Escape Read online

  “Fuck you. Fucking good samaritan. Who gets involved in other people’s shit? What kind of moron are you?” The guy sneered at me, taking in my camo hat with the ranch’s logo, my tooled leather belt with its belt buckle with the longhorn on it, and my boots. “You’re a real cowboy, huh?”

  I shrugged. “Just a concerned citizen who worries about those who don’t always have someone to fight for them.”

  The guy tossed back his head and laughed, but it was a harsh, twisted sound. “Your hero complex is gonna get you dead, cowboy.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  We were so focused on one another, neither one of us noticed the tall, red-headed woman that slipped into the truck behind me. We didn’t see her rummaging around in the glovebox where I stashed my handgun, and we didn’t hear her creeping around the gas pump at my back until she called out, voice clear and calm, “Drop the knife and give him the keys to the camper.”

  I always thought Brynn looked good. She was a beautiful woman, built along the lines of a living fantasy. There was something equally wholesome and mysterious about her, but the sight of her with a weapon, looking strong and steady, ready to defend both of us, kicked my heart in the ass. She didn’t need a hero anymore. Maybe she never did. She was her own savior.

  The startled stranger faltered for a second before scoffing, “Do you even know how to use that thing?”

  Brynn’s brows arched and in a flat tone she told him, “I was born and raised in Wyoming.” Like that was enough of an answer. She inclined her head to the camper once again. “Let him in.”

  The guy switched his gaze between Brynn and me, taking stock of how serious she was with that gun. She cocked her head to the side and told him, “I already had the attendant call the police. They should be here any minute. You might as well let us in.”

  The man let the arm holding the knife fall, and the metal clicked against the asphalt when he let it drop. He dragged his hands over his face before digging into his pocket for a set of keys. He tossed them to me, but his gaze was on Brynn. “You don’t understand. You have no idea what you’re getting in the middle of. It’s best for all of us if we just go our separate ways. The people I work for…” he trailed off and let his head fall forward on his neck like it weighed a million pounds. “You just don’t understand. There’s no way you could.”

  Sadly, she understood, and that’s why she was willing to pull a gun on him. She wouldn’t stop because she knew exactly what she was getting in the middle of.

  It took me a minute to figure out which key worked on the padlock that was hanging off a tough looking bracket. That extra level of protection indicated RV guy was trying hard to keep something or someone inside of the camper. I put all my weight behind pulling the rickety door open and when it gave I let out an ‘oomph.’ Immediately I was engulfed in the stench of unwashed bodies and stale food. The RV was filthy, and there was a graveyard of empty beer bottles, drug paraphernalia, and empty fast food wrappers. It was disgusting, dark, and dank. I suppressed a shiver of revulsion and called out a gruff hello as my eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering in through the spots on the body of the RV that rusted away to nothing.

  The space was small, a tiny kitchen with a fold out table and a bunk that folded out. There was no one visible in the main area of the camper, but the bathroom at the back of the RV had a padlock similar to the one on the outside door. Something disturbing and alarming slithered down my spine as I searched for a key that would open the lock. It took me two tries with every key on the ring to get it unlocked, and once I had, it popped, and I tried to shove the accordion-style door out of my way only to meet with resistance that wouldn’t give. I put a little more weight into it but stopped immediately when a low groan rose up from somewhere near the floor. I crouched down, sucking in a breath when the form of a very naked body came into view. Even in the dark, I could see bruises and lacerations decorating every spot of visible skin.

  “Hang on there, kid. I’ll get you out of here.” There was another groan and the sound of shifting. The kid moved like a wounded animal, and I knew I was going to put my hands around the neck of that asshole outside and not let up until the cops dragged me off of him.

  I rose up and looked in the mess for something I could use to pry the hinges off the door so I could get to the captive teenager when Brynn suddenly screamed my name.

  I was out the door between one heartbeat and the next. As soon as I cleared the last step out of the RV, I saw she was no longer holding the stranger at gunpoint. The man was now brandishing his knife at a young woman in a hybrid. He pulled her out of her car while she was shaking and screaming for her life. He unceremoniously tossed the newcomer on the ground and peeled off with a screech of tires and a cloud of dust. Brynn dropped the arm holding the gun and gaped at me. “He moved so fast. There was no way I was going to take a shot with her between us. I’m good, but not that good.”

  I gazed at the spot where the car had been. “Go see if she’s all right. I’m going to get the kid out of the RV. He looks like he needs medical attention. The cops should have shown up by now.”

  Brynn flinched and moved to tuck my gun away. “I didn’t actually have him call. I saw the knife and panicked. The clerk is so stoned I doubt he noticed anything other than the YouTube video he was watching on his phone. I’ll call them now and tell them we need an ambulance.”

  I was about to tell her that sounded like a plan when a voice that was scratchy, and hardly above a whisper begged, “No cops.”

  Brynn and I both gasped as the naked teenager suddenly appeared at the door of the RV. He looked even worse in the light of day.

  His eyes were black and blue, both of them nearly swollen shut. I swore my heart cracked in half when he pleaded brokenly, “I just want to go home.”

  Chapter 8

  Brynn

  Straight or Bent

  “You should let us take you to the emergency room at the very least.” I tried again to reason with the battered teenager, but just like all the times previously, my concern was met with silence and an unflinching stare.

  The kid's face was a patchwork of old and new bruises, mottled blues and yellows that forced me to fight a cringe every time I looked at him. His dark eyes were sunken into his too skinny face, and his long, narrow nose had an obvious bump in it from a break. His hair was stringy and greasy, and so thin in some spots I could see his scalp. His arms and legs were covered in scratches and bite marks, and he was still gangly and knobby, at the stage where he hadn’t yet grown into his body.

  When Lane asked him how old he was, he muttered that he was eighteen without an ounce of conviction. If I had to guess I would bet he was closer to fourteen or fifteen, even though his eyes looked ancient. When I asked him what his name was, he told me I could call him, Bauer, but didn’t mention if that was his first or last name. The kid reminded me so much of myself when I was his age that I felt the ache of those painful memories throb right in the center of my chest.

  The woman whose car got stolen wasted no time calling the police, even though the battered, naked teenager was adamant not to involve the police in the situation. When he pulled himself up and grabbed onto Lane’s shirt with both hands, the dark-haired cowboy was clearly at a loss. The teen alternated between crying and yelling, frantically telling Lane that all he wanted was to get to Denver where his older brother was. He swore that he was going to take off if the cops showed up. He was in near hysterics when he exclaimed that he wasn’t going back to foster care. Somewhere in all the frenzy, he mentioned that he would have never been in the RV with that man, to begin with, if the authorities had just let him stay with his brother in the first place. His desperation poured off of him in waves, and it broke my heart that someone so young knew what that felt like. It also hurt deep down in a place I didn’t like to revisit inside of myself that I sympathized with him so strongly. He honestly believed no one in law enforcement was going to be on hi
s side, which led me to believe they hadn’t been in the past. Since I’d walked that road myself every time the police in Sheridan passed me and Opal off to the tribal law enforcement, who, in turn, handed us right back to our mother, I knew how lonely and terrifying it was, I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out, “We’ll take you to your brother.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the kid had collapsed back on the ground, drained and drunk with relief. Lane looked at me like I’d lost my mind, but all I could do was shrug. I was going with my gut, and my gut was telling me this kid was going to be a ghost by the time the authorities showed up. If I wanted to help him, I had to get him to trust me. I had to prove that I was on his side.

  I managed to get him into a pair of Lane’s sweatpants and one of my extra flannel shirts, both of which hung off of his emaciated frame, just as the sound of sirens wailed in the distance. I urged Lane to put the pedal to the metal, so we weren’t around when the authorities arrived. He hesitated for a second, but eventually, we were cruising down the highway at a steady clip, putting distance between us and the crime scene.

  I looked back and saw the woman with the stolen car waving her arms and speaking loudly into her phone. When we were hustling the teenager into the back of the truck, she had pointed in our direction and yelled that we couldn’t leave the scene of a crime. Since we had witnessed the assault and theft, she was technically right. That had Lane’s jaw tightening even more and a muscle in his cheek fluttering as he ground his teeth together with audible force.

  Trying to appease him the best I could and still maintain the gossamer thread of trust I’d built with the kid, I called 911 and reported what we had seen. I gave the dispatcher a detailed description of the man who drove the RV and mentioned they might want to have the police check out the abandoned vehicle once they got to the gas station. I gave my account of what happened when RV guy dragged the woman out of her car and left my number in case the California Highway Patrol had any questions. I wanted to protect the kid, but I had too wide of a moral streak to flout the law completely.

  When I hung up, Lane cut me a sharp look out of the corner of his eye. “What’s going to stop that guy from grabbing another kid? I don’t feel right about not talking to the cops about this.”

  I was opening my mouth to argue that even if we stayed to talk to the police, there was no guarantee they would be able to catch the man who pulled the knife on him, but they for sure would take Bauer in for questioning. And they would undoubtedly dump him back in the system, when a quiet, shaky voice from the back muttered, “He didn’t grab me.”

  Lane shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror, a frown pulling at his dark brows. “What do you mean? You were locked up in that bathroom. That’s no way to treat someone.”

  The kid looked down at his hands. His fingernails were torn, and there was blood on each fingertip. His knuckles were scabbed over and on the back of one hand was a healing wound that was perfectly round. It didn’t take a genius to figure out someone put out a cigarette on the back of the kid's hand. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him we were taking him to the hospital, no arguments, but I had the feeling if I did that as soon as he was out of my sight he was going to run.

  “He didn’t take me. I answered an ad I found online. He told me he was taking me to meet my new employers. I went with him willingly.” Every inch of the kid’s body bled shame and repulsion. I could tell he believed he was supposed to be smarter than that. He’d lived enough in his young life that he was supposed to know if it seemed too good to be true, then it probably was.

  “What kind of ad was it?” Lane’s initial suspicion that Bauer’s abduction was tied to a sex trafficking ring echoed in the question.

  The teenager shrunk in on himself and refused to meet Lane’s gaze in the mirror. Absently, he traced the wound on the back of his hand, and I watched as he blinked back tears. I needed to get some food into him, and he needed a bath. I was hoping once we stopped to fuel up again I could convince him to let me patch him up, and I wasn’t giving up on getting him to a doctor either.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to. I know it can be hard to let someone else inside that kind of experience.” That kind of pain was personal; it wasn’t something you wanted to share with others.

  I heard him exhale a wobbly sounding breath as he lifted his head. Underneath the damage, it was easy to see he was going to grow into a rather good-looking young man. There was something almost pretty about his high cheekbones and wide, chocolate-colored eyes. The off-center nose and sharp jawline kept him from being delicate, but just barely. It was all too easy to imagine what interest the creep in the RV had in him, and what he had in store for him when he got delivered to his new employer.

  Bauer’s fathomless gaze landed on mine, and I could feel him searching for the secrets I had that were so similar to his. He must have seen something that let him know there was truth behind my words because, slowly and methodically, he started talking.

  “I’m gay.” He whispered the words like he was confessing to a horrible crime. He shook his head when I started to respond that his sexuality didn’t matter in the slightest. He held up a hand and whispered, “Let me get it all out, and when I’m done if you want to drop me at the closest truck stop, I’ll understand.” He shrugged dejectedly. “You oughta know the kind of person you’re helping.”

  Lane stiffened next to me, and he cocked his head so that he could glance at the kid without taking his eyes off the road. “That’s not going to happen, kid. No matter what, we’re not leaving you until you’re somewhere you feel safe. No matter what you have to say, I’m not leaving you until you’re with someone who can take care of you. You look like you’re in desperate need of it.”

  The teen made a choking sound and lifted his injured hand to wipe his wet cheeks. He took a fortifying breath and let the rest of the story out in a rush. “My parents are very religious. They didn’t take it well when I told them that I liked boys instead of girls.” He rubbed both his hands over his face, and I could see that they were trembling. “My dad is real old fashioned. He honestly believed he could beat the gay out of me.”

  I sucked in a breath through my teeth and put a hand over my pounding heart. “How old were you when you told your parents?” I was barely old enough to tie my own shoes the first time one of my mom’s boyfriends hit me. Every memory I had of my childhood ended up filtered through a haze of pain and bitter anger.

  “I was”—he paused and looked lost as he sifted through his response— “Uh…eleven.” His reluctance to give us a hint to his true age drew the word out and caused his gaze to shift nervously around the interior of the truck. “My dad is a big guy. It was never a fair fight. For a while, I thought someone would step in and make it stop. My mom. One of my teachers. The police. It never happened, everyone believed my dad and whatever excuse he had for the marks he left that were visible. I tried to tell him that it didn’t matter how many times he hit me, I was never going to like girls, but that only made him angrier. The only person who ever got between me and Dad’s fists was my big brother. He always tried to protect me, but like I said, my dad is a big guy, and Mikey was no match for him. I was thirteen when Dad put Mikey in the hospital for daring to stick up for me.” The kid’s head dropped like it weighed a million pounds and his shoulders slumped with the weight of his story. “I knew that if I stayed under the same roof as my dad, he was going to kill one of us. He told me enough times that he wanted me dead, that I had no choice but to believe him, but I didn’t want Mikey to keep getting hurt. The only reason Dad ever hit him was because of me.”

  Lane made a pained noise low in his throat, and I could feel moisture pushing at the back of my eyes. I was having a hard time keeping my expression even, and it was a struggle to stay in my seat and not launch myself into the back of the cab and wrap the kid up in an unbreakable hug.

  “I left before he came home from the hospital. It didn
’t take me long to figure out truck stops, and lonely truckers were an easy way to make it from one place to another and about the only way an underage kid could make a quick buck.” I couldn’t hold back the gasp that ripped out of me. He was so young. I knew his story wasn’t wholly unheard of or unique, but it still stung all my soft places to hear him tell it so matter-of-factly. “I turned tricks for a long time. Sometimes I made enough to get off the streets and keep myself fed. Sometimes I got the shit kicked out of me and ended up dumped back on the street like trash.”

  He blew out a sigh and pulled his knees up to his chest. He rested his swollen, abused cheek on the points of his bent knees and closed his eyes. “I was so tired of not knowing what was going to happen to me each time I got into a car with whoever was paying. At least at home, I knew I was going to get knocked around, but on the streets, the nicest guy would turn on me, and for some reason, those hits hurt even worse. One night a guy who was around my age rolled up on me in a brand-new BMW. He wasn’t anything like my other tricks, he was cute, the kind of guy I used to daydream about. He picked me up, and we spent the night together. He was the first client who ever treated me like I was a human being. He asked me where I was from and when I told him about my shitty home life he told me he understood and that his parents had kicked him out around the same age. He told me that he used to hustle but found a better way to make money at it. No more shady tricks. No more standing on street corners fighting off junkies for territory. No more shakedowns from other hustlers and pimps. He gave me this website to check out. He told me I could make triple what I was making doing the same thing for a higher class of clientele. He mentioned the BMW and told me it only took him a week to earn enough to pay for it.”

  Listening to that modicum of hope in his voice, I couldn’t resist reaching out to touch him. I was pulled to him because his trauma and lack of options were like a magnet. I hated what my sister and I had to endure. I loathed what he went through even more. My hand landed on the back of his head. His hair felt gross, but I stroked my fingers through the thin strands anyway.