Worse than that, I let him take control. I let him get close. I dropped my shields and surrendered totally.
I’ve given him the power to hurt me—and I know goddamn well that eventually he will do just that.
They always do.
How had I screwed it up so badly? I’d gone from being determined to stand strong and get my shit together to drowning in the residue of all my bad choices.
I look at the man sleeping soundly in the bed. I know what will happen when he wakes. He will soothe my tears, tell me it will be okay. He’ll heal my wounds with kisses, and before I know it, I’ll be on my back with his cock inside me, my job and my plan all but forgotten.
I tell myself I am strong enough to resist. That I will tell him and then simply walk away.
But I know better. I want him—his touch, his kisses. If he wakes, I will stay.
And I will hate myself—and him—for it.
I turn, lost, and stumble back to the bathroom counter. I blink back tears and stare at my reflection. “Do something,” I say to the girl who looks back at me. “Fix this.”
And so I do the only thing I can think to do—I run.
Chapter Six
I’m sorry.
That’s all I wrote on the note that I left on the bedside table. I wanted to say more, but I’m not good at saying the words, and I’m even worse at psychoanalyzing myself.
And I’m certain that I had to go—I have to get my shit together, and you scare the crap out of me wouldn’t have been the best approach, even if it was true.
I’ve been driving for two hours now, and the sun has long since disappeared behind the San Bernardino mountains that fill my rearview mirror.
I’d made my escape quietly, wearing only the jeans and T-shirt that I’d left in the bathroom, and taking only my purse and phone. I’d brought a suitcase with me to California, of course, and my suite was littered with shopping bags. But I hadn’t bothered with any of that because there was no way for me to pack and not wake up Ryan.
So I’d run, knowing full well that I could call Gregory, Damien’s valet, in the morning and have him gather my things and ship them to my parents in Texas.
As for the Vegas job—well, I had makeup in my purse, but I guess I’d just have to suck it up and shop for clothes. I figured that counted as retail therapy, and even considering the damage that I would undoubtedly do to my credit card, it would be cheaper than a round of sessions with a shrink.
I’d taken the Ferrari from where Damien had left it for me in his impressive underground garage. It had taken concentration to get out of Malibu because I tend to get turned around on all the twisting roads, but as soon as I hit the highway, I started thinking about Ryan. About leaving.
About the way he made me feel.
Twice, I reached for my phone, then yanked my hand back before I could close my fingers tight around it. When I reached for it a third time, I snatched it up, then powered the damn thing off and tossed it in the glove box.
Out of sight, out of mind. Except while that worked to stifle the urge to call him, it did nothing to stifle the thoughts and memories and emotions that rattled in my head. The memory of his mouth upon me, his cock inside me. The image of his face as he gazed at me with such tenderness. My own admonitions telling me to run—to get clear. Ryan’s stern pronouncement that he liked me wild—but that he wouldn’t let me walk.
But I did walk—hell, I did more than walk. I ran.
And now, on the road, I am second-guessing myself all over again.
Fuck it.
I’ve been listening to my own thoughts for two hours and I can’t stand it anymore. I check the mirrors to confirm that I’m the only car on this stretch of Interstate 15, then snatch my phone out of the glove box and power it back on.
I fiddle with the radio until I finally figure out how to set it for auxiliary and turn on Bluetooth. A few more adjustments, and I’m jamming to one of the many playlists I keep on my phone. A mix of classic and new rock, along with a few heavy metal songs to add a little pop to the mix. It’s loud enough and rough enough to keep me from thinking—and that is exactly what I want.
Considering how densely populated Los Angeles is, this stretch of California is like culture shock. I passed Barstow at least thirty minutes ago, and since then I’ve seen only one other car on the road. More recently, a sign announced the town of Yermo, but it must have been off the highway because as I cruised by in the dark, I’d seen nothing but the long, narrow tunnel of my own headlights.
Honestly, it’s a little freaky.
I’ve made the drive from Los Angeles to Vegas a number of times, so I know more or less where I am and that I have about two hours of absolute nothingness ahead of me until I see the brilliance of Vegas filling up the night sky. That means I’ll be rolling into town just after midnight, which is fine by me. The city will still be hopping. I can grab some breakfast at a diner, and then I can go crash.
Sex—and my nap—had reinvigorated me some, but I am starting to fade again. It’s hard not to when I am blanketed in black, lost in the seemingly endless abyss of the Mojave Desert at night.
The car shudders slightly, and I frown, wondering if I’ve just run over some debris. When it does it again, I click off the music so that I can actually think. I check the rearview mirror, but I can see nothing there in the pitch black.
I take my hands off the steering wheel, but the Ferrari continues straight, so I rule out a flat tire. It shudders again and then slows. I press harder on the accelerator, but that does nothing. Automatically, my eyes go to the gas gauge, but I still have almost half a tank, so that isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s something electrical? Or maybe—
Shit.
Damien had warned me about the broken gas gauge at least a million times, and Nikki had reminded me again earlier today. And still all it took was a gorgeous man to completely empty my head of any and all useful facts.
And now I’m going to have to wait for AAA, which, of course, will take forever.
I steer onto the shoulder, but keep my foot on the accelerator, living the absurd fantasy that maybe I’ll reach a convenience store, gas station, five-star hotel. Something.
But when the Ferrari gives its last gasp of life, I look out as far as the headlights reach and see absolutely nothing. I look left and right, hoping to see the flicker of light from a house or from a business.
Nothing.
Neither are there lights approaching in my rearview mirror or coming toward me, westbound toward the coast.
Shit.
Apparently, I’m stuck. Isn’t that just peachy?
I put the car in park, kill the engine, and turn on the hazard lights. Then I snatch up my phone and search my contacts for the 800 number for AAA, but when I dial, the call immediately fails. I spit out a curse, then try again, and only when the call fails once more do I think to glance at my phone’s signal strength.
No service.
What the fuck? How can there be no service? This is America for fuck’s sake, where everyone and their dog has a cell phone and wants to be able to use it. And, seriously, isn’t one of the primary reasons for owning a cell phone so that you can make a call when you’re in trouble? And yet the Powers That Be don’t put cell towers in scary, empty parts of the country where stranded women may need to make a phone call so that they don’t have to wait in a Ferrari for the next car—which just might be driven by a sex-crazed psychopath?
I exhale, pissed, and beat my palm against the steering wheel. Then I open my door, thinking that I’ll just start walking.