Damon:A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel(109)

"Get the fuck out," Boon's voice came, loud and strained, from inside.  It made me jump in place. Seconds later, there was the sound of  footsteps, and before I could even move out of the way I was knocked  over by someone vaulting themselves out of the broken window.

"Ooof! Fuck! Get the fuck outta here, there's a guy with a knife! Jesus,  hurry up, Ginny!" The person who had landed on top of me scrambled to  his feet; he was wearing only a t-shirt and pair of boxers and was  already halfway to the car before his companion, a short brunette  wrapped in a sheet, fell out of the window behind him, squealing.

I lay on the ground, trying to get my mind together, listening the Kia's  doors slam shut as the engine turned on. I leaned up onto my elbows and  watched the car screech away down the dirt road, bobbing up and down  and back and forth on the road. It all would have been comical under  different circumstances. Boon's head popped back through the window. He  nodded, beckoning me inside.         

     



 

I stood up, brushing dirt from my dress and crawling in after him. Once  inside, you could see a little clearer. Light streamed in from spaces  between the boards in the windows. There was a dingy looking mattress in  the corner, and some blankets and sheets strewn about it. I shivered;  it was much colder inside than the sunny day outside.

Being inside, I felt safe but depressed. All the panic and anxiety had  faded to a low hum of sadness. Being in the Clamhouse was depressing.  Knowing that boys took girls here to screw on the dirty mattress was  depressing. Not knowing what was going to happen was depressing. I  wanted to leave, to go outside and go home and hug my parents and call  my friends.

Boon came close to me, reaching his arms around me and pulling me into  an embrace. I breathed deeply, his smell my only solace. Everything was  going wrong, but being in his arms felt so right. It wasn't fair. It  wasn't fair that I finally found him, that we finally found each other,  and that it had to happen alongside all this mess. But I was so  tired … too tired to be really angry about it. Too tired to feel anything,  really, but lost and sad. I let him rock me back and forth gently,  slowly. Looking up, his eyes were on mine. They were full of their own  sadness.

"I'm so sorry, Samantha. I'm so, so sorry," he said. I dropped my head  again, pressing it against his firm chest, feeling his heart beat. I  wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault, but I knew it was. It was his  fault, and my fault, and my father's fault, and his father's fault.

You've really done it this time, Samantha. Good luck good-girling your way out of this.





26





We sat on the dirty mattress and watched the light change. We didn't  speak much, just held each other. Or, more appropriately, Boon held me.  He held me and listened to me waver between demanding to leave and  crying and bemoaning my future. I'll give him that: he was way more  patient than he needed to be with me. He just held me, his presence  constant and reassuring.

When the light started to fade and the shadows grew longer, I felt my  stomach rumble. I was, in the midst of everything else, hungry. That's  the least of your worries, I thought to myself, but Boon had heard it,  too.

"We should have brought some food," he said, his voice low.

"It's okay. I mean, we can leave soon, you think, right? When can we  leave?" I'd asked before, but he hadn't given me any sort of useful  answer. Now, I hoped, with a concrete reason to leave, he would share  his thoughts.

"I don't know," he said. I felt my irritation flaring up.

"Well, we're not just going to sit in this crappy old house forever. I  mean, my parents are probably filling out a police report right now, and  if your dad's not in cuffs already … "

I was interrupted by a mechanical sound. At the same time the sound  buzzed through the air, I felt the pocket of Boon's pants vibrating  behind me.

"You have your phone?" I said, louder than I meant to. I whipped around  to face him, staring at his pocket as it buzzed. He looked at me, eyes  wide with fright. "Take it out, dammit! Answer it! Jesus Christ, why  didn't you tell me you had a phone?!"

"He doesn't know I have it, it can't be him, this is just a burner I  picked up on the road! It can't be traced to me!" He said, rising to his  feet. I followed suit, confused.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything? Give it to me, I need to call … "

"No way. We have no idea who's calling! And who are you going to call?"

"Uh, my parents? My friends? They'll be wondering where I am! They'll be  sick out of their minds!" I reached for Boon, grabbing his jeans by the  belt loop. He struggled, pulling back, but I was quick. I reached into  his pocket and grabbed the phone. Glancing at the cover, I nearly threw  the phone onto the mattress. The caller ID had my name.

"It's me. It's my phone," I said, looking at Boon, incredulous. It meant  that someone had found my phone and found Boon's number in my contacts.  But it could be anyone. It could be the police, it could be his father,  it could be my father. And if I picked up …

"If you pick up and it's someone we don't want to talk to, they could  trace the call," Boon said, finishing my own thought before I could even  think it.

"But if it's someone we want to talk to … ."

It was too late. The phone stopped buzzing. I waited, staring at the  phone, to see if anyone would leave a voicemail. After a minute with no  indication, I looked back up at Boon.

"I have to call my Dad," I said, pointedly, wanting to invite no  argument. He looked at me, his eyes full of fear. I knew what he was  afraid of. Any sort of truce that could have existed between him and my  father was probably broken now. And if his father and gang had been  rounded up already, he could be facing serious charges alongside them.  But we couldn't just stay in hiding, and I reminded him of that.         

     



 

"We're going to have to leave sometime," I said, reaching out to stroke  his arm, hoping to give him some of the comfort that he always managed  to give me just with his touch. I don't think it worked.

"We could go to Mexico," he said, desperation in his voice. "Samantha, I don't want to go to jail."

"I know, but you won't. I mean … I don't think you will. I mean … I don't know, Boon."

"Samantha, you don't understand. The last job we did before Vegas I … I  didn't want to but … he made it impossible!" His voice was frantic now,  and he was stuttering over his words. I felt, for the first time, the  extent of the trouble he could be in.

"What did you do, Boon? What did he make you do?"

There was silence between us. Whatever it was, it was big. He didn't  want to tell me. We were, essentially, fugitives together, hiding out in  an abandoned farmhouse, and yet there was something so horrible that he  still couldn't tell me. I took a step closer to him, my hand gripping  his arm, my eyes looking into his. Trust me, I thought, trying to  telepathically send him the message.

"I killed someone," he blurted out. My heart froze, my blood stopping mid-pump, my brain skipping like a record.

"What?" I knew what he'd said. I'd heard him just fine. I just didn't  believe it. Boon, a murderer? I'd known he'd done some bad things but …

And I'd let him …

And I'd trusted him …

And he hadn't told me …

"Well, I didn't kill him. I swear, Samantha, it wasn't me that killed  him. I just … I didn't stop them. So I might as well have killed him. I  might as well have delivered the last blow … and he was just an innocent  old man … he never threatened us, we didn't need to … "

Boon's head hung low as he spoke, his shoulders slumped. My hand dropped from his arm as I processed everything he was saying.

"He was just an old man, Samantha. He was working at a gas station. He  couldn't have hurt us. He wasn't doing anything … he was just there. We  could have left him alone. He was nearly pissing his pants he was so  afraid. He wouldn't have done anything, and it wouldn't have mattered.  But Dad … he's … I told you, Samantha, he's gone fucking crazy!"

"Boon, you didn't kill that man. What could you have done? What would they have done to you if you'd stepped in? You can't … "

"I fucking CAN, Samantha. I watched them do it, and I didn't say a damn  thing, didn't even lift a finger. We never … we never … not like that. Maybe  a dealer who screwed us, maybe a crooked cop, maybe even a  double-dealing banker, but not just an innocent old man. Not someone who  didn't ask for it, one way or another. I mean, I know, it's messed up  no matter who it is, but some asshole dealer selling smack to kids, you  kinda feel justified. But he was just … so defenseless, Samantha … ."

I moved forward, this time being the one to take Boon in my arms. I  wished he'd had a different life. I wished he didn't have to struggle  with this. I wished for so many things. But it didn't change the fact  that I couldn't just go to Mexico with him. I couldn't hide him. I  couldn't protect him.