Page 73 of Mercenary
Do I make a run for it now? Or wait?
I hear the toilet flush. Then the sink run. When he comes back into the bedroom, he’s wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
“You still have that gun in your duffel bag?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He kicks off his shoes and then lord help me, rips his shirt up and over his head. His abs flex, and suddenly I’m thirsty, my throat bone dry.
No. Escape.
I watch, fascinated, as he pulls back the bedspread and top sheet and climbs into bed.
Pants on. That’s a first.
Then he closes his eyes.
I don’t dare make a sound. Don’t dare inhale or exhale. I count the seconds, the minutes until I hear his breath deepen.
Quietly, ever so quietly, I rise to my feet.
Scooping up my duffel bag, I tread softly to the door.
Without so much as a peep, I turn the inside lock, open it, and step outside into the bright sunshine.
It’s only then I take a long, deep inhalation.
Then I carefully close the door without looking back.
23
Madelyn
“Star light, star bright. First star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might . . .”
I turn my head on my pillow toward the familiar voice, and although darkness engulfs the seedy motel room, an inner lightness fills the empty space within my soul.
“Have this wish I wish tonight.”
As kids, Mama read rhymes to my sister and me as a bedtime ritual. Filling our heads with beautiful words and painting verbal images of a magical world around us. Planting sweet thoughts inside our sleepy heads so our dreams would be as enchanting as the words she shared.
Not once did Mama sound like Stevie Nicks. Or Kylie, with her similar-sounding smoke- and gravel-filled tone.
I loved Mama’s soft, melodic voice, but it’s my sister whom I could spend hours listening to. Like the time we spread blankets across the beach at Lake Eufaula and she’d gone on and on about the stars. “Star light, star bright” . . . that’d been Mama and Kylie’s favorite . . .
“Shhh. Madelyn. It’s me.”
I struggle with the covers to sit up. Or is it incredulous disbelief holding me down, the weight of my heart keeping me pinned to the mattress?
“Kylie?”
I try to suck in a calming breath, but it’s like I’ve forgotten how to. Like someone’s torn off the feather pillow that’s been slowly suffocating me, leaving me breathless.
“You okay?”
Am I okay? Four months tempering my worries. Four months of trying to begin my new life. Running, hiding, wondering what the heck she’s done to put us at risk. No, I’m far from okay.
But she’s here.
