Bounty:Fury Riders MC(67)

The words are no longer on the screen, but they're burned into my brain.  Slut. Bitch. You got fat since you left your boyfriend. You look like  shit in this picture. You're a disgusting pig.

Words can't hurt me. He's crazy. It doesn't mean anything.

But it does. He'll go to any lengths to stalk me. He'll spend endless hours terrorizing me.

I don't have a lot of experience with the police, so I don't pretend to  know more than I know. But thanks to what I've seen on TV and in movies,  one word keeps coming to mind: escalating. He's escalating. He's not  begging me to take him back anymore, not telling me he loves me.

What will he do next?

Later on, in bed, all I can do is stare at the ceiling.



***



I'm a total mess at the shop. This makes two nights in a row in which  sleep was nearly nonexistent. It's showing, too. Yesterday I was able to  play it off. One sleepless night is bearable. Today I'm screwing up  right and left.         

     



 

"I asked for a mocha with three shots, no whipped cream."

"Oh, you did?" I look at Mrs. Schwartz, her face slightly blurry. Damn. I screwed up again.

"Are you feeling all right, Christina? You normally know my order before it even comes out of my mouth."

I sigh, frustrated. She's not upset. I am, though. I throw the drink  down the drain behind the counter. That's three drinks I've screwed up  this morning. I start on a new one, apologizing even as I curse myself  silently. Get it together, girl. I can't let my customers see me falling  apart.

Once the morning rush is over, I nearly crumple to the floor in relief. I  go to one of the tables, not bothering to clean it off before sinking  into a chair. I fold my arms on the table and rest my head there.

I hear Amy walking around, cleaning up, humming to herself. She's stayed  miraculously quiet all morning, not commenting on my short temper or  inability to keep an order straight. I know this means I'm in for it  now. I wait.

It doesn't take long. "I guess I don't need to point out that this isn't like you."

"You're right. You don't." I can't even pick my head up from my arms.

"Chris … "

I sigh, unwilling to meet her eyes. I can't handle a lecture right now.  I'm too tired, my nerves too frayed. I don't trust myself to take it  well, and I don't want to alienate the only true friend I have in town,  not to mention a fabulous employee.

"I've just been having trouble sleeping. That's all. I'm really tired. A  good night's sleep will get me back in the game, coach."

"I'm sure it will." She doesn't sound convinced. "I have some sleeping pills at home. I'd gladly get them for you."

I pat her arm. "No, thanks. I've tried them, but they always leave me  feeling hungover until at least noon. I'd still be a zombie either way."

She bites her lip, watching me. "Okay. I just want you to be all right,  you know? I'm always here for anything you need. I mean anything."

"I appreciate it-and you." I give her a hug, wishing I could be totally honest.

I know she thinks I'm so wiped out because of Jax and the club. I want  so much to tell her the truth, to clear Jax's name, at least a little  bit in her eyes if no one else's. But that would mean sharing the Tommy  history. I can't bring myself to do that. There's still too much shame  wrapped up in it. Mostly shame toward myself that I let myself be his  victim for so long.



***



I stumble into the house, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed  and never come out. It's only a little after four o'clock-Amy ordered  me to go home while she cleaned up and close the place down. I was in no  position to argue. I wondered at the time whether I'd make the drive  home without falling asleep.

I can't go to bed yet, or else my entire sleep schedule will be messed  up. I can't keep waking up at two in the morning. It's not sustainable. I  need to make it at least a few more hours.

I kick off my shoes, wondering vaguely about an early dinner. I dropped  the mail on the kitchen counter, sorting through it without really  paying attention to anything. My brain is mush.

Among the usual junk mail and a few bills is a plain white envelope. My  name and address are written on it in big, block letters. There's no  return address.

The postmark is Texas.

My hands start shaking so hard I drop the envelope. I highly doubt one  of my friends back in Texas suddenly decided to send me a letter.  Besides, none of them knew where I'd moved. This was a deliberate  choice. I didn't want to give Tommy a chance to find me.

So who had?

I deliberate over whether to open the envelope in the first place. It  could hold anything. Well, not anything, since it's only a letter-sized  envelope. But any number of things can fit into a small space. I chew my  thumbnail distractedly. Should I just throw it away?

I can't stand not knowing if it's from him, and what it says. To be  careful, I put on a pair of kitchen gloves. I'm sure Tommy didn't get  his hands on toxic chemicals. But I wouldn't put anything past him.

I tear open the envelope, my heart pounding. I'm terrified, nauseated. Holding my breath, I peer inside the envelope.

The only thing in there is a newspaper clipping. I carefully pull it  out, immediately recognizing it as the article which appeared in the  local paper when I took over ownership of the coffee shop. There was a  picture of me featured there, smiling in front of the shop, a platter of  baked goods in my hand. I'd clipped the article myself, actually,  feeling intensely proud. It's hanging in a frame behind the counter at  the shop right now.

But the one in the shop doesn't have the words DIE, WHORE scrawled across my face.

I lunge for the sink, the contents of my stomach coming up through my  mouth before I can think twice. When I finish heaving, I run the water,  rinsing my mouth.

He found me. I should have known. He always told me I could never get away from him.

And now he wants me to die.         

     



 

I scream out loud, the sound startling me. I sound like an animal. A  cornered animal. Is he outside, right now, waiting for me? Watching me  through the kitchen window?

"I hate you!" I scream. "I hate you! Fucking die and leave me alone!" I  sink into a chair by the kitchen table, wracked with sobs. He found me;  he found me. He wants me to die.

Somewhere in the midst of my sobs, I hear my phone ringing. Oh, my God.  Is it him? Was he waiting for me to open his sick little message? I  should have known I couldn't run away. Blocking him wasn't enough.

I go to the living room, picking up the phone. I expect to see his name there somehow. But it's not him. It's Jax.

"Jax! Oh, thank God!"

"Whoa. Finally answering your phone? And happy to hear my voice?"

"Jax, please … !"

"Wait." He's serious now. "Are you all right? Jesus, I never thought you might be in trouble."

"There's trouble! Yes!" I dissolve into tears again.

"What's wrong? Where are you?"

"I'm at home. Only … oh, Jax … I got a clipping in the mail just now.  Somebody sent it … I don't know who but I'm pretty sure it was him."

"What's the clipping of?" There's danger in his voice.

"Me. An announcement that I took over the shop. I don't know how the hell he got his hands on it."

"Anything else?"

"It says … over my picture, it says … die, whore." I'm nearly hysterical  now. "Don't you see? He knows where I live now! How did he find me? What  can I do?" I'm doubled over on the couch, rocking back and forth.

"Are your doors locked?"

"Yes, I'm sure of it."

"Double check for me. Lock the windows, too. I'll be there as fast as I  can. Don't let anybody in, don't investigate any noises, don't do  anything until I get there. Okay?"

I'm flooded with relief. He's coming. He'll protect me. Thank God.

"Christina? Do you hear me?"

"Yes, I hear you. I'll do what you say."

"It shouldn't take more than ten minutes. I'll be there soon. Call me if anything else happens."

I heave a sigh of relief. He's coming.

I can't even bother to wonder right now whether I'm really safe with him.





Chapter 21

I pace the house, frantic with worry. I don't have a single fingernail  left at this point, having chewed all of them down to the quick. Still,  I'm chewing on what little there is left, hardly noticing the taste of  blood in my mouth.

What's taking Jax so long? I can't stand being here alone any longer.  This is torture. What did I do to deserve this shit? Every little noise,  every sound makes me jump. My house is old; everything creaks. It's  terrifying.

Finally, after what feels like forever, I see lights sweep over the  front windows of the living room. I run to the door, flinging it open to  him. Jax hurriedly parks the bike, then walks up the steps to meet me.  He's sweeping the area with his eyes. I manage to wait until he gets  through the door before I fall into his arms.

"Oh, thank God you're here." I'm shaking so hard I can hardly speak, my  teeth chattering. I wonder if I'm going into some sort of shock.