Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

DASH

Once, while on the road, I went into a bar for a few drinks. A man sat down on the stool beside me and asked the bartender to leave the full bottle of whiskey at his disposal. He’d returned home from his job as a postman to find an empty house, his three children and wife gone, barely a trace of them left behind. It was one of the first times in my life I’d witnessed a grown man crying. Not having cried since childhood, I’d shaken my head at the man, finished my drink, and left. That’s what you get for trusting, I’d thought. That’s what you get for being a damn fool.

I’ve only known Babette a matter of days, but I already have an understanding of that man’s pain now. Swollen suffering beats in my throat like an oversized heart. My eyes burn like I’ve rubbed them raw with dirt. My stomach is a churning swamp that roils every time we hit another mile marker on the highway. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This is the right thing, though. My brain knows it, even though my heart and gut refuse to agree. Every time my hands begin to shake on the wheel and I get the urge to turn around, I conjure up the image of her crying, her cheek bleeding against the wall as those vermin manhandle her. And I keep driving. I keep going.

We’re there in the blink of an eye, of course. Time can be a royal bitch when it chooses to be. Babette has been silent and still in the passenger seat since we fucked, cementing my decision even firmer. If she wanted to stay with me, she would speak up, wouldn’t she? Yeah, she knows going back to Texas is what’s best for her, too. Maybe she’s even relieved.

My stomach churns over the possibility.

I have a million questions fighting for freedom in my throat, but I grind my teeth to keep them from escaping. Are there boys in town who’re sweet on you, little Babs? Do you walk a safe route every day? What will you do the exact moment you leave me? And the moment after that, and the moment after that…

“This is the exit,” Babette murmurs, nodding to the right of the highway. “I’m only half a mile from the motel where…we met.”

Her duffel bag is stuffed into the well by her feet, and her fingers curl into the straps now. Already. Like she’s going to jump out the minute I stop the car. How the hell am I going to refrain from pulling her back?

My head blazes as though it’s on fire as we pass the motel, and she directs me with gentle words, breaths that glide across the car and cool my neck. She changed into jean shorts and a Pepsi T-shirt at a gas station an hour ago…and if possible, she looks even younger now—more vulnerable—the passenger seat damn near swallowing her whole. A curtain of red hair hides her face, but I can see her reflection in the window. She’s got on that same expression of determination she wore the afternoon we met. The first time, I recognized she was fired up to get the job as my assistant. I wonder what it means now. I would kill to know. But I’ve made it none of my business by cutting her loose.

Christ, what am I doing?

She’s mine. My pulse kicks every time she bats her eyelashes or shifts in her seat. Sleeping with her in my arms last night gave me purpose like I’ve never known. Leaving her is insane. I’m insane. Or maybe having something of value finally gave me a clue. If you love something, set it free, right? Especially when keeping it could get it hurt or worse.

“Just up this block on the right, Dash,” Babette breathes, letting go of the duffel bag straps to unbuckle her seat belt. “The blue house with the white porch.”

There’s a sharp jab against my jugular when I see the house. It’s nicer than I pictured. Green, manicured lawn. White pillars holding up the second floor. No cars in the driveway—her family is probably working—but I suspected they had a shiny, silver SUV or a red sports car. This is the kind of place Babette belongs. A permanent, beautiful place, surrounded by good, God-fearing people.

“Babs…” I croak, no idea what to say. “You have a nice room in there, baby?”

“A beautiful room,” she says without missing a beat, before flipping her hair back and finally looking at me. Or maybe not right at me. More like at a spot just beyond my shoulder, like she’s avoiding my eyes. “Thank you for taking a chance on me, even if it didn’t work out.” A quick pause. “It was amazing,” she finishes with an odd flutter in her voice.

Needing to do something with my hands, I shove one into my pocket and take out the entirely of our score from last night, leaning over to shove it into her bag. No way I’m going to give her only half after what she endured on my watch. Christ, I would give her every dime I ever earned from here on out if I thought it would guarantee her happiness and safety.

“Thank you,” she says, flashing me a look. “Tell me I earned it, Dash.”

“You did, baby. You were incredible.” My throat burns. “I wish I was a different kind of man.”

She smiles, those green eyes flashing. “I don’t.”

With that, she pushes out of the car with her bag and shuts the door. The ensuing silence in the car is like plunging off a cliff, knowing I’m about to hit the bottom and there’s nothing to stop it. No safety net, no plan B. Just bleak, resounding static pealing inside a vacuum. I idle at the curb as her long legs eat up the driveway. Instead of climbing the porch, she cuts right and heads for the backyard, smiling back at me over her shoulder, then vanishing through a high, wooden gate, likely heading for a side entrance.

That’s it. She’s gone. As if she didn’t swing into my life and force me to feel. What am I going to do for the rest of my existence, knowing she’s out there? Having experiences I can’t give her. Loving other people besides me.

I ram my fist into the steering wheel, hard enough to crack my wrist, before punching the gas—hard—shouting through clenched teeth. If I don’t move, I’ll go after her. Drag her back out of the house and beg her to stay with me.

“Shit,” I growl at the corner. “Shit!”

An old, green Bronco pauses at the sign, before sailing through the intersection too fast. It swerves, narrowly missing the front end of my car, then rights itself. I’m barely pulled out of my agony enough to notice the driver is an older man. Late fifties. The bleary eyes of a drunk. Knuckles in a fist, tapping along the bottom of the open window to the loud music he’s playing. He throws me a speculative glance as he passes the front of my car…

And lifts a cigar to his mouth.

A little tear goes down the middle of my chest. It widens and widens as I watch the Bronco drive past, the sounds of Babette screaming through her nightmare echoing in my head. When he turns left onto the street parallel to the one where I dropped her off, a growl purrs in my throat.

*     *     *

BABETTE

I throw myduffel bag over the fence dividing our backyard from the neighbor’s, then gently slide the loose wooden board to one side, sliding my body through. Thank God they haven’t discovered my handiwork yet, because sometimes having the escape hatch is the only thing that gives me peace. Although, I’m not escaping this time. I’m sneaking back into my hell, aren’t I?

My nose is heavy and aching, the moisture I managed to hold back on the drive home spilling down my cheeks. Someone has taken a saw and cut a giant hole right in the middle of my chest, it seems. Every step I take, more invisible chunks of my heart fall out onto the grass. I just keep going, stepping on them, knowing I need to be inside before my stepfather returns. If I’m lucky and he spent the last few days on a bender, he might not have noticed my absence.

Isn’t that a pitiful thing? Hoping someone didn’t miss you? Well, I hope Dash misses me. I hope he’s miserable, just like me. Otherwise, life just isn’t fair.

My thoughts are immature and mean-spirited, but I don’t care right now. There’s not enough strength in my body to chastise myself. I found a home in that man’s arms last night and I’ve already been kicked out. Cast aside. Knowing Dash thought leaving me back in Texas would keep me safe doesn’t patch the hole in my chest, though. He’s the only one who can, and he’s gone.

Someday, I think Dash will realize he dropped me off in front of the wrong house. Something about the way he looked at me, like he could see clear through, tells me it’ll come to him. By then, I aim to be out of Texas for good. I’m not so naïve to think I can be safe on the road alone just yet. Plus, last night’s money can only get me so far. But I know how to use my talent now. Soon as I hunker down and have a good cry, I’m going to start searching for local nightclubs. Places that need fresh acts to keep their customers entertained.

At the very least, the search…and the dream…will distract me from this pain.

Was my pride worth letting him leave me? It’s hard to tell when my head is so clouded with memories of Dash. Maybe when they fade, the ache won’t be so bad. I don’t know. I don’t know. With every step I take toward the house, I’m beginning to doubt I’ll ever stop hurting.

Coming to a stop at the back door of the house, I press my ear against the hollow wood and listen, my pulse picking up speed. There are shuffling sounds coming from inside that tell me my stepfather is home. Delaying the inevitable will only make it worse, so I hide my duffel bag behind the old, rarely used barbeque that leans up against the house. Then I reach up into the hanging lantern and pinch the magnetized key between my forefinger and thumb. Before I turn it in the lock, I take a deep breath. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I push the door open.

Any hope I have of sneaking in without fanfare is obliterated the second I step into the dusty interior. Light from the doorway lands at his booted feet, but his face remains in the shadows. “Where the hell you been, girl?”

“Studying,” I answer. “At the library.”

He sways to the right and spits, right there in the back entry hallway. “Now that’s a damn lie.” His heavy tread brings him forward, the light climbing to his knees. “The place was a goddamn mess when I came home last night. Nothing to eat in the fridge. Couldn’t ask you about it because you weren’t in your bed.” A belch leaves him. “Unless the library is open at midnight, you’re full of shit, girl.”

“The friend I was studying with…I went to her house when the library closed, and lost track of time.” I shrug a shoulder. “I fell asleep. I’m sorry. Let me clean up and I’ll run to the store—”

“Were you with a boy, huh?” He sniffs, propping himself on the wall with a clenched fist, drawing my eye to the cigar in his pocket. “Out whoring like your mama?”

“No, sir.”

“No, sir,” he mocks me in a sing-song voice. “I don’t have to put this roof over your head, you know that? You’ve got none of my blood in your veins. This here is charity, plain and simple, and you aren’t pulling your weight.”

Dryness invades my mouth, my head feeling light. “I said I would fix it—”

The back of his hand slaps me across the mouth, throwing me off balance. “You think you can sass me now, do you?” His laugh is full of anticipation and glee as he removes his belt, the hiss of leather through denim making my face sting even worse. He’s never used the belt before—only his hands—and fear of the unknown makes my heart hammer. “Going to show you what happens when you forget your responsibilities. You’ll be limping to the store today, same way your mama did before she ran off to be a whore. Just like her, aren’t you?” His voice grows louder. “Just another useless female looking to live off my hard work.”

My temper simmers beneath the surface, faster and hotter than it ever used to wake up. This man is even more insufferable after thinking I’d finally gotten away. I hate him. Making me fear, making me clean his disgusting messes and cook his meals, giving me nothing but disdain in return. Calling my mother a whore when she’d been subjected to the same awful routine, day in and day out. The hate is scrabbling inside me, trying to get loose. I try to suppress it, but I can’t. “You’re nothing but an impotent old drunk,” I snap, power tickling along my nerve endings. “Beating up on me makes you feel like a big man, doesn’t it? Well, you’re not. You’re small-minded and hateful. You’re nothing.”

White rage tightens his features, and he lunges for me. I’ve always been so petrified of being thrown out or making him angry that I’ve always more or less endured his abuse. But no longer. I’m enduring a broken heart and it’s as much as I can stand. Maybe this spur-of-the-moment decision to fight back will bite me in the butt when I’m out on the street tonight, but at least I’ll have my self-respect. And since Dash swept me out of this town, I’ve proven I can learn on my feet. I can adapt.

All of this occurs as my stepfather closes in. Just as he reaches me, I back out the door and sidestep his reach. In his inebriated state, he stumbles down the back steps and hits the dry, dead grass, stomach first. “Bitch!” he roars, clamoring to his feet. “Get your ass over here now.”

I pick up my duffel bag and judge the distance between me and the back fence. My stepfather is the obstacle blocking my way, but I have the advantage of being sober. No turning back now. I’ve embarrassed him, cursed him, and my life is going to be hell now if I don’t get out.

Swallowing the nausea that rises in my throat, I fake like I’m going to jump off one side of the porch, then run back the other direction. Unfortunately, when I leap off the opposite wooden corner, the rot gives way beneath my feet and I fall hard, the duffel bag landing beside me. The zipper must not have been closed all the way, because money scatters on the ground, tossing in the wind.

“Well, son of a bitch. You were out whoring,” my stepfather snarls above me. His fingers twist in my hair, yanking me off the ground without mercy, making my eyes tear. “That’s my money now, girl. I earned it putting up with you.”

He yanks my head back and my scalp screams from the agony. “No. No, you can’t. If I’m such a burden, let me take it and go.”

“Shut up.” His belt dangles, the leather creaking in his fist, and I know he’s preparing to use it. “Maybe you’ll finally prove useful.”

The very idea of making money and sharing it with my stepfather spurs me into action, my foot lifting and coming down on his instep with as much force as I can muster. Shouting in surprise and anger, he lets go of me, but manages to catch the tail of my shirt in his hand. I slide back in the grass and stumble, crawling as fast as I can to get out of his reach, determined to make it to the fence.

He pounces, digging his fingers so hard into my leg, I scream through clenched teeth—but I’m interrupted by a much louder sound, following by the thud and crunch of flesh connecting with bone. The clutching fingers around my leg disappear and I hear a familiar rumble, a noise that surely comes straight from the devil himself, it’s so harsh and full of rage.

I flip over onto my back to find Dash standing above my stepfather, looking like a man possessed. His teeth are bared, his chest looks ready to explode out of his shirt, heaving, heaving. His fists are shaking so violently at his sides, I worry they’ll shatter. “You lied to me, Babs?”

My nails dig into the ground, even as the sound of his voice makes my heart rejoice. Even as relief pounds in my temples. “Yes.”

Eyes full of murder and grief lift to mine. “I left you to this man? This place?”

After a small hesitation, I nod. “This is my stepfather’s house. My mother’s long gone.”

My words seem to set him off, his jaw ticking, a twitch beginning in his right eye. My stepfather rouses and attempts a sitting position, but Dash lands a right cross and knocks him clean out. The man who made my mother run away lands flat on his back again, arms out at his sides, the cash he took from me falling out of his hands. I’m almost scared when Dash steps over my stepfather’s prone figure and starts his slow, careful walk toward me. He’s even more menacing as he was this morning at the motel, which I thought was impossible to beat. When he stops above me and blocks out the sun, I tilt my head back and command myself not to react. Not to cry or beg him to hold me, even though I want to do both.

“Please explain,” he whispers, his voice shaking.

A cloud passes over the sun, draping the yard in twilight. I clear my throat, commanding myself to give him the truth. Only, when I open my mouth, it comes out in a high-pitched rush that makes my face boil. “I didn’t w-want you to keep me just because you pitied me. Just because you felt bad for me.” I inhale on a mortifying gust of shuddering sobs. “You said you didn’t want a crybaby and I-I wanted to be a partner, not someone you’re saddled with and—”

“No, Babs.” His face transforming with clear agony, Dash drops to his knees in the dirt, wrapping me in his arms and pulling me onto his lap. Squeezing. Rocking. “I thought I was doing right by you, baby. Oh God. You think I would have brought you back here if I’d known? I’d have died first.”

“Because you would have pitied me?”

“Because your pain is unacceptable to me.” He stresses each word through his teeth, shaking me. “I thought I was getting you away from the danger, not taking you right to it.” Disbelief crosses his handsome features. “I said I didn’t want a crybaby? Jesus, Babs, tell me that isn’t why you lied.”

“That was part of it,” I whisper. “I wanted you to look at me and see a partner. One half of a whole. I didn’t want sympathy—I wanted to earn my spot. And I didn’t want you to make your decisions about me…” I nod at the torn-up yard. “Based on this. Do you see?”

Dash is silent so long, I get anxious. Is he deciding whether or not to bring me with him again? Finally, he speaks, and I hold my breath. “If I could place that ad again, you know what I would write?” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “I would ask for a knockout redhead who sings like a damn angel from heaven. I’d ask for a loyal sweetheart of a girl with so much courage, determination, and kindness to offer, no one could ever hope to match it.” His arms tighten around me. “I wouldn’t take anything less than you, Babs. You’re the only answer. My answer. And I’m damn well taking you away from this place and never looking back.”

Bliss and relief sweep through me. I bury my face in his neck, wrapping my legs around his waist. “I want that. Please. I want that so much, Dash.”

“My girl gets what she wants from now on. End of story.” When I edge back, I expect to see affection in his eyes—and I do—but the emotion is rimmed with something dark. Tortured. “I’m going to need to know everything that happened to you at the hands of this bastard. And I’m going to need to know soon. But after watching you get slapped around twice in one day, baby, I just can’t handle more. I can’t.” He closes his eyes, his throat working. “So just answer me one question for now. You want him dead or alive?”

“Alive,” I say, automatically. “He’s not worth bringing trouble down on our heads, Dash. Let’s leave free and clear of this place. I never want to think about it again.”

That powerful jaw flexes. “You were a virgin when I took you. That’s the only thing saving his life.” His nostrils flare. “Even though I should end it for putting his damn hands on you. Hear me?”

“I hear you,” I murmur, stroking my fingers through his hair. “Thank you.”

With a kiss on the inside of my wrist, Dash nods and stands, setting me on my feet. In front of us, my stepfather rouses in the dirt, curse words slurring from his lips, his eyes already swelling shut from Dash’s punches. “You trust me, Babs?”

“Yes.”

Dash reaches down and pulls the half-smoked cigar from my stepfather’s front pocket. He shoves it between the man’s saliva-covered lips, then pulls a lighter from his own jeans, lighting the end of the cigar in my stepfather’s mouth. “Puff it, asshole, or I’ll ram it down your throat.”

Watching us both with hatred, the man does as he’s told, and soon smoke begins to trail from the lit tip. Dash takes the cigar back with one hand, leading me to the porch with the other.

“Is there anything left in the house you want? Anything at all?”

I shake my head. Keeping eye contact, looking me over like he wants to devour me soon as we get alone, Dash picks up the propane tank from the old barbeque. Letting go of my hand momentarily, he breaks my gaze long enough to flip on the nozzle, creating a rush of noise. He wedges the lit cigar under the hissing nozzle, tosses the heavy object into the house, then locks the door and pulls it shut. All the while, my stepfather sputters in the grass, trying to get up and failing in his beat-up, drunken state.

Dash leads me off the porch by the hand, inclining his head at my stepfather, his eyes glittering with that familiar malice, which I now find comforting. After all, it’s on my behalf. “You come looking for her, your house won’t be the last thing I set on fire and let burn.”

We’re driving down the block when the explosion happens.

Dash doesn’t flinch. He just reaches across the console and takes my hand, running his tongue along my knuckles.

“Where to, baby?”