Naiya’s stomach did a curious flip. But aside from the fact Holt was injured and clearly desperate to get rid of her, she couldn’t imagine being with someone as dominant and controlling. Too much like Viper and the bikers she had worked so hard to leave behind.
“Maybe he can’t,” she whispered into the phone. “He was tortured, Ally. He’s hurt pretty bad.”
“I’ll check him out when I get there. Give you the scoop.”
“Very professional.” She snorted a laugh. “I have a feeling he’s not going to let you do a full examination. He’s not like any biker I’ve met before. I think the pain and torture softened him up, and he’ll be back to his no-good, ruthless, womanizing, murderous, misogynistic biker self in no time.”
She gave Ally directions to the motel, warned her to make sure she wasn’t followed, and then hung up the phone. Now what? Her stomach rumbled, giving her the answer. Maybe there was an all-night convenience store nearby or somewhere she could grab a few sandwiches. Holt clearly was in need of a good meal. She pulled open the door, only to freeze when she heard Holt call out behind her.
“Where are you going?”
“Food.” She looked back over her shoulder at the badly beaten man wearing only a towel and a scowl. How long had he been standing there? What had he heard? “Maybe get you some clothes.”
“My job.”
“Get over it. You’re injured. That means you rest, and I look after you. Grumble all you want, but there’s not much you can do about it, and if you try to stop me I’ll box your ears.”
His lips quirked, amused. “Box my ears?”
“Yes.” Her cheeks heated. “My grandmother used to say it. I didn’t want to threaten real violence because you’ve been through enough.” Her gaze took in the dark red wheals on his chest, the long thin marks of a whip, and the countless bruises, cuts, and burns. Softening her voice, she said, “You really need a doctor, Holt. I think some of those cuts are infected.”
“I’ll be fine. But you won’t be if you go out there.”
She supposed he was right. The Black Jacks had chapters and support clubs all over the state and a quick email or text with her picture was all it would take to alert them to be on the lookout. “I won’t go into town. I’ll just go to the restaurant attached to the motel and see if they’ve got anything left over from the day.”
“I’ll keep watch from the door.” He walked toward her, taking slow, measured steps, and she struggled not to look down.
“In your towel?”
“Gotta gun. If I wave it around, no one’s gonna be looking down.” He leaned against the doorjamb. Maybe he wasn’t concerned about her safety as much as he was worried about her leaving. After all, he’d been in that dungeon alone for a long time. And although he seemed okay, he had to be suffering the effects of the torture and isolation, maybe even fear. Just like her.
“I’m coming back, Holt.”
His shoulders sagged just the tiniest bit, and he grunted his assent as he made his way across the room. “Still gonna watch from the door.”
“If it makes you happy.”
Curiously, it made her happy that he was concerned about her safety. This last year, Maurice had stopped walking her to her car at night or asking her to call him to let him know she’d gotten home safely. When she asked, he said he knew she was always cautious, and he didn’t want to demean her by assuming she couldn’t look after herself. Which had made sense at the time, but now she realized she’d missed that little show of caring.
He stood in the doorway as she walked through the parking lot to the reception desk, and he was still there ten minutes later when she returned with some Styrofoam containers, a bag of snacks and some Bolton, Montana, souvenirs: Tshirts, sweats, and hats.
“You get to advertise for the town.” She handed him a bundle of clothes after he closed the door behind her. “Unfortunately, they didn’t have any underwear.”
Holt held up the navy blue sweatshirt with a yellow beaver embroidered on the front beneath a Bolton Beaver logo.
“Beaver Country?” He pointed to the slogan. “Christ. We’re in the fucking sticks.”
“I got you sweatpants and a couple of Tshirts, too.” She pointed to the rest of the clothes. “And I got a T-shirt to put over my clothes in case there’s a draft on the floor.”
“You’re sleeping in the bed.”
“Floor.”
“Bed.” Holt sat on the bed and patted the mattress. “Beside me.”
“You’re injured. You need your rest. And they have a computer in the lobby with free Wi-Fi. While you’re sleeping, I can do some research about bus schedules, and get back to job hunting. Anything you want me to look up?”
He stretched out on the bed, the towel loosening around his hips. “You’re staying here. In bed. Won’t be able to rest if you’re lying on the floor, and I can’t watch you if you’re in the lobby. You don’t gotta worry. I barely got the energy to stand much less try it on with you in your beaver shirt.”