Chapter 2

Hannah 

I packed my getaway bag weeks ago, at the advice of a counsellor I’d spoken to on the toll-free abuse hotline, but when the opportunity to leave came this morning, I simply dressed in what was closest to hand: my dress from the night before, lying in a pile on the floor. I haven’t had a chance to change into something from the bag.

Dane owns a few cars, and usually locks the keys up so I can’t have access to them; can’t have any way to leave. But he’d gotten fucked up at the party last night. Drank too much and then nearly killed us driving us home. I’d thought I might have a bad night ahead of me, but luckily for me, when we got home he just got high and passed out.

And left the keys to the Porsche sitting on the kitchen counter.

Now here I am looking like I’m doing the longest walk of shame ever, pushing a fancy car down a country road in party attire and heels.

Every time I have to stop and straighten out the steering wheel, I eye the horizon nervously on both sides. I feel exposed out here, not moving. Afraid that Dane will appear; that I’ll be caught.

I walk around to the back of the car for the hundredth time, reminding myself that I can do this, that at the very least, I just can’t give up—but it’s hard to stay motivated. I rest my forehead on the hood of the car for a moment, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on me. I can’t drive the car, I can’t leave the car here, I have nowhere to go… Then I take a deep inhale to clear my thoughts and prepare to push again.

I straighten my shoulders and raise my eyes, and lo and behold, there before me is a glorious sight, my own equivalent to finding an oasis in the desert: it’s a sign on the road advertising something called The Rusty Horseshoe. Probably not a mechanic’s shop, but fuck, it will do. I lock the car doors and run towards the sign as best I can manage in my boots.

The Rusty Horseshoe is a classic country bar. A wide, low building made entirely of logs with a large parking lot out front, and only one car in it—a big, black, badass pickup truck on oversize wheels. The neon “Open” sign in the window is off, but I’m relieved to find the door open and I walk into the cool, dark space, grateful for the air-conditioning.

There’s not a soul in the place except the bartender, who stands behind the cash register, illuminated by the overhead lights. I realize none of the other lights in the bar are on, and when he looks up at me with a curious and slightly intimidating expression on his face, I almost die.

The first person I’ve encountered so far today is almost as hot as Dane’s car.

He’s striking. Dark, slicked-back hair and fair skin, with piercing blue eyes. One hand is resting on the bar, revealing tattoos that snake up over his hand and arm under the sleeve of his black t-shirt.

As I get closer, I can see that he has a large tattoo across his throat—a bird, with a wingspan that wraps around the side of his neck.

That must have hurt.

“Uh, hey,” I say, very aware of how hot and dirty I am, and how unusual I must look, dressed for a party at this time of day.

“I need help. My car stopped running and I’m stranded. Is there a mechanic nearby?”

He raises one dark, heavy eyebrow, and although his shoulders are broad, his hand long-fingered and wide, I can’t help but notice how delicate his features are. His skin is porcelain white, and the bones in his face are narrow and fine. He’s strangely… beautiful.

“Closest mechanic’s over in Riverdown, darlin’,” he says in a smooth drawl.

“That’s forty miles over.”

“Shit. Okay. Would it be possible for me to use your phone?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t you have your own phone?”

It’s a fair question, but I don’t, actually. Dane has my phone locked away in the drawer of his bedside table.

At first, it had been in the evenings only, for my “own good,” because he had coerced me into admitting I was addicted to social media. But over time I seemed to have less and less access to it until I just stopped asking for it. It wasn’t worth the hassle, and no one called me anymore anyway.

So no, I don’t have a phone.

Annoyed by the question, I simply ask,

“Can I just use yours, please?”

He shrugs and indicates a landline phone sitting on the far end of the bar. This guy is as cool as his icy blue eyes. I get the feeling it would take a lot to rouse a reaction out of him.

“Luke!” he calls out behind him.

“Can you look up the number for the mechanic in Riverdown?”

“Why?” comes the response, as the tavern doors leading to the kitchen swing open, and through them walks an absolute blond adonis.

I gape at him for a second, wondering if I’m on a hidden camera show, or if I’ve maybe caught up with some kind of Magic Mike-type tour bus or something.

Luke is as bronzed as his friend is pale, wearing a sleeveless shirt that shows off his insanely muscular arms, with long, dark blond hair pulled back in a bun and a short beard. He’s got tattoos that wrap around both biceps, and he’s carrying a box that must be heavy, because his arms are flexing. He smiles at me with instant warmth, and I melt.

“You need a mechanic?” he asks me.

Fuck. His arms are doing a number on me, and standing there looking at these two incredible men I feel a trickle of sweat run down my back—and I’m not sure it’s from the exertion of pushing the car.

“Yeah,” I managed.

“My car broke down and I’m stranded.”

“Well, let me have a look at it,” he offers, placing the box on the bar and pulling a dish towel off one thick, rounded shoulder. He throws it at his friend, who catches it and gives Luke a look I can’t quite read. Something between are you sure you know what you’re doing and go get ‘er, tiger.

“Is it out front?” he asks, as I follow him to the door.

Goddamn it. I’m staring at his ass. He’s wearing jeans, and he’s got one of those round, muscular asses that means he works out, in case his arms weren’t any indication. I know I’m being super pervy but I can’t take my eyes off it. I can only imagine what he must look like in bed. The way those muscles would move under that smooth golden skin.

It’s been a while since I had sex—well, good sex—and I tell myself that ogling every man I see now is probably a very natural reaction to being out of Dane’s clutches.