Page 26 of Devil's Due: Sarge

“Shower’s free,” she says, awkwardly thumbing behind her. “You know, in case you want to get cleaned up.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that, then I’ll get you something to eat before we head for the airport.”

She nods and lets me kiss her as I pass by. Was it just my imagination getting the best of me, or did she flinch when I pressed my lips to her cheek?

No… It has to be my imagination. With everything that happened last night and this morning—the way she responded to me – there’s no way.

We’re solid.

We have to be.

Right?

11

Greer

What am I supposed to do? I’m trying not to act hurt because I still need him to help me, but he called her name out last night while he slept –Claire. I feel like a bitch thinking her name with such venom. But… But… here, I’d given myself to him, all of myself, and he’s still hung up on a dead woman.

It’s horrible –I’m horrible. He told me his story. Of course, he’s still hung up on her. She was his wife, the mother of his child. I’m just some woman he has to help rescue. But he means something to me and now I know that I need to erase those feelings somehow, make them as if they never were because the only one getting hurt at the end of this will be me.

And honestly, it shouldn’t surprise me. I’ve gone without love most of my life.Really, Greer?I’m being unfair… He never promised melove. He promised meprotection. Okay, so he said I was his, but he made no declarations. That’s all on me. Stupid romantic notions – it’s all bullshit. Even though I want to yell at him for breaking my heart, it’s not his fault. As hard as it is, I have to keep reminding myself… there’s no one to blame but myself.

Yes, right.Big girl panties, Greer.I make it my mission to go forward with determined resolve—Iwill notlet on how badly I’ve been hurt. No sense making the man feel bad about something he has no control over. Time to do what I always do and suck it up. What elseisthere to do?

We stop at this delicious little mom-and-pop restaurant for breakfast. It’s a little off the beaten path, a place called Kenny’s, but all the locals who work at the hotel said there was no finer breakfast. If you can’t trust the locals, who can you trust? And they’re right.

They serve us the fluffiest buttermilk biscuits probably known to mankind, topped with a thick, creamy sausage gravy, along with crispy home fries. The cook even made me poached eggs. Most restaurants don’t offer poached eggs on the menu and they don’t either typically. But Mrs. Kenny was in the back cooking that morning and heard me mention something about poached eggs from our seat at the booth they tucked us in closest to the kitchen. She offered to make me poached eggs and I couldn’t sayno. They are my favorite. Everything was made from scratch. The locals were right. Although not a fancy breakfast, by far it has been one of the tastiest breakfasts I’ve ever eaten, and that’s saying something growing up in a privileged household as I did.

My life has been a never-ending state of fear and disarray for so many months now. A good breakfast, an easy breakfast, before we set out seems so…normal. I look around the busy diner, taking it all in and it hits me how much I’ve missed normal. Who would’ve thought that I’d get it back from a biker of all people?

Another wound scored.

From there, we get back on the highway, not making another stop until we hit Tulsa. He gasses up the tank because once we’ve taken possession of the artwork, he’s reluctant to make any unnecessary stops. I totally agree with this decision. Sarge—Dustin—Sarge, couldn’t be considered overly talkative on any regular day, but knowing how much he has weighing on his mind today, I’m hardly surprised that we don’t do a whole lot of talking while on the road. When he does talk, I answer. Because like I said, he’s made me no promises. I can’t fault a man for loving his wife. And that’s what I stick to throughout the rest of the trip.

That phantom smell of gunpowder hits again, sucking me back to that time. This place.

“You sure?” the old man asks me. “That’s a nice car. I don’t wanna be taking advantage of ya.”

“No. I’m sure. I’ve had some money troubles. My car is the only thing I own outright that’s worth anything.”

“Well, if yer sure…” He pulls the bills from his wallet counting them out one at a time. All hundreds. Twenty-five of them. Shoving the bills into my backpack, I then sign the title over to him and start walking. We’re in some small speck of a town in the middle of nowhere and all I have left in the world are my backpack that I use as a purse, my phone, and the art bag. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?” he asks.

I let him drive me to the next medium-sized city we come to. There, I buy myself a cheap little compact. The paper license plate will have to be enough until I hit California.

A little more than an hour later, I fill the tank and hit the highway. My first call is to my friend and former roommate, Jen, to let her know I’m coming.

“Girl, what are you into?” she asks.

“What are you talking about?”

She lowers her voice. “The FBI have been here looking for you. And then there were these other men, kind of scary men, asking about you.”

“Shit.”

“Whatever you do, don’t come here. And for god’s sake, get rid of your phone. You know they can track you with it.”

“Thanks, Jen.”

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