her foot out, making contact with the back of his knee as hard as she could.
“Ah! You bitch!” The man yelled and swung wildly, but for once, being short paid off. His arm missed her entirely and Payton pushed again, kicking his feet out from under him, and the drunk crashed to the floor. Payton took the moment to hop back up on her barstool and was sitting before he knew what had happened.
The bartender had been watching them the whole time. “You got to go, Harry. I warned you before, no touching the girls.” She shot a look at Payton. “You alright, Kid?”
“Aw, fuck you, Rita,” Harry mumbled. Drool and blood were oozing out of his mouth.
“No thanks. I’ve been there before. Not going back.”
Harry stood, swaying on his feet a little. He grabbed his crotch and turned back toward Payton.
“What about you, Sweet Thing? I’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”
No way was she in the mood for that. “What’d you say?!” Payton jumped off her stool and picked up an empty beer bottle from a nearby table. Harry must have been sober enough to at least remember hitting the floor the first time and he scampered out the door before Payton moved any farther.
She turned around to see the bartender grinning at her. “Welcome to your new job. You’re my new bartender, Sweetie.” She held out her hand and Payton shook it, puzzled.
“Thank you,” Payton said, picking up her shot and letting it burn down.
“Been looking for someone like you for awhile. Sometimes you just gotta fight them off. Good-looking women can’t afford to be nice. Not in this world.”
Payton grimaced. The world had tried to teach her that lesson about a million times since her birth. This time she was going to listen, and it looked like her new boss would know just how to teach her.
“Thanks. I’m Payton, and you are?”
4
Frank had smoked crack for nearly fifteen years before he became a police informant, and if it hadn’t been for Cole’s help, he would never have pulled himself out of the habit. The ironic thing was that drug addicts blamed the police for everything, regardless. Sometimes they were right, but that time Cole had saved him.
It was only natural for Frank to want to return the favor, and that’s what had him showing up at Cole’s duplex that night, and every night before that. This time, he’d found Cole strung out on a stained couch with a beer in his hand, wearing nothing but the same boxers he’d been wearing for more than a week. His dark hair was wild and matted, and his eyes darted around the room while Frank tried to talk him out of wherever his mind had gone. Cole heard him, sort of.
Cole’s eyes were glazed over, thick with strange visions, as if he had long since left reality behind. In his mind, he was still in that dark place, trying to avoid the sadistic glares of the men as they watched him scream for mercy. He never left that place, not fully, and the memory of it would’ve already destroyed him had it not been for Frank’s intervention.
Frank had dragged him the first time, but now Cole went on his own. Mostly. Rico’s Gym was a hole in the wall not far from the beach, full of ex-cons working off their psychotic, drug-induced paranoia; and local gang boys eager to show off. Every day, Cole drowned out their frantic ego trips and sat down at the bench press, staring straight up as he lifted the bar and tried to build himself back to his former self. He tried to ignore how little he could lift in comparison since that night, and the nightmare that had followed, that had forced him out of the police, or how his core was weakened from disuse. The weight moved up and down, driven by his weakened muscles. It became a symbol for the fight to gain back independence, the vitality that had once been so inherent in Cole’s nature. Every time that bar rose and fell, he was a little bit closer to the finish line. A little closer to beating back his demons for another day.
He’d been ripped a year before, with a physique capable of turning any head and a strength that had helped him to survive his wo
rst nightmare. With work, he would get back to that point. Rico’s offered something that would help gain back his old confidence. During the day, at least, there was no giving up. But then the sun would set again, and the room would darken, and Cole’s nightmares would come out to play. That’s when Frank paid him a visit.
Frank had introduced him to an instructor named Aaron at the gym. When Cole first came in, it was hard to find the strength to work. Rehab had left him weak and it had been so long since he’d really worked out that it was difficult to even get started. He had lost so much—his job, and nearly his life—but Aaron pushed him every day, and stayed by his side at the machines. He didn’t let Cole stop, even when the burn was unbearable. It would never really be enough, though. Not for Cole, and so he’d started attending Aaron’s classes, too.
Krav Maga had been a common training technique in the San Diego police force for years, and though the moves had come naturally after so long, the exercises and intense melee training had left Cole feeling weak. He used to be able to slam a man down to the ground with the force of a single punch, but now stepping out on the mat was a chore.
Cole kept to himself as much as possible during class. He couldn’t identify with the people there. He wasn’t wearing a rosary and a tank top or selling drugs. But the moment he stepped out onto the mat, that all fell away. He had been trained to always be aware, to be ready to defend himself or save a life at any moment. As much as he hated to admit it, he’d been trained in violence, just like those who hurt him. The other gym-goers had the same shifty eyes as his captors, eyes that constantly scanned the room for potential threats, and there was always something that could make them go over the edge. Although Cole’s attitude wasn’t drug-induced—not anymore, anyway—it was there nonetheless. Rico’s was a place where aggressive outcasts came to work off their tension, or at least psych themselves up into believing they could handle anything. And that was what he needed. Otherwise the pain inside him would grow until it was a monster that would eat him alive.
Payton (Dreamcatchers Romantic Suspense Series Book 3) Page 2
