REIGN: A Motorcycle Club Romance Novel (4 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.