TRIGGER: A Motorcycle Club Romance Novel (25 page)

Hey. You should go to the gym after work. Just a suggestion,
the text
read. I nearly slammed my foot on the brake in utter bafflement. Instead, I
started laughing. A psychotic sort of laugh, hysterical and high-pitched.

What a fucking day for one
of Jeremy’s suggestions.

Fucking rat bastard, you finally threw me a fucking bone, rot in hell
you
wife-beating piece of shit,
I thought,
loudly, that same strange voice overwhelming Jeremy’s in my head. I stopped
laughing. I had no idea where those thoughts came from. I’d never thought that
way about my husband before.

But it wasn’t just a
thought…it was a feeling. I was mad. Mad as hell. And…free. I pressed the pedal
harder. Now, it would be 7:00 or later before Jeremy realized I wasn’t coming
home. I had three hours to make time before he even suspected anything. The
mountains around me were already gradually falling lower, preparing to make way
for the high deserts of Utah.

Everything inside me was at
war, it seemed. Fear and rage, sense and whimsy, love and hate, self-defeat and
encouragement. I plastered a smile on my face as I sped past a state trooper.
Obviously, the guy couldn’t see it, but it made me feel a little better about
the duffel bag under my seat.

Once the trooper was out of
sight, I tapped out a quick reply to Jeremy’s text.

Good idea baby, I’ll be home around 7, want me to make lasagna?
I needed
him to think it was all a normal day, a normal night, for as long as possible.
I waited, agitation increasing, for him to text me back. I wanted to turn my
phone off. He could be tracking me right then, for all I knew. Deciding to beat
him to the punch, I tapped out another message.

Phone dying and I think the car charger is broken, wasn’t working this
morning, I’ll see you at home, I’ll buy pasta in case you want me to make the
lasagna but we can also do take-out. Love you, have a good rest of the day!

And with that, I shut my
phone off. Remembering something I’d seen once on Law and Order, I struggled
with the case while trying to keep my car straight on the road. Finally,
violently, the back of my phone popped off and I took the battery out, tossing
all the parts of the phone back onto the passenger seat. Now, I was totally
screwed if I needed to find out where the hell I was, but at least I didn’t
have to worry about being tracked.

Unless he could track the
car.

Fuck.

Just get to Utah, for now, Gabby,
I thought, surprising myself once
more by referring to myself by my childhood nickname. Jeremy didn’t like that
name, and I’d stopped going by it after we started dating. It’s a wonder what a
car full of cash can do for you. What sorts of changes impulsivity can
breed.
How one little decision – regardless of whether or
not you were even thinking when you made it – can change every single thing
about you, about your life, your future.

And then, on the flipside,
how easy it can be to barrel sideways into someone’s life when you’re riding
high on that decision. How someone will let you in, only to find out later that
you’re bringing a heap of trouble with you. And how amazing it can be when you
find out they don’t care, that they think you just might be worth it.

But I’m getting ahead of
myself, aren’t I?

The farther and farther I
got from the mountains that had been my home (and, now that I look back on it,
my prison) for three years, I started to feel more and more wild and
invincible. Each mile I put between me and Jeremy seemed to take away an hour
that I’d spent under his spell. The bruise above my eye throbbed. I looked at
it in the
rearview
, and started to forget why,
exactly, I had let him do it to me. Why I’d covered it up.

Well, I’d known why I’d
covered it up. I couldn’t exactly go to the cops. He was the cops. The whole
force was friends with him, and I knew that going to the police would just get
me in deeper trouble than ever.

But how could I have stayed
through all those nights of crying, all those empty bottles of concealer, all
those warning signs that it wasn’t going to get better?

Because, really, I’d
believed for a long time that things “were going to get better”. Either I’d
figure out just what it was Jeremy wanted from me, who he wanted me to be, and
be able to do it and become that person and we’d both be happy, or he’d realize
I wasn’t ever going to be who he wanted me to be and give me a break. For three
years I’d really, truly believed that, even though everything was screaming at
me that it wasn’t the case.

Love is stupid. Love is
stupid, stupid, stupid.

I’m not saying that I went
from Rihanna to
Beyonce
in a matter of an hour and a
half, but there was definitely a shift inside me. I wasn’t the same beat-up
little girl that had left the house that morning. I was one part mad, one part
panicked, one part elated, and one part numb.

And, if things went
perfectly, I’d be 100% rich and living free in Argentina – or wherever – by the
end of the week.

I just had to get to Utah
first.

~
4
~

Once the sun started
setting, a lot of my confidence and the anger that had driven me so far began
to wane. It was hotter down here, though the night air still had a bite to it.
The Rockies loomed behind me, the desert stretching out in front. I’d passed
Moab, home of Arches national park, and started heading south. All I knew was
that if I kept heading south, I’d hit the border eventually, and have some
semblance of safety.

It was around 9pm; if Jeremy
had thought I’d been running late, he probably knew something was up by now. I
hoped, prayed, that his first instinct was that something had happened to me,
not that I’d run off. I hoped that he still thought I was too stupid and weak
to leave.

If he called work, well…no
one from housekeeping would be there to tell him I’d left early, and even if he
heard about it the next day or someone at the front desk told him, the timeline
would be way too close for him to know whether I’d texted him before or after
“getting sick”. I was happy I hadn’t clocked out. The less of a paper trail,
the better. They’d only be able to say it was “4-ish” or “around 4”, and
“4-ish” is when I texted him that my phone was dying.
 

And if they told him I’d
gotten sick…

But my mind was just racing
around in circles, chasing the same thoughts, the same
possible-but-unpredictable scenarios. It wasn’t getting me anywhere but tired.
I had put some serious mileage in between Jeremy and I; thank God for deserted
country roads, where speed limits are more like suggestions than hard-and-fast
rules.

I began to look for
somewhere I could get a bite to eat, maybe even a room for the night. The
thought of staying in one place for the next eight hours made me a little extra
panicky, but I’d worked all day and was exhausted from the adrenaline rush and
constant anxiety. All those greenbacks wouldn’t mean a damn thing if I fell
asleep at the wheel and drove myself into a canyon.

As I rode along, the desert
lay on either side of me, and in front of me, like a great, big blanket of
nothing. Distant, strange shapes of arches and rocky outcroppings faded into
the dark sky. I sat forward, straining my eyes. Finally, after what felt like
forever of nothing but the same-old-same-old, I saw a sign for the next exit.

Ditcher’s Valley, 5 mi.

Ditcher’s Valley: if that
doesn’t sound like the kind of place that was made for wives on the run, I
don’t know what does. I knew it couldn’t have been a very big town, but I also
needed to get gas and assumed that there would be a Texaco or something else
there where I could get directions to a bigger town with a hotel, or at least a
plate of microwave nachos.

Damn, but gas station
microwave nachos sounded like a meal from paradise in that moment. Jeremy
didn’t like when I indulged in “crap”. Jeremy didn’t like when I did a lot of
things.

Screw him, stuff your face with that gross,
melty
cheese,
I thought with a smile, still testing out these waters.

Ditcher’s Valley had a
population just under 2,000, if you believed the highway sign that welcomed you
in. The first place I saw that looked open had everything I needed: motel, bar,
restaurant. The whole kit and caboodle.

I still didn’t feel that
great about the idea of stopping on my journey for the night, but logic won out
in the end. I needed to get some sleep. I really did. I could feel my brain
doing that thing where I’d realize ten minutes had passed and I couldn’t tell
you a damn thing about what I’d been thinking about. That, plus a dark highway,
did not bode well for my personal safety.

I pulled into the parking
lot, noting with some surprise the abundance of motorcycles outside. It seemed
like this place catered to exactly one sort of person: bikers. Oh well, what
did I care? I was just there to get a room and a meal, not make a bunch of
friends and do karaoke.

I checked myself in the
rearview
before opening my car door; the concealer had
mostly worn off by then, my face slightly streaked from the sweat that had
poured down my face during the ride. I looked, to be honest, like shit. First
stop would be the bathroom, for sure. Just because I didn’t have anyone to
impress didn’t mean I wanted to walk around like a slob, either.

As I was about to shut the
car door, I remembered the duffel bag under the seat. I mean, I hadn’t really
forgotten it (how could I?), but I realized that I probably shouldn’t leave an
indiscriminate amount of cash in a bag in my car outside of a biker bar.
Hoisting it out and clutching it tight to my chest, I crossed the wide front
porch outside the bar and ducked inside, trying to be as inconspicuous as
possible.

I didn’t have to try very
hard. The bar was full, wall-to-wall, with loud, rowdy, boisterous bikers of
both genders. It wasn’t so loud that I couldn’t hear myself talk, but it was
definitely loud enough to make me feel splendidly anonymous. I spotted the
ladies’ room and made a beeline for it; it was a single-person bathroom, for
which I was thankful.

After splashing some water
in my face, washing away the concealer, I went back into the bar. I didn’t see
any place that specifically seemed to deal with the motel portion of the
bar/restaurant, so I went straight to the bar, where a few bartenders were
making chitchat with the clientele. No one seemed in much of a rush to get
their drinks, and money never seemed to pass any hands as I waited for someone
to spot me.

Finally, one of the older
women, who was really gorgeous despite being in her late thirties, came over to
me. She was wearing a black leather vest over a tight white tank top and
hip-hugging jeans. She looked like the sort of women who’d never let a man
raise a hand to her. I envied her.

“What can I do
ya
for, sweetheart?” she said, her eyes running over me,
lingering on the bruise above my eye and the bag I held clutched tight to my
chest.

“A room? Is this where I can
rent a room?” I asked, raising my voice slightly to be heard. It felt weird to
speak loudly; living with Jeremy, I’d learned to affect a sort of whisper as my
default speaking volume.

“Yup, we got rooms,” she
said, leaning back and reaching for something under the bar. “Single room is 60
bucks, with tax that’s…72.79. Cash or charge,
hun
?”
Despite her liberal use of endearments, she sounded like she didn’t trust me,
or just generally disliked me off the bat.

“Cash,” I said, wishing I’d
taken the time to take some of the hundreds from the duffel bag and put them in
my wallet. I’d left my purse in the car. “Um, hold on, I have to go get my
wallet.”

“Alright,” she said, eyes
narrowed as she watched me walk away. I trotted to my car and quickly unzipped
the duffel bag, grabbing my wallet and slipping three
hundreds
from a wad of cash into the billfold.

Back in the bar, I had to
wait a little longer before the bartender came back. I handed her a hundred.

“Um, I also need some food?
If you got…well,” I said, stuttering now. When was the last time I’d ordered
for myself at a restaurant? I couldn’t remember.

“We
ain’t
got a big menu, doll. Burgers and wings, pretty much.”

“Give me…whatever, I guess,
the least healthy thing you have. Bacon cheeseburger? And fries?”

“Alright, that’ll come to
just bought ninety with the room,” she said, taking my cash.

“Keep the change,” I said,
hoping that a big tip would change the sour look on her face. She nodded and
slipped a key across the bar to me.

“Room 7. It’s on the far
side back there,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the left. “You
wanna
go get settled in, your food should be ready when you
get back.”

“Thanks,” I said, clutching
the duffel bag even tighter to me as I left the bar again. I drove around to
the area where she’d directed me, inching down the row of rooms until I saw 6,
and then 7.

Parking and locking the car,
I breathed a sigh of relief as I opened the door and saw that the room wasn’t
nearly as dingy or gross as I’d imagined it would be. It was small, and smelled
funky, but it looked comfortable enough for the night.

I scanned the room, looking
for the safe. It was tucked above the closet; following the instructions, I set
the combination, automatically using Jeremy’s birthday, which had become my
default password for e-mail and anything else that required one; it had been
his idea to use each other’s birthdays. He’d said random numbers like that were
good for protection against hackers. I think he just wanted to know my password
so he could spy on me.

The duffel bag was a snug
fit, but it fit nonetheless. As soon as I’d locked the safe, I felt like a huge
weight was lifted off my shoulders. Now, if shit really hit the fan, I could
just ditch it and head home or whatever. I could always say that the safe had
been locked when I got there. I realized that I was still wearing my maid’s
uniform; I wondered if that explained some of the bartender’s strange looks.

I wanted a shower, but not
as much as I wanted to dig into a hot, fresh burger, so I decided to change and
head back to the bar before cleaning up. I wasn’t sure which would be less
conspicuous: gym clothes or the outfit I’d worn to work that day. I decided it
didn’t matter and changed into the comfier option, which was a mix of the two.
I didn’t have anyone to impress, anyway.

Finally, I felt like I had
my shit together. I considered throwing the maid’s uniform away for good. That
would probably feel like real freedom. But, I didn’t have an abundance of
clothes, and it might come in handy.

I stopped and looked at
myself in the mirror before going back into the night; my workout leggings
hugged my curves, and I could hear Jeremy’s condescending voice in my
head.
 
The old, faded, vintage
t-shirt I’d worn to work that day was tight around my breasts, the only part of
me that Jeremy encouraged me to show off.

I looked about as normal as
I could, considering the circumstances. The only thing that stood out was the
ugly welt above my forehead, but I didn’t feel like putting on more concealer.
And who cared? No one was going to talk to me, and if they did, I’d shut them
down. I didn’t want any trouble, and I didn’t plan on making any trouble. I
just wanted to eat and sleep and coast away come morning.

Back at the bar, I drew a
little more attention in my tight-fitting clothes than I had in my maid’s
uniform. Plus, I was no longer concealing half my body with a duffel bag. I
approached the bar once more and caught the eye of the bartender who’d helped
me earlier; she nodded and walked back towards the kitchen, grabbing a steaming
plate and delivering it straight to me. It smelled absolutely heavenly.

And it tasted like the best
kind of sin.

As I munched my way through
the meaty, salty, greasy, savory sandwich, I let the background noise fade
away, focusing entirely on that one moment. How long had it been since I’d
indulged like this? Jeremy always kept me on a strict diet, disapproving of
“indulgences”. Of course, that only applied to me and what I ate; he went to
town on whatever he felt like, whenever he felt like it.

I was pulled back into the
real world when the bartender suddenly slammed a huge drink in front of me. I
looked up at her, mouth full, eyes questioning.

“Rum and coke. From that
guy,” she said, sounding a little pissed. I looked where she pointed, then
promptly wanted to spit my food out onto the bar.

Holy fuck, but that guy was
hot.

He was looked at me, a sly
sort of half-grin on his face, short stubble defining his strong chin under a
nose cut from marble. Even in the dark bar, I could see his crystal-clear blue
eyes, the color of a strong-burning flame. His dark, slightly curly hair hung
around his face like an anti-halo. He was wearing a leather jacket over a loose
white undershirt that showed just the slightest hint of the magnificent body
underneath. My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t think that happened in real life,
but apparently it does.

Automatically, without even
thinking about it, I grabbed the drink and took a sip, immediately recoiling
once the alcohol hit my tongue. Jeremy didn’t approve of me drinking; aside
from a beer or two at a work event or party (
his
work event or party, I’ll add), I hadn’t
drank
in the three years we’d been married. The taste of the rum seemed exceptionally
strong. I coughed slightly, looking back at the dreamboat who’d bought me the
drink. He was chuckling slightly, those eyes still lingering on me, his hand
coming up to cover his smile. Charming. As. Shit.