Chapter 3

"You shouldn't have run, Jessie," Drake's voice echoed into the space between my ears.

I gasped, eyes flying open, wild and wide. My wrists and ankles twisted against rope, and a solitary lightbulb swung overhead, illuminating the familiar setting. The garage. The chair. That chair. I jerked against the restraints, knowing it would do no good. Bolts secured the chair to the concrete floor, and I'd seen grown men try and fail to break free of it.

"You want out," Drake said.

My gaze fixed on the object in his hand, and every single one of my muscles tightened in unison. I shook my head and whimpered a non-verbal plea.

Drake's grip on the iron tightened, and a sadistic smile slashed his face. "You already know, don't you?" He tilted it back and forth, and steam billowed the air with a hiss. His attention turned to the tattoo on my shoulder and mine did the same.

The onyx eagle stood bold against my pale skin, my other artwork mere additions in the midst of its importance. The eagle meant the club. The eagle meant the family, and once a person stopped being a part of that, they lost the right to have it.

As if my thoughts had been a starting signal, Drake yanked my elbow up and pushed the burning plate into the mark.

A scream so strong my throat could bleed ripped the air as fire melted my flesh, sizzling, hissing. "Please! I won't– I won't–"

"You did." Drake seemed entranced, transfixed. His lips parted on a breath as he pulled away and my skin came with him. "Don't worry, Jessie," he said, voice detached. "I don't want to kill you."

I shot upright, covered in a cool sweat, gulping lungful after lungful of hollow, empty air. Another nightmare.

Each night when I closed my eyes, Drake found me. This time had been different. A premonition, a distortion of a memory I'd never been able to rid myself of. Every detail of the dream still lingered on my skin like blisters, and I couldn't help but recall the time I'd watched him do it before. When he'd forced me to watch poor Greg sit in that chair and scream and writhe in agony.

I'd needed to learn. Greg wasn't my friend, and our playful banter hadn't been the innocent passage of time I'd told him it was. I was a whore to have affection for the boy so young and new to our world, and Greg... Greg was a dead man.

It was then that my young girl's mind learned the truth about Prince Charmings. Prince Charmings were only charming until you got inside the carriage. Once they closed the door...

I shook my head. Thinking about him wouldn't help me. The memory of the dream echoed through my mind too vividly, and I focused on my surroundings in a fight to bring myself back to the present. Early dawn painted the world in hues of pink, yellow and light blue. The rain had ceased in the night hours, but the puddles left behind still peppered the cement, and the view beyond our safe hold seemed to shine with the residual moisture.

All around, sleeping forms propped into corners, huddled in crannies, and stretched out onto flattened boxes. A few early risers stood around one dwindled fire, wrapped tight in torn blankets. They rubbed their hands together and murmured wistful conversation about the long, forgotten comforts of another life.

How did I get here? My whole life had been a rollercoaster ride of disparity, leading me to this one specific point. This single moment. My mother chose drugs over me. My father was a mystery. Whatever family I had didn't want the burden. I didn't even know their names.

Why? Why were some people born into good homes, with love and prospects and opportunities, while the rest of us got stuck with... this?

With a set jaw, I forced my thoughts away and unwrapped the blanket from my shoulders. Nobody was going to come save me or any of these people here. If I wanted a different life, I had to take it. I stuffed my pack full, zipped it shut, and smoothed my hair as best I could with an old broken comb I'd found on the street.

Today, I'd try the other side of town. Everything over here had been done. I took a look at Mr. Frankfire's sleeping form, his frail and wrinkled skin, too loose for his bones. How did the old man plan to survive the winter? I already knew from earlier conversations that his outbursts had gotten him banned from every shelter in the county. He had no family to speak of, and the rest of the world surely didn't give a shit.

I couldn't stay at a shelter either, not with the risk of someone finding me. If I found a way to save myself from the impending freeze, I'd make it a point to bring the old man with me.

I tiptoed past the sleeping bodies and into the faint daylight. The walk would be a far one, but I kept my steps steady and determined.

It took an hour to make it past the places I'd already applied to, but when I did, more of the same results continued. Six gas stations told me no. Four fast food restaurants said they were staffed, even though two of them had obviously been in need of help. When aggravation got the better of me, I tried a doctor's office just for shits and giggles.

They told me not to come back.

I was about to give it up for the day and head back, when a grocery store loomed into the distance. I paused and chewed my lip. One more couldn't hurt. It would be my luck, if I skipped it, it would have been the one to break the pattern and actually hire me.

A newer building, with dark grey trim and freshly painted white blocks, Birchwood Wholesale Grocery looked the epitome of suburban bliss.

I cut across the parking lot, amidst the chatter of shoppers, squeaky cart wheels, and revving engines, and shot overly sweet smiles to the many nervous stares I received. I wasn't surprised. What I'd done to my appearance in an attempt to hide had unfortunately made me a pariah. There was no getting around it. Drake would expect me to stay the same for this exact reason. I'd just have to take my chances and find someone who didn't judge.

Inside, the scent of Pine-Sol hung heavy in the air, and the glaring reflection of fluorescent lights shimmered upon wet tile. A tiny blonde behind a customer service counter smiled at me. "Hello," she said, voice overly chipper. "Watch your step."

I approached cautiously with the best smile I could manage. "Is the manager available?"

Her eyes scanned, from my worn clothes to my tattooed skin, and an expression far worse than judgment crossed her features. Pity.

I forced the smile to remain in place, but it felt more like a sneer as the seconds ticked by. "I just want to see if you're hiring."

She shook her head, as if realizing her behavior, and the sweet smile lifted her lips once more. "Sure thing. Let me go grab him." She held up a finger, smiled wider, then turned and skipped in the opposite direction.

Skipped, pony tail waving back and forth, propelled by bubbles and sunshine and little yellow ducky toys to match her golden hair. Hers wasn't an act. She was my former persona. I fought not to roll my eyes at her back. Overly happy people clashed with my misery. Like two similar ends of a magnet, I repelled it, couldn't let it near. Something about it made the bitterness inside me eat away a little faster. Too much at once, and I might simply disappear.

She reappeared a minute later with the manager trailing behind her. Heavy and balding, his walk held none of the girl's happy gate, but instead told a story of a man who'd been bothered. He shot me a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "How can I help you today, ma'am?"

I stuck my hand out but he didn't take it. His eyes landed on the newest tattoo across my temple, and he met my gaze with forced patience.

I lowered my hand back to my side and swallowed a sigh. Might as well get it over with. "I was wondering if you needed any help. I'm a real hard worker and could really use a job."

I fought the urge to follow along as he said, "We're all staffed at the moment."

Now, my line. "I understand." I smiled. Yeah, I understood perfectly fine. Asshole.

I pulled the paper from my pocket and handed it to him. "Do you mind signing a paper that says I applied here?"

His eyes scanned over the probation office's jargon, and I could practically see his decision solidify. "Of course." He sounded put out, but he kept a closed mouth smile as he grabbed the pen from his shirt pocket and scribbled his name in a rush.

As he stepped away, my attention caught back onto the blonde. She'd left her spot behind the counter and had been joined by an older man that made me take a step back. Shoulder length black hair, full beard peppered with gray, heavily tattooed.

His gaze drifted over in my direction as they spoke.

A shiver raced down my spine, and a million red flags sent my heart thundering. Was he affiliated with the club? He could be. He looked like it. He's staring. The way he looked at me made me feel like he knew something. Or perhaps everything.

The manager cleared his throat, and it was only then I noticed his outstretched hand and attempt to hand me back the paper. I snatched it without a word and hurried for the entrance.

I didn't give a shit about nervous stares as I all but ran across the lot, but I only made it halfway when a deep voice shouted, "Wait up!"

I turned and, sure enough, the man had followed. My fears solidified. He must have stood six foot two inches, and his frame was large and, though aged, still full of muscle. There was no way I'd outrun him. His legs were too long. I'd grown too weak.

With a determined jaw and angry eyes, I turned fully to face my fate. "What do you want!"

He stopped, now a mere three feet away, and smiled despite his obvious surprise at my hostility. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." He held up a hand. "I'm Zeke. I just couldn't help but notice your artwork."

I studied him, adrenaline still snaking it's way through my veins. My hands shook at my sides, and I balled them into tight fist to try and hide the reaction. Despite the warning bells ringing my ears, the mention of my ink piqued my interest. The tattoos along his arms and neck were high quality, expertly done. A fellow artist? No relief came at the assumption. I didn't know him. The setting he'd found me in couldn't be more public. Drake knew how much I loved my art. This could all be a trap to get me somewhere with less witnesses.

"What about them?" I asked.

He took a step back, hand still up in a sign of surrender. "Did you do any of them?"

I bit the inside of my cheek and cast a glance around the filling lot. "I did all of them." I met his gaze. "What's it to you?"

Zeke ignored my rude question and let out a low whistle. "That's impressive." His head tilted. "I couldn't help but overhear you're looking for work. I own a tattoo shop down the street." He continued to watch me like a person might watch a wounded animal. "Lexy, the blonde inside, her mother works for me. I've got an empty table I've been looking to fill, and I know a lot of my customers would love to have some of your artwork."

I held my breath and mentally flipped off the burst of excitement his words brought. He couldn't be real. It was too good to be true. I looked around for a camera, or more likely, a gun pointed at me. It was just us.

Zeke's smile widened. "I take it you're interested?"

In a perfect world, I would have jumped at the chance. But the world wasn't perfect, not the one I lived in. Biker Santa's didn't magically appear to offer gifts, and I was smart enough to know when to run. "I'm going to walk away now," I said, voice as firm as I could manage it. "There's a lot of people out here, so I suggest you don't follow me."

His eyebrows furrowed, and he looked around us then back to me. "I'm not going to follow you, girl. I don't know who you're running from, but I'm telling the truth."

I didn't offer him a response. It wouldn't do me any good to give him one. The longer I stood there, the slimmer my chances of escaping grew. I broke into a sprint and prayed the audience would keep him from running after me.