by KB Winters
“And if you do go back,” he continued, “you may not get out of it alive next time. I've seen it happen all too often.”
Without meaning to, I figured he'd just told me what had happened to his mom. As I looked up at him, I saw tears shining in his eyes, but he pushed them away and smiled at me, putting on that familiar cocky smirk he usually wore. But the more he spoke, the more I was beginning to see that smirk he had plastered on his face was little more than a disguise. A front. He was busy putting up his mental and emotional walls—much like I did. Our reasoning was very different, but the effect was the same—we were both different people than we pretended to be. Than we let the world see.
And now that I'd seen past them, beyond his walls, I saw them—and him—for what they were. Saw that we were far more alike than I'd ever thought possible.
And I knew much of that confidence, swagger, and cockiness he walked around with was little more than a facade to keep people from seeing him for who he really was. To keep people from seeing that deep down, he had a soul. Of course, he had a tough exterior and a rough around the edges personality, but deep down inside of him, there was a good man. I could sense it. See it.
“So, this Scott asshole, how long were you two together?” Jameson asked.
“Little over a year,” I said, pulling myself away from Jameson's embrace.
I sat up and cleared my throat, straightened my top, and tried to regain some measure of composure. He simply sat there, looking at me with a soft, gentle, and patient expression on his face. He wanted to hear my story, but he was willing to let me tell it in my own time.
“Can you believe I moved all the way from the East Coast to be with that fuckwad?” I asked, barking out a laugh. “Makes me want to kick my own ass all the way back home for being so gullible and stupid.”
“I'm sure you had no idea it was going to turn out like this.”
“Not a clue,” I said, sitting back down at the table. I avoided his gaze as he got up from the bed and moved back to the table. “My parents loved the douchebag, too. They sort of pushed me his way, telling me that he'd take good care of me, give me a good life and good things, like clothes and cars and houses. That I needed to appreciate everything he was doing for me.”
“Well, pretty lady, I don't know anything about those things,” Jameson said, scratching at the stubble on his chin.
I couldn't help myself from stealing a glance. He really was incredibly attractive, in that dirty, gritty, bad boy way. He most definitely wasn't the clean-cut, businessman, country club prick-type that Scott was. To me, there was a lot more to life than the amount of money in your bank account. Sure, I wanted to be comfortable and secure, but I didn't need to be filthy, stinking rich to be happy. Money wasn't the key to my heart or a condition of my happiness. I was learning that lesson fast.
“So, what about you?” I asked, casually. “Got a girl?”
Jameson shrugged. “I did, he said. “But we ended things recently.”
“Why?”
“I dunno,” he said. “Bad fit? Cosmic realignment? Murphy's Law? Shit happens? Take your pick.”
I stared at him for a long time before asking, “You cheated on her, didn't you?”
“Fuck no,” he said, pulling another breakfast sandwich from the bag, offering another to me as well. “She was completely cracked out—though, she hid that little fact from me. Hid that habit. Which was smart thinking. If I’d known she was on the shit, I would have never hooked up with her in the first place. If she'd started using after we got together, I would’ve cut her ass loose right then and there. I don't fuck with that shit. That's not my deal.”
Jameson’s face got very dark, and his voice started to crack. He bit hard on his sandwich and then swallowed and cleared his throat, perhaps to try to clear his mind. But he wasn’t finished with his story. It seemed to have a hold on him.
“I don't mind partying and dabbling in weed or some lightweight shit like that, but she was into the serious, hardcore stuff. Way too hard for me. Hard enough that if I took it, I'd be a little worried about my own safety. I'm no prude, but I'm not going to deal with somebody doing that kind of shit. I don't have time for it. I told her to get clean. Told her I’d help her, do whatever she needed, or I was done.”
“She chose the drugs?”
“Yep,” he said, staring off in the distance.
I could see the bitterness in his eyes—not that he was doing a whole lot to cover it up. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched as he opened and closed his fists. I could see the pain in his eyes—dark and abiding—roiling with his gut. He'd let himself cry, and that was what told me that he'd cared about her. More so than he was willing to admit. He was so casual and flippant about it, but I knew better.
“I don't get it. But hey, she made her bed, right?” he said through teeth he was doing his best to avoid gritting. “Now she has to lie in it. You don't do anything like that, do you? You're not into the hardcore shit?”
“No,” I said. “Besides lousy taste in men I'm as clean as they come.”
“You can always change that,” he said, giving me a funny look.
“Yeah, I can tell you're a good, wholesome girl. You didn't seem the type to me.”
“The type?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“The type who was into that sort of shit,” he said. “To me, you seem like the kind of girl who just fell in love with the wrong kind of man and got caught up in some really bad shit. That's all. I didn't mean anything negative by it. In fact, if you want my honest opinion, I think that's a really big positive. For whatever that's worth.”
“Well maybe you don't know me too well, then,” I said, holding my head up high as I said it. “Maybe I'm not the good, wholesome girl you think I am. Maybe I've got a real dark side that you don't see.”
He raised a dark eyebrow in my direction, and I lost it, breaking down in laughter over the way he looked at me.
“Fine, fine, maybe you're right. I'm a good girl. Too good sometimes,” I said. “But I can't help it. It's how I was raised. It's kind of ingrained in me. Some things I've been able to set aside and evolve from, but drinking and drugs is something that's stuck with me my whole life. Like you said, it's not my deal.”
“Ain't nothing wrong with that,” Jameson said with a smile. “Nothing at all. And I'm glad you're getting out of your marriage situation, Isabelle. I really am. A fine lady like you deserves way more than what that asshole could have ever given you.”
I felt my cheeks flush with color, and just wanted to change the subject as quickly as possible. I didn't take things like compliments or flattery very well. Never had. I wasn't the kind of person who likes to be praised or have somebody's focus entirely on me. It always made me feel uncomfortable. Exposed.
“So, do you mean what you said? About taking me shopping?” I grinned. “Because I'll give you a chance to revoke that now before it's too late and you're stuck inside a Macy's with me.”
“Nah, I meant it,” he said. “I'll do what I can to make your stay in Milling as comfortable as possible. Make sure you're looked after. And once your car is back up and running, you can get the hell out of here and hopefully build a better life for yourself—wherever you might land.”
“Definitely not Milling,” I muttered.
“Whatever you say,” he said and I could have sworn there was a touch of sadness in his voice. “Mind if I step outside for a smoke? You can get all dolled up or whatever, then we can head out?”
“Sounds good,” I said, watching as he picked up all the sandwich bags and disposed of them. His ass in those jeans was something straight out of my dreams, I swear. As he went to step outside, I met him at the door and I stood a little too close to him. He cocked his head and look at me questioningly.
I offered him a smile and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek—coming a little closer to those sexy, scrumptious lips of his than I'd intended. But I managed to pull away and plant a gently kiss right on his stubbly c
heek instead.
“I mean it. Thank you. For everything.”
His smile was warm, genuine, and surprised. He was obviously not the kind of man used to being thanked for anything.
“You're welcome,” he said and walked out to the parking lot, shutting the door softly behind him.
Chapter Fourteen
Jameson
I walked over to my bike and pulled out my pack of smokes, pulling one free from the box. As I lit my cigarette and inhaled deeply, I noticed a van pulling into the parking lot nearby. We didn’t get much traffic in Milling, just passersby every now and then. I figured they were probably lost or looking for a gas station. I leaned back on my bike and exhaled and then took another long drag, my mind a whirl of thoughts.
I couldn't believe I'd let myself get emotional in front of Isabelle, and part of me wanted to kick my own ass for it. But then, letting her see behind my walls is what led her to opening up to me. We were actually talking about what she was going through. Sharing. She'd opened up and had confided things in me I was sure she'd never told another living soul. It made me feel good, but in a way, I also felt responsible for her. Like it was my duty to watch over her, to protect her, and keep her safe.
At least, as long as she was in Milling. Once her car was fixed and she was out on the road, I didn't think I'd ever see or hear from her ever again. It bummed me out a bit. But that wasn't something I was willing to tell her. My bullshit was the last thing she needed on her plate. She had enough to deal with as it was.
As I exhaled a thick plume of smoke into the air, I looked out at the road, thought about Isabelle and what had just happened in her motel room. I wanted to help her, I just didn't know how. I didn't know what she needed or wanted because she wouldn't tell me. If feeding her and making sure she had everything she needed during her stay here was all I could do for her, well, I'd do it gladly.
Coming down out of my head for a minute, I turned and looked toward the motel room and noticed her door was ajar. I knew I'd closed it when I walked out. I was absolutely positive that I had. I even remember reaching back and checking the knob just to be sure it was locked.
Part of the reason I'd stepped out in the first place was so she could have some privacy. As I thought about it, my gaze fell back onto the van that had pulled into the parking lot a few minutes earlier. I recalled that the van had pulled in slowly. As I thought about it, I realized that they could have been pulling in so slowly because they were looking for somebody.
Somebody like Isabelle.
A bolt of adrenaline surged through me as the pieces fell into place in my head. And that was when I heard shouting from inside Isabelle's room.
Flicking my smoke to the ground, I rushed toward the motel room as fast as I could. I shoved the door back with such force the cheap wood paneling splintered into pieces. I confronted three men with guns. One of them pointed right at my head.
“Easy, boys,” I said, putting my hands up. “No need for things to go sideways here. I'm sure we can work this out.”
“Like hell we can,” one of the men said. “Besides, who the fuck are you? And how the fuck is this any of your goddamn business?”
“The name's Jameson,” I said. “I don't believe we've met?”
Isabelle was still in her bath robe, her eyes wide, her body trembling. She looked pale as a sheet—more terrified than I'd seen somebody look in a long, long time. One of the men was standing behind her with his arm wrapped around her neck, the gun hanging loosely in his hand. He looked from her to me, his eyes filled with a fiery hatred.
“Who the fuck is he, Isabelle, huh?” he sneered. “This your new fuck buddy or something?”
“Ahh, I got it now,” I said, pointing at the man holding Isabelle. “You must be Scott. Yeah, I've heard a lot about you, brother.”
“Jameson, stop—” Isabelle said, begging me with her eyes.
“So, you know this asshole?” the guy said, pulling Isabelle by the hair, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “You leave me high and dry, and a day later, you're fucking this lowlife? What a fucking slut you are!”
“Hey!” I called out, starting to move toward Isabelle when one of the men hit me in the head with the butt of his gun. The dude hit me hard, and I felt the blood starting to ooze from a gash in my forehead. I saw stars for a moment, and they stopped me in my tracks. Momentarily, at least. Feeling a dark and primal rage building up inside of me, I turned to him, prepared to fight. Gun or not, I wasn't about to let some asshole get the upper hand.
Problem was, there were more of them than there was me. And I didn't have a gun or any sort of weapon on me. The Smith and Wesson was in the saddlebags, I should’ve grabbed it.
I'd faced some long odds before, but usually never with somebody's life hanging in the balance. The last thing I wanted to do was put her in harm's way. I knew that for the time being, the best course of action was to stand down. I could—and would—catch up with these pricks later. Now, this was personal. I had a score to settle.
The man holding Isabelle dragged her out the motel door as the other two guys grabbed me by my arms.
“What should we do with him?” one of the guys asked as I struggled against their hold on me.
“I don't fucking care,” Scott said, putting his hand over Isabelle's mouth as he dragged her outside.
My primal instincts kicked in, my need to protect her, and I pulled myself free from the two men and took off running toward the door. I knew that it was harder to shoot a person in motion, and these guys didn't strike me as pros, so I figured I'd be able to get out of the room in relative safety.
What I didn't count on, however, was the fact that my head was still bleeding, and as soon as I moved forward, the dizziness from the impact hit me, hard. I stumbled, and that's when the two men grabbed me again.
The larger of the two held me while the shorter, stockier one who looked like a middle-aged stock broker—not a kidnapper—beat the hell out of me with the butt of the gun.
My vision began to darken and waver with each successive blow.
“Come on,” the larger man said. “Hurry it up already. Unless you want me to take care of him myself?”
The man delivered one last hit and I heard the sound of something crunching beneath it. My nose. I felt the blood begin to ooze down my face, my entire world wavered and then went black.
***
When I opened my eyes, the first thing that grabbed my attention was the intense pain in my face and head. I groaned and rubbed my temples, trying to ease some of the throbbing in my head. The second thing I noticed was that I was still in the motel room.
I noticed all that and the fact that I wasn't dead. Just knocked out, bloodied and roughed up a bit. I took stock of myself and it didn't feel like anything was broken, except maybe my nose. I was gonna have some bumps and bruises, but I was still whole.
“Fuckin' amateurs,” I said, spitting out a pool of blood from in my mouth.
I wiped my face and grimaced as pain shot through my body when I tried to get up. It was a struggle. Yeah, they might not have killed me, but they did a number on me pretty good. The wave of dizziness that swept over me as I grabbed the side of the bed was almost too much to handle. I thought I might topple over when I pulled myself to my feet, so I clutched the chair nearby to steady myself. The same chair Isabelle had sat in only moments ago.
Her ex had grabbed her. Hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, but who else could it have been? Random kidnappings didn't happen in Milling. I thought back to that jealous rage in his face when he saw me. I saw again, the way he'd held her, as if she were his property. And the names he’d called her. All of that made me positive that Scott had come looking for her.
The two guys with him weren't professionals—not by any stretch of the imagination. None of them were. And for that reason alone, I was one lucky son of a bitch. If they had been pros, I'd be lying on that motel room floor with a bullet in my head. But I wasn't. I was banged up—but very
much alive. That was their biggest mistake in all this.
I should have been packing. I'd let my guard down around Isabelle, but I never should have been caught unarmed like that. I just hadn't wanted to freak her out too much, and I feared carrying a weapon—any weapon—might trigger something inside of her.
That was the reason they'd been able to take her. Because I wasn't prepared and had been powerless to stop them.
I wouldn't make that mistake again. The next time we met—and it would be sooner rather than later—I'd make them wish they'd left Isabelle alone . . . Scott had just forgotten all about her. I'd make that prick wish he'd never heard of the town of Milling.
As soon as I could stand without falling over or feeling like I was going to throw up, I hurried to my bike. I hurt, but I was well enough to ride, though, I had no idea where I was going. I only knew Isabelle and Scott’s first names, beyond that—I had nothing. I didn't even know what town they lived in.
But I'd find her. Or rather, I'd find them. I was going to find them, get Isabelle out of harm's way, and then make those assholes pay. Because that's what I did.
***
My first stop was to the front desk of the motel. Seemed the most logical place to start looking for her. Not that I expected to come up with much, but I wanted to make sure I was thorough.
“Jesus Christ, Jameson,” Jerry said as soon as I entered the small lobby. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“Long story,” I mumbled. “But I need something from you. Remember that girl I came in with the other day? The one staying in room fifteen? I need some info on her. Anything you got, man.”
“You know I can't give it to ya, man,” he said, shaking his head.
“Come on, Jerry. When in the hell did you start adhering to the letter of the law?” I snapped. “This woman's life is in danger. I need to find her.”
Jerry looked concerned, furrowing his brow as he looked at me. A moment later, he nodded, as if settling some internal debate, and began to dig through some papers on the desk.
