Page 18 of Stolen By the Hit Man
“Don’t worry. You’re safe now,” says the man in uniform.
I looked past him and try to gather my thoughts. But the attempt only makes my head hurt worse. “Who are you?” I ask, my voice rising in pitch.
“Hush, now,” says a second man, appearing out of the shadows. He’s older, with a patrician air about him. Like a pastor…perhaps the chaplain of this hospital, wherever this is. “You’ve been injured in a terrible accident, but you got lucky. Only a bump on the head.”
Okay, not the chaplain. “Are you the doctor?”
The older man smiles, but there’s no warmth behind it. “No, honey. I’m your Uncle Charlie.”
I blink at him. “Uncle…Charlie?”
“Yes, ma’am. I went and picked up Braydon as soon as we got word of the farm accident. He was on the night shift at the silos and worried sick.”
Braydon. Silos. Farm accident? I swallow the knot of panic in my throat. None of this makes any sense to me. “Where’s my purse?”
“Baby, your purse is at the house where you left it.” Yet another man’s voice comes out of nowhere, and then he appears. A younger version of this supposed Uncle Charlie.
I stare at him. He looks concerned for me, which sets me at ease. “And my purse? My phone?” My Coach purse. I think I had a Coach purse. Didn’t I? Or did I just really want one?
He and Uncle Charlie exchange a look. “The womenfolk don’t carry phones,” he says with a teasing smile. “But we’ll make sure someone finds your handbag.”
My head is pounding so hard my eyes begin to water.
“Don’t cry, baby. We’ll take care of you.”
“Who are you?” I ask as this man sits on the edge of my crappy hospital bed and takes my hand. “Why, I’m Braydon. I’m your husband.”
“I’m sorry to break up this heartwarming reunion,” Uncle Charlie butts in. “But can you tell me what you saw just before the accident?”
Braydon barks at him. “She fell at the farm and hit her head, remember?!”
The pain in my head spikes so dramatically that my eyesight blurs.
After I am discharged, I am “returned home” to a nearly empty shack on a stretch of road dotted with similarly shabby little houses. I ride there in a UTV surrounded by strange men, including this Braydon character. There are so many guns, but they aren’t dressed like farmers or hunters.
I don’t see Braydon often, and when I do, there are no more terms of endearment and gentleness that he showed me when I’d first woken up from the accident. Instead, he’s short with me, demanding I get back to work, relearning how to operate the dairy barn like before. He’s impatient with me. And when I ask him where my purse is, he gets angry.
So many red flags. None of this feels right. The clothes are modest, and the fabrics are cheap and itchy. The house is drafty. The pantry is bare except for the absolute barest of essentials. The work at the barn is exhausting, and I don’t get paid in money. I get paid in trips to the silos, where the church stores all our food. From what I can see, they have enough stored away to last ten years or more, but I’m told that we have to be disciplined and ration ourselves in preparation for the End of Days. Whatever that means.
Still, what choice do I have? I have a roof over my head. I actually enjoy working with the cows. Being around the animals soothes me. And I’m the only worker they seem to listen to.
As Braydon gets meaner and meaner by the day.
Chapter Nine
Jasmyn
I’m watching a thousand-piece puzzle click into place all at once.
They lied to me. All of them.
I know who I am. I’m Jasmyn Fucking Waters from Tampa, Florida. I’m the head bitch in charge of my life and of J. Waters Luxury Fabrics.
And this is not Joaquin’s fight.
This is my fight.
Next to me, Joaquin is practically vibrating, readying for battle.
