Helpless and at the mercy of my subconscious.
And the dreams always come: I find Farrington bloodied and dead, chained to the wall in Miguel’s basement. We’re back in the car chase with the fake ass dirty cops firing their bullets into the car until one hits her right in the neck. The blood sprays against the windshield and it’s mere seconds before I’ve lost her forever.
Those are the worst.
This dream is different. We’re back in the grimy motel room, and she’s blowing cool air over the alligator bite. I slip down from the table and lift her onto it, along with the towel she answered the door in. It takes only a moment before I have her legs spread around me, and I’m sliding my wrought iron hard cock into her sweet, tight softness. She’s moaning and whimpering beneath me, and I open the towel at the top where it’s folded over and unwrap her like a present at Christmas. I quickly suck one of her gorgeous rose colored tips between desperately wanting lips.
That’s when I hear the voice say, “Don’t do it, Ryder, you’d be her death sentence.”
I wake in a cold, startled sweat with the sensation of lust, love and terror in equal quantities.
“That’s what you get for holding on to those feelings, asshole,” I berate myself on the way to the john.
I’m in another motel room. If it wasn’t for the You Are Here exit map on the back of the door I wouldn’t have remembered I was in Atlanta.
My cell rings from the nightstand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”
I shake, flush and wash my hands. And it stops ringing.
“Good. I didn’t want any first-thing-in-the-morning conversation anyway,” I growl then grab my toothbrush and paste and move further along in the morning ritual.
After that dream, I am truly considering lighting a cigarette to accompany a black cup of coffee. I could do that here in the middle of nowhere, and I’d have no one to answer to. No one would know.
I would know.
Cell rings again. “Leave a fucking message!” I call out between rinses with the last of my travel size Listerine.
It stops, so I lather my face with shave cream. I almost have the razor to my jaw when it starts again. I pick up the towel for my hands, and look to see who it is.
Briggs.
Fuck, the only time he makes back-to-back calls is if it’s urgent.
“Hey, man, what’s going on?” I answer.
“Rachel Farrington just went on the lam!”
“What?” I ask, incredulous. “No way.”
“She snuck away from her fed detail about an hour ago.”
I check my watch—it’s four a.m. now.
Briggs continues, “The FBI are up in arms but are trying to keep it under the radar,” he informs me. “My contact on the inside gave me a call. They’re thinking she may be Miguel’s ally.”
“Where is she, Briggs?”
“She’s on the move, but her coordinates are 29.9586° N, 90.0650° W, which is in Vieux Carre.”
“The French Quarter, New Orleans.”
“Ryder, do I tell the feds where she is?” he asks seriously.
“No, just keep tabs on her. If she’s in trouble they could make it worse. If she’s not . . .”
“What? We’re betraying her by giving her up?”
“Look, I’m on my way. Get ahold of the nearest chopper service and call me directly back.” I end the call and pull on my pants.
“What the hell are you doing, Farrington?”
Rachel
Two hours ago I snuck out of the window and away from the safety of my FBI detail while it was still dark.
Just as I was instructed to.
I ran with every bit of force and power in my body and didn’t rest until I got to the truck stop in the next town over. Praying fervently my guards wouldn’t find me.
I hid in the cover of bushes in the back of the Pilot parking lot, terrified someone would see me and call the cops.
I waited almost an hour before a woman driver in a big rig came through.
I’d memorized my script. I could do this.
After she pumped her gas, went in for some snacks and came back out, I made my move. I pretended to be a woman frightened of her abusive boyfriend and told her I was trying to get away to my girlfriend in New Orleans. She was more than glad to lend a hand.
Now I sit here waiting in St. Louis Cemetery with too much time alone in the quiet with my racing thoughts.
The sun isn’t even up yet, and I can see Venus, the Morning Star, in the sky. I wish she could help me, but she can’t or won’t.
It started yesterday; the housekeeper came into the little inconspicuous home in Vacherie, Louisiana to clean, like she does every morning. The FBI had chosen the town because it was small and they could keep a good watch on the people there. If anything different happened, they’d know it.
Or so they thought.