I feel better now that I know Roxie will be here in a few days.My dad freaking out and asking her where I am is alarming, but I know Roxie won’t tell him anything.Soon, we’ll be back together, and we’ll figure out a plan from there.
I towel off and flex my fingers carefully.My wrists ache beneath the bandages, but the pain is dull now instead of screaming.Manageable.
I borrow some more clothes from Jameson, and my stomach growls as the scent of food drifts down the hallway.I follow the smell to the kitchen and stop inside the doorway.
Jameson stands at the stove in a dark T-shirt and worn jeans, broad shoulders filling the small space.He moves with easy confidence, like he belongs behind that counter, like this is normal.Like he makes breakfast for terrified strangers every morning.
Something low and warm curls in my stomach.My body reacts before my brain can catch it, and that… that makes me frown.
I’ve always been wary of men.Always.For as long as I can remember.Too many broken promises.Too many hands that weren’t gentle.Too many smiles that hid something ugly underneath.
So why does my pulse stumble at the sight ofhim?He may have saved me, but that doesn’t mean I can trust him.
I clear my throat.
He glances over his shoulder, eyes softening instantly.“Morning.”
“Morning,” I echo, still stiff.
“You sleep okay?”
I hesitate, then nod.“Yeah.I… yeah.”
He smiles faintly and turns back to the stove.“Good.”
He sets a plate down in front of me and sits at the table across from me.We eat together in a strange, careful quiet.Not awkward exactly.Just cautious.Like we’re both circling the same invisible line.
After breakfast, we sit on the porch.We’re silent for a long stretch of time before he clears his throat.
“Do you want to go into town?We can get you some things.New clothes.”
“Is it safe?What if someone sees me?”I ask.
“No one here will tell those men about you,” he promises.
“Okay,” I agree after a minute.“If it’s safe.I don’t have much money on me.”
“It’s on me.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest.
“I know.I want to.Come on.”
He stands, and I follow him to the truck.He opens the passenger door and helps me in.I look out the window as we drive toward town, taking in the scenery.
“Do you remember anything about the men who drove you here?Did you catch a name or anything?”he asks.
“No, but they kept talking about some guy named Michael.He was going to be my husband.”
Jameson’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, and his jaw pops.
“They took the back roads the whole way,” I add quietly.“I never saw a city or any signs, really.Just… trees.Dirt roads.And that gate.”
The longer I talk, the darker Jameson’s expression becomes.
“They knew what they were doing.”
We park outside the general store, and Jameson hops out to help me out of the truck.He holds my hand as we head inside, and I stay close to his side as we make our way down the aisles.
