how the PussyFoot Gentleman’s Club was open twenty-four hours.
“You get out now.”
Michelle tore her gaze away from the monstrosity that, surprisingly, had a decent number of cars for high noon. “Where’s the motel?”
He pointed to an equally tired building beside the PussyFoot. No name other than OTE adorned the place. She could see the missing “M” and “L” in the light of day but figured the average nighttime clientele wouldn’t care if the letters were burned out.
She swallowed. Could she really stay in the OTE tonight? What kind of vermin were crawling inside the rooms of this place?
“You out now. I charge if you stay longer.”
Whatever. She survived worse. She grabbed her stuff and pushed her way out of the car. She barely got clear of the door when the cabbie pulled away. What a douche!
Too many centuries later, she firmly shut the door to “suite” number nine and leaned against the wood. The metal number outside rattled and she winced. The nail had fallen out of the top part of the number so it looked like she was in room six. Classy. The OTE usually charged by the hour but she’d been able to bargain the kid behind the counter down from his initial price if she promised to visit him after his shift ended. God, she hoped she figured out her next move before then.
She opened her eyes and surveyed her nightmare. The skeeviness triggered her brain to recall images of another horrible room. She stumbled to the rickety wooden chair set near the window and plopped onto the seat. Wave upon wave of video played in her head of her time in Colombia. Sweat broke out on her skin as she dropped her head into her hands and rested her elbows onto the scarred round table.
“What were you doing in our woods?”
Punch. Punch.
“Who do you really work for?”
Slice. Slice.
“Who is your handler?”
Whip. Whip. Whip.
“AHHHHH,” she cried against the barrage, clutching her hair. “Stop!”
A pair of dark eyes filled her mind. Rage, sadness, compassion, respect. All those emotions had flitted through his irises as he rescued her from Hell.
Captain Jeremy Malone. Green Beret. Hero.
She didn’t remember much about the actual rescue, but she’d never forget his eyes or his voice. They spoke to her soul. Her feelings for that man went way beyond gratitude, though she had that in spades. It was like she had finally found the other half of herself she hadn’t realized was missing. Her Cappy. The memory of his smile when she dubbed him the nickname because she couldn’t muster the stamina to say more helped chase away the ghosts.
With shaking hands she rooted inside her purse until she found her cell phone. Damp fingerprints marred the surface from her sweat as her heart raced. She had to calm down. Rubbing her hands briskly on her uniform pants, she took in three deep breaths. Better.
Popping the cover off her phone, she stared at the contents. The only item she managed to save from her previous life rested against the battery.
The edges were bent and worse-for-wear but she could still read the strong, masculine handwriting. With a trembling hand, she picked up the small piece of paper.
“If you ever get into trouble again, contact me. I promise I’ll come running, no questions asked,”
Cappy’s deep, gruff voice had whispered.
She lightly fingered the spot below her ear where he had kissed her. The quick press of his lips and the utter conviction she would overcome the nightmare had kept her going all these years. Even when she snuck an Internet search in the early months of her captivity by the U.S. Marshals and found a memorial page to Captain Jeremy Malone on the web, she refused to give up. Her heart had thundered when she stared, disbelieving, at the screen. Date of birth listed beside date of death—which coincided with the same day they met. She had then performed a search for her own name—the one she had been born with before Colombia—and found a small article on an
“You get out now.”
Michelle tore her gaze away from the monstrosity that, surprisingly, had a decent number of cars for high noon. “Where’s the motel?”
He pointed to an equally tired building beside the PussyFoot. No name other than OTE adorned the place. She could see the missing “M” and “L” in the light of day but figured the average nighttime clientele wouldn’t care if the letters were burned out.
She swallowed. Could she really stay in the OTE tonight? What kind of vermin were crawling inside the rooms of this place?
“You out now. I charge if you stay longer.”
Whatever. She survived worse. She grabbed her stuff and pushed her way out of the car. She barely got clear of the door when the cabbie pulled away. What a douche!
Too many centuries later, she firmly shut the door to “suite” number nine and leaned against the wood. The metal number outside rattled and she winced. The nail had fallen out of the top part of the number so it looked like she was in room six. Classy. The OTE usually charged by the hour but she’d been able to bargain the kid behind the counter down from his initial price if she promised to visit him after his shift ended. God, she hoped she figured out her next move before then.
She opened her eyes and surveyed her nightmare. The skeeviness triggered her brain to recall images of another horrible room. She stumbled to the rickety wooden chair set near the window and plopped onto the seat. Wave upon wave of video played in her head of her time in Colombia. Sweat broke out on her skin as she dropped her head into her hands and rested her elbows onto the scarred round table.
“What were you doing in our woods?”
Punch. Punch.
“Who do you really work for?”
Slice. Slice.
“Who is your handler?”
Whip. Whip. Whip.
“AHHHHH,” she cried against the barrage, clutching her hair. “Stop!”
A pair of dark eyes filled her mind. Rage, sadness, compassion, respect. All those emotions had flitted through his irises as he rescued her from Hell.
Captain Jeremy Malone. Green Beret. Hero.
She didn’t remember much about the actual rescue, but she’d never forget his eyes or his voice. They spoke to her soul. Her feelings for that man went way beyond gratitude, though she had that in spades. It was like she had finally found the other half of herself she hadn’t realized was missing. Her Cappy. The memory of his smile when she dubbed him the nickname because she couldn’t muster the stamina to say more helped chase away the ghosts.
With shaking hands she rooted inside her purse until she found her cell phone. Damp fingerprints marred the surface from her sweat as her heart raced. She had to calm down. Rubbing her hands briskly on her uniform pants, she took in three deep breaths. Better.
Popping the cover off her phone, she stared at the contents. The only item she managed to save from her previous life rested against the battery.
The edges were bent and worse-for-wear but she could still read the strong, masculine handwriting. With a trembling hand, she picked up the small piece of paper.
“If you ever get into trouble again, contact me. I promise I’ll come running, no questions asked,”
Cappy’s deep, gruff voice had whispered.
She lightly fingered the spot below her ear where he had kissed her. The quick press of his lips and the utter conviction she would overcome the nightmare had kept her going all these years. Even when she snuck an Internet search in the early months of her captivity by the U.S. Marshals and found a memorial page to Captain Jeremy Malone on the web, she refused to give up. Her heart had thundered when she stared, disbelieving, at the screen. Date of birth listed beside date of death—which coincided with the same day they met. She had then performed a search for her own name—the one she had been born with before Colombia—and found a small article on an
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