I hate that I immediately find his gaze reassuring. That there’s some unnamable quality about his eyes that promises only the truth. “We’re here to get you home.”
Home.What a concept. I’d say half of us in that goddamn basement would rather take our chances elsewhere than go home again.
Squeals and men’s shouts echo from the house.
My gaze falls to the worn patches of leather on the toes of his boots, showing glimpses of the steel caps beneath. “I don’t have a home to go back to.” I have a house. And a father. A lack of autonomy, and the kind of dark existence where hopes and dreams go to die, transformed into nightmares that keep me from finding adequate sleep.
“What?” His brow furrows, as though the concept that we’re not all naive good girls from well-to-do families confuses him.
“Neither do most of those girls.” I nod toward the house, noting how we’ve both relaxed somewhat. “That’s why we’re here. Because we had no other option.”
“To sell yourself into slavery?”
Of course. Because wechoseto be exploited and deceived.Such a man’s response.“Fucks sake. We’re not that stupid.” I roll my head back and search the star-dusted sky for how to make this simple enough to explain in a few words. “They told us we’d have work in a bar. Waitressing. Or, if we wanted the big bucks, stripping.”
They made those women think they’d found a friend. Convinced them they were just like them—misunderstood and disadvantaged, fighting back against society to afford themselves a second chance at life.
He sighs, loosening his arm a little. “When did you realize?”
“That this was something else?” I chuckle. “When they stripped us naked and took photos of our bodies.” Bit of a red flag.
“Either way,” he grumbles, “you’re not staying here.”
The screams and protests have morphed to muffled arguments as he moves his grip on me and gets to his feet, bringing me up with him. Yeah, he seems genuinely curious about our situation, but what he hasn’t done yet is explain who he is or why the fuck they’d care enough to save us.
If I’ve learned anything about biker clubs, it’s that you can’t judge the vibe of the group from the first impression of one member.
He glances toward the house and yard, focus slipping enough that I manage to slide my wrist free of his large hand. Ankle screaming, I pivot fast and lean into a sprint.
Then kiss the ground when his boot tangles between my legs.Fuck.Grass sticks to my lip, dirt on the tip of my tongue.
“Quit it.”
“You quit it.” Palms to the soil, I press as hard as I can and launch.
His solid boot presses between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the ground like a bug spiked to a board. “You want to go back in that cellar?”
“I already said I don’t.”
“Then why you makin’ this so damn difficult?”
“You try having your independence taken away by a man and then see how amenableyouare to taking instruction from one.”
He sighs. “At least go calm the others down.”
Fucker plucks at the thin thread of guilt I have for leaving them behind. But there was a better chance of me getting away alone to raise the alarm than there was of me ushering a junkie, a nervous wreck, a head injury, and a child through the countryside with Darla’s help.
I open my mouth to give this brute an insight into our conditions when the grass glows bright green with yellow undertones.Shit.I trace the source of the light to the road.
To the car that jumps and jostles down the track with its speed.
“You’ve got two seconds to decide,” the guy growls above me. “Run for the bikes, or take your fucking chances in that cellar again.”
I twist my head to look up at him. His hair makes a wild mane around his head, those reassuring eyes now firm and demanding an answer. I relax my arms a little and slowly blink.Okay.The definition of insanity is doing the same thing again and again and expecting a different result.
I’m not insane.Not yet.And I’d like a chance at a different result.
With the new crew, it is, then.
