Julie Kenner - Tame Me

But I know better. I want him—his touch, his kisses. If he wakes, I will stay.

And I will hate myself—and him—for it.

I turn, lost, and stumble back to the bathroom counter. I blink back tears and stare at my reflection. “Do something,” I say to the girl who looks back at me. “Fix this.”

And so I do the only thing I can think to do—I run.

I’m sorry.

That’s all I wrote on the note that I left on the bedside table. I wanted to say more, but I’m not good at saying the words, and I’m even worse at psychoanalyzing myself.

And I’m certain that I had to go—I have to get my shit together, and you scare the crap out of me wouldn’t have been the best approach, even if it was true.

I’ve been driving for two hours now, and the sun has long since disappeared behind the San Bernardino mountains that fill my rearview mirror.

I’d made my escape quietly, wearing only the jeans and T-shirt that I’d left in the bathroom, and taking only my purse and phone. I’d brought a suitcase with me to California, of course, and my suite was littered with shopping bags. But I hadn’t bothered with any of that because there was no way for me to pack and not wake up Ryan.

So I’d run, knowing full well that I could call Gregory, Damien’s valet, in the morning and have him gather my things and ship them to my parents in Texas.

As for the Vegas job—well, I had makeup in my purse, but I guess I’d just have to suck it up and shop for clothes. I figured that counted as retail therapy, and even considering the damage that I would undoubtedly do to my credit card, it would be cheaper than a round of sessions with a shrink.

I’d taken the Ferrari from where Damien had left it for me in his impressive underground garage. It had taken concentration to get out of Malibu because I tend to get turned around on all the twisting roads, but as soon as I hit the highway, I started thinking about Ryan. About leaving.

About the way he made me feel.

Twice, I reached for my phone, then yanked my hand back before I could close my fingers tight around it. When I reached for it a third time, I snatched it up, then powered the damn thing off and tossed it in the glove box.

Out of sight, out of mind. Except while that worked to stifle the urge to call him, it did nothing to stifle the thoughts and memories and emotions that rattled in my head. The memory of his mouth upon me, his cock inside me. The image of his face as he gazed at me with such tenderness. My own admonitions telling me to run—to get clear. Ryan’s stern pronouncement that he liked me wild—but that he wouldn’t let me walk.

But I did walk—hell, I did more than walk. I ran.

And now, on the road, I am second-guessing myself all over again.

Fuck it.

I’ve been listening to my own thoughts for two hours and I can’t stand it anymore. I check the mirrors to confirm that I’m the only car on this stretch of Interstate 15, then snatch my phone out of the glove box and power it back on.

I fiddle with the radio until I finally figure out how to set it for auxiliary and turn on Bluetooth. A few more adjustments, and I’m jamming to one of the many playlists I keep on my phone. A mix of classic and new rock, along with a few heavy metal songs to add a little pop to the mix. It’s loud enough and rough enough to keep me from thinking—and that is exactly what I want.

Considering how densely populated Los Angeles is, this stretch of California is like culture shock. I passed Barstow at least thirty minutes ago, and since then I’ve seen only one other car on the road. More recently, a sign announced the town of Yermo, but it must have been off the highway because as I cruised by in the dark, I’d seen nothing but the long, narrow tunnel of my own headlights.

Honestly, it’s a little freaky.

I’ve made the drive from Los Angeles to Vegas a number of times, so I know more or less where I am and that I have about two hours of absolute nothingness ahead of me until I see the brilliance of Vegas filling up the night sky. That means I’ll be rolling into town just after midnight, which is fine by me. The city will still be hopping. I can grab some breakfast at a diner, and then I can go crash.

Sex—and my nap—had reinvigorated me some, but I am starting to fade again. It’s hard not to when I am blanketed in black, lost in the seemingly endless abyss of the Mojave Desert at night.

The car shudders slightly, and I frown, wondering if I’ve just run over some debris. When it does it again, I click off the music so that I can actually think. I check the rearview mirror, but I can see nothing there in the pitch black.

I take my hands off the steering wheel, but the Ferrari continues straight, so I rule out a flat tire. It shudders again and then slows. I press harder on the accelerator, but that does nothing. Automatically, my eyes go to the gas gauge, but I still have almost half a tank, so that isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s something electrical? Or maybe—

Shit.

Damien had warned me about the broken gas gauge at least a million times, and Nikki had reminded me again earlier today. And still all it took was a gorgeous man to completely empty my head of any and all useful facts.

And now I’m going to have to wait for AAA, which, of course, will take forever.

I steer onto the shoulder, but keep my foot on the accelerator, living the absurd fantasy that maybe I’ll reach a convenience store, gas station, five-star hotel. Something.

But when the Ferrari gives its last gasp of life, I look out as far as the headlights reach and see absolutely nothing. I look left and right, hoping to see the flicker of light from a house or from a business.

Nothing.

Neither are there lights approaching in my rearview mirror or coming toward me, westbound toward the coast.

Shit.

Apparently, I’m stuck. Isn’t that just peachy?

I put the car in park, kill the engine, and turn on the hazard lights. Then I snatch up my phone and search my contacts for the 800 number for AAA, but when I dial, the call immediately fails. I spit out a curse, then try again, and only when the call fails once more do I think to glance at my phone’s signal strength.

No service.

What the fuck? How can there be no service? This is America for fuck’s sake, where everyone and their dog has a cell phone and wants to be able to use it. And, seriously, isn’t one of the primary reasons for owning a cell phone so that you can make a call when you’re in trouble? And yet the Powers That Be don’t put cell towers in scary, empty parts of the country where stranded women may need to make a phone call so that they don’t have to wait in a Ferrari for the next car—which just might be driven by a sex-crazed psychopath?

I exhale, pissed, and beat my palm against the steering wheel. Then I open my door, thinking that I’ll just start walking.

Then I immediately close my door and lock it because the walking plan is just about as stupid as it gets, especially now that I have sex-crazed psychopaths on the brain.

Okay. Fine. This is not a problem.

Well, yes it is. But it’s not an insurmountable problem.

I pull my phone out again and stare at the screen as if that will magically make a signal appear.

Since I do not actually have magical abilities, nothing happens. But I open my text messaging program anyway. I read somewhere that text messages don’t require as strong a signal, and also that the strength of a cell tower’s signal changes all the time. So maybe if I send a text, eventually it will find a signal and flitter away to its destination.

Clearly, there is a reason that I am an actress and not an engineer. But I figure that even if it doesn’t help, it won’t hurt.

I open the messaging app and stare at the phone. Because the first person I think of to text is Ryan—and yet how the hell am I supposed to phrase it? Sorry I skipped out on you. Please come save me.

Somehow, that doesn’t work for me.

I consider texting Sylvia, Damien’s secretary with whom Nikki and I have become friends, but I’m certain that she will simply send Ryan. He is, after all, Stark International’s security dude. Evelyn Dodge, my friend and pseudo-agent, would be a great choice, but I happen to know that she and her lover Blaine left around lunchtime for a Manhattan getaway.

I tell myself I’m being stupid. That Ryan will be mad, yes, but he won’t leave me stranded. I’m his boss’s new wife’s best friend, after all. So even if he doesn’t come himself, he’ll send someone else.

Besides, odds are the text will never go through.

I spend a few moments thinking about it, then decide on the message.

Sorry I bolted, but I need help. Stranded on the 15 just past Yermo. Please?

I read it once more, then press “send” before I can talk myself out of it. Then I put in my headphones, turn my music back on, lean back in my seat, and wait.

If nothing else, I figure I’ll be rescued come morning. There will be more traffic, for one thing, and maybe even the highway patrol.

As it turns out, I don’t have to wait that long.

Not even five minutes have passed when I see the flash of lights in the rearview mirror. I turn off the music and watch the car approach. I can’t tell what kind it is; all I can see is the glare of the lights as it crawls closer and closer, moving at a snail’s pace now.

It is still on the highway, but as I watch it slides to the right, pulling off onto the shoulder. Then it eases forward until it is right behind me.

I expect the driver to kill the lights, but he or she doesn’t, and I am left sitting there in my Please Carjack Me Now Ferrari with sex fiends on my mind.

My pulse starts to beat more quickly, and I curse myself for not getting the tire iron out of the trunk. Because there’s not a damn thing I can use as a weapon inside the vehicle—not unless I intend to beat someone senseless with my iPhone.

I am astounded at my naiveté and pissed off at my own stupidity. I passed through Barstow with its stretch of gas stations and I was so busy trying not to think that I didn’t think. And now here I am, trapped in a car with Ted Bundy parked behind me.

I check the phone once more, but it still shows no signal.

Fuck.

I see the door to the car open, and someone gets out. A man, I think, though I can see very little in the dark in my mirror.

I check the door locks again and am relieved to find them secure.

He is approaching the car now, walking with the light at his back so that he appears as only the shadow of a man. I tell myself to be calm, that he is probably just a Good Samaritan. That most serial killers are not trolling the interstates.

I know it. I believe it, and I’m still scared shitless. Terrified that Ryan will get my text and two hours later will arrive at the Ferrari to find me battered and bloodied and very much dead.

Stop it. Just stop it, already.

And then he’s there—his torso right by my window—and his firm rap on the door combines with my nerves to rip a scream from my throat.

The man bends down, and I suck in a gasp that is part surprise, part fear, part wonder.

Because I’m staring at a man who can’t possibly be there.

I’m staring at Ryan Hunter.

I fly out of the car, then pound my fists on his chest. “Dammit, Ryan! Goddammit, you scared me to death!”

He pulls me close and strokes my back, waiting for me to calm down. I breathe him in, letting his familiar scent soothe me, letting his strength calm me. “It’s okay, kitten. You’re fine. Come on, Jamie. You’re safe.”

I hold tight, breathing deep until the terror has passed and I feel calm again.

Calm and mortified.

I ease out of his arms, taking a step backward. The night is so thick that I can see his face only in the thin light from the Ferrari’s interior that spills out from the still-open door. I see the concern. The hint of worry that is fading in his eyes now that I am steady again.

I don’t want to see the anger that I know is coming, and yet I can’t stand here and pretend to still be scared just so that I can put off the inevitable.

I draw in a breath, tilt my head back so that I can see him, and whisper, “I’m sorry.”