"No sense rushing things. Sex. A relaxing meal. Hell, maybe we find time for some sight-seeing before we go."
Clay laughed. "I'm afraid the only local sight we'll be seeing is the nearest restaurant drive-thru. I was in kind of a hurry to get away and I didn't grab a change of clothes. We'll have to share what I've got. Of course, that'll make it easier if we decide to stop for more sex after breakfast."
"Just take me home," I said.
"I wish I could, darling."
"I meant, take me wherever Jeremy and the others are."
He nodded and retrieved his clothes from behind a nearby tree. Then he handed me his shirt, boxers, and socks, leaving him with his jeans and shoes. Once we'd dressed-or half-dressed-he carried me to the waiting car. No, it wasn't some great romantic gesture. The ground was wet and I'd have drenched my socks if I walked. Plus my knee still throbbed when I put any weight on it. So maybe it was romantic after all. Practical romance. The kind we did best.
***
We were in Maine. Not seaside, vacation-land Maine, but the middle of the remote northern section. Before Clay had left Jeremy to look for me, the others had narrowed my location to upper Maine. In Clay's absence, Jeremy had moved everyone to New Brunswick, deeming it the safest location from which to search for both of us. Clay learned this by calling Jeremy from a roadside pay phone. Jeremy still had my cell phone and was able to give him directions.
On the way to New Brunswick we stuck to the back roads for as long as we could, but in that part of Maine, the non-highway roads were often so insignificant we couldn't find them on the map. We soon turned onto I-95. Forty minutes later we arrived at the Houlton-Woodstock border crossing. As usual, crossing the border into Canada was a snap. Pull up to the booth and answer a few simple questions. Citizenship? Destination? Length of stay? Bringing any firearms/liquor/fresh produce? Enjoy your stay. I hoped we would.
Jeremy had taken the others to a motel a few miles off the Trans-Canada Highway, near Nackawic. Why had Jeremy chosen western New Brunswick for their base camp? Two reasons. First, it was outside the United States. Tucker and his guards were American and knew all of us-except me-were American, so they'd assume we'd stay in the States, even if Canada was a few scant hours away. Second, western New Brunswick was primarily French-speaking. That might seem like an obstacle-and Jeremy hoped it would-but in reality the language barrier was as easily crossed as the international border. Jeremy and I both spoke French, and even if we hadn't, most locals would be bilingual. It was difficult to live in Canada and not speak at least some English, despite our official national bilingualism. If Tucker even thought to send a search party across the border, he'd gravitate toward the English-speaking regions in eastern New Brunswick. So, although we were less than two hundred miles north of the compound, we were safer here than if we'd run all the way down the coast to Florida.
Throughout the trip, Clay and I barely spoke. Anyone else would have peppered me with queries about my captors, the compound, my escape. Eventually I'd have to answer these questions, but right then, I wanted nothing more than lean back in my seat, watch the scenery pass, and forget what I'd left behind. Clay let me do that.
We reached the motel at nine-thirty. It was an old but well-kept motor lodge with a huge roadside sign proclaiming "Bienvenue/Welcome." Only a half-dozen cars dotted the parking lot. Come evening, it would fill with vacationers making the trek from Ontario and Quebec to the Maritimes, but for now everyone was gone, up early and on the road by breakfast.
"Is this the right place?" I said. "Do you recognize any of the rental cars?"
"No, but they'd have traded them for new ones. I do recognize that guy by the fence, though."
Jeremy stood before a caged pen of grouse and pheasant, his back to us. I threw open the door and leaped out before the car stopped rolling.
"Hungry?" I called as I jogged toward Jeremy. "They look fat enough."
Jeremy turned, giving me a half-smile, as unsurprised if I'd been standing behind him the entire time. He'd probably seen us drive in and stood here, watching the birds. At one time, not even so long ago, I'd have taken this as a snub, spent hours agonizing over why he hadn't come to greet me. But I knew Jeremy hadn't been ignoring me. He'd been waiting. Jeremy would no more coming running out to welcome me back than he'd scoop me up in a bear hug and tell me he'd missed me. Anyone else in the Pack would, but that wasn't Jeremy's way, never would be. Yet when I threw my arms around him and kissed his cheek, he hugged me back and murmured that he was glad to see me. That was enough.
"Have you eaten?" he asked. Again, typical Jeremy. I'd spent nine days locked in a cell and his first concern would be that they hadn't fed me properly.
"We grabbed breakfast," Clay said as he approached. "But she's probably still hungry."
"Starved," I said.
"There's a restaurant a mile down," Jeremy said. "We'll get a proper meal there. First, though, I suggest you put on more clothing. Both of you." He steered me toward the motel. "We'll take my room. My kit's in there. Judging by the looks of that knee we'll need it."A room door opened and Paige emerged, but Jeremy continued leading me toward the opposite end of the motel. I managed a quick smile and wave before Jeremy ushered me into his room.
"They're eager to see you, but it can wait," he said.
"Preferably until after I shower," I said.
"First, medical attention. Then a shower, food, and rest. There's no rush to talk to anyone."
"Thanks."
"Her knee's the worst," Clay said as I sat down. "The shoulder looks bad, but it's all surface tearing. The knee damage goes deeper. Partially healed and torn open again. The arm and facial cuts are superficial, but they need to be cleaned up. Same with the slice on her hand and the powder burns on her shoulder and side. There's also some healed puncture wounds in her stomach you should check."
"Should I?" Jeremy said.
"Sorry."
I knew Clay was apologizing not so much for giving Jeremy medical instructions but for the last few days, for taking off on his own. No one spoke as Jeremy examined my wounds. While he bent over my knee, my stomach growled.
Jeremy glanced over his shoulder at Clay. "The restaurant is on the east side of the highway. Head south around the bend. They should have pancakes."
"Et le jambon, s'il vous plaît," I said.
"They speak English," Jeremy said, lips twitching as Clay hesitated by the door. He gingerly pulled a half-dozen broken threads from my kneecap before adding, "She said she wants ham as well. Naturellement."
"Right," Clay said. And left.
RECUPERATION
After examining and cleaning my myriad wounds, Jeremy restitched my leg. Now, one might wonder how he happened to have a surgical needle and thread on hand, but Jeremy was more likely to go on a trip without his toothbrush than his medical kit-and he was very conscientious about oral hygiene. From past experience, Jeremy had learned to take his kit pretty much every time he stepped out with Clay or me. We had a habit of turning even the most innocuous events into medical emergencies, like the time we went to the opera and I ended up with a fractured collarbone-my own stupidity really, but Clay had started it. I persuaded Jeremy to forgo binding my wounds. A hot shower was more important. Once he'd tied off my stitches and warned me against getting them "too wet," I bolted for the bathroom. I waited for the water temperature to hit scalding before I stepped into the shower. For several minutes I stood motionless, letting the hot water cascade over me, sloughing away all remnants of the last week. When the shower door opened, I didn't turn. Sure, I'd seen Psycho, but no knife-wielding intruder would get past Jeremy, and I knew it wasn't Jeremy opening the door-a knife-wielding intruder would be more likely to interrupt my shower. Cool skin brushed against my bare legs. As the shower door slid closed, fingers tickled down my hip. I closed my eyes and leaned back against Clay, feeling his body slide into the contours of my back. I felt him lean forward, reaching for the shampoo. As I tilted my face up to the pelting water, his hands went to my hair, fingers tugging through the tangles, the sharp smell of soap perfuming the steam. I stretched my head back into his hands, nearly purring with contentment.
When he'd finished my hair, he shifted away for a moment, then returned. Soapy hands caressed my arms, then slid down to the outside of my legs, tracing circles there before gradually moving to the inside of my thighs. I parted my legs and Clay chuckled, the sound reverberating against my back. He ran his fingertips in slow zigzags up and down the inside of my thighs, teasing, then slipped inside me. I moaned and arched against him. His free hand went around my waist, pulling me closer, his erection pushing against the small of my back. I shifted onto my tiptoes and wriggled, trying to guide him into me. Instead he turned me around to face him and lifted me onto him. I bent my head back into the water, pulling Clay along as he kissed me. The water had cooled to chill pellets that beat down on my face. Reaching up, I entangled my fingers in Clay's drenched curls, feeling rivulets of water tickle along the insides of my wrists. He made a noise deep in his throat, half-groan, half-growl, and pushed into me, nearly toppling us into the tub. Then he shuddered and pulled out.
"Please don't tell me you're done," I said, still hanging backward over his arms.