I was almost certain I’d never laid eyes on the woman before in my life.
I was sure I would remember.
She was fucking drop-dead gorgeous with her soft, rounded face, her big gray eyes that tipped down at the sides, giving her an almost sleepy appearance, and her abundance of freckles. There were traces of makeup left on her face—smudged under her eyes, still staining her lips slightly—but otherwise was fresh-faced.
If she maybe got a couple more pounds on her, she would go from sickly to damn near perfect.
“I wish I could share the same wonder, love, but I have no fucking idea who you are.”
To that, she sent me a sweet smile, her eyes searching the floor for a second before lifting up again.
“You’ve never actually seen me,” she admitted, shrugging those sharp juts she called shoulders.
“I’ve never seen you, but you came here to talk to me.”
“To ask for your help, actually,” she told me, sucking in a deep breath, almost as if she was bracing herself for a let-down.
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “How about we grab some coffee while you tell me why I would help out a complete stranger with some unknown problem,” I said, inviting her toward the kitchen even if she looked jittery enough without the caffeine.
“Sure,” she agreed, following behind me, a ghost of a woman at my heels.
In the kitchen, I noticed she’d situated herself with her back against a wall and close to the exit. So no one could sneak up on her. So she could get away in a pinch.
Yeah, it definitely seemed like she was a woman in need of some sort of help.
The jury was still out on whether I wanted to be the hero in her story, though. It wasn’t exactly a title that fit me—a lifelong biker with a long-ass rap sheet.
“How do you take it?” I asked. At her strange, high-pitched, momentary laugh, I turned, confused, finding her pink across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
“Sorry. Ah, cream and sugar, if you have it,” she said, voice small.
“Have the sugar here,” I said, gesturing with the shaker. “Check for the cream,” I invited, nodding toward the fridge. Finding it, she brought it over to me, putting it down when she was out of arm’s length, and pushing it forward with just the tips of her fingers. “Who are you?” I asked, not having meant to do so.
“Abs. Abigail,” she clarified, and suddenly a memory started to niggle at me.
But no.
No, that made no sense.
There were millions of Abigails in the world, after all.
Any one of them would be more likely than the one who first came to mind.
“I’ve heard that, love,” I said, passing the sugar toward her with her mug, and watching as she made it. And while she did it, she kept casting nervous glances at me. Like she thought I’d judge her for the abundance of additives she put in her coffee. Like I hadn’t watched Dezi pour a giant helping of chocolate syrup in then top it with a tower of whipped cream.
When she was done, I went on, “But it’s not ringing any bells.”
“Oh,” she said, face falling. “I… um… I thought you might remember me,” she admitted.
“You just said we never met,” I reminded her.
“We haven’t. You know, face to face. But we know each other.”
No.
No, it couldn’t be.
“I wrote you in prison for years.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Abigail
He was almost unbelievably good-looking.
I mean, I’d known that, to an extent.
Back when I first started writing to him, I’d looked him up online. It hadn’t exactly taken a lot of work to pull up his numerous mugshots from over the years.
He’d always been handsome.
But I guess the years had only served to recommend him.
He was tall and very fit with most of his exposed skin decorated in tattoos, so you could only imagine that underneath his clothes, he was extensively covered.
He had a square jaw with a full beard, dark blue eyes, and hair that had gone from black to mostly silver since his last mugshot. Which only made him even more attractive.
I’d shown up at the biker clubhouse still looking over my shoulder.
What could I say? It had been a tense week and a half. I’d just barely managed to make it out of Mexico without being discovered.
I’d known Raúl had a long reach, but I think even I had underestimated how many men and women and even children would be looking for me. Pictures of me seemed to be everywhere, a fact that had made me duck my head because it felt like everyone I passed was carefully examining my face to see if it matched the posters.
Thankfully, covering up my freckles, heavily making up my face, and dying and cutting my hair made me all but invisible. I’d actually bumped shoulders with a man I’d seen at Raúl’s estate more than a handful of times, and he’d been none-the-wiser.
But a part of me was terrified that it had been too easy. Like maybe Raúl had found a new way to torment me. Letting me taste freedom for a while before snatching it away from me again.
I wasn’t sure I took a proper breath until I finally crossed the border, then got far enough away from it to be sure that Raúl’s people weren’t on every single street corner.
Still, though, even when I made it all the way up to New Jersey after figuring out that Cary had headed in the direction of some weird town called Navesink Bank to join another biker club called the Navesink Bank Henchmen, I was paranoid that someone had picked up on my trail.
Even though I’d been as careful as my means had allowed me to be.
I hadn’t exactly left the house with much. A diamond necklace, some spare cash I’d very carefully been stocking away for years, and a single gold cufflink.
It had barely been enough for transport and a bare minimum of food. I had a measly two-fifty left in my pocket. I hadn’t eaten a full meal, slept in a bed, or had more than a restroom whore’s bath since I’d left Raúl’s home.
I was exhausted and dirty and starving and so freaking desperate that I just about burst out crying when Cary seemed to have absolutely no memory of me.
It hurt more than I thought it could have. For me, corresponding with Cary had been a really significant part of my life for many years. I guess I always figured it would mean the same—or more—to him. Since, in my head, I figured a man in prison for so many years without a wife or children to write him must have been desperate for a little connection.
I’d been wrong, clearly.
Just another blow in a long life of learning to roll with them.
I could process that later.
“No,” Cary said, shaking his head. His brows furrowed as his gaze moved over me again. “No. That Abigail was—“
“A long strawberry-blonde woman trapped in a miserable marriage and having a major identity crisis?” I asked, still aching for that girl I’d once been—so young, and so deeply unhappy. “Yes, I remember.”
“Jesus Christ,” Cary hissed, looking taken aback.
“It’s been a while,” I said, giving him a ghost of a smile.
“Last I heard from you…”
“I was getting served divorce papers from my husband because I couldn’t give him a child.”