No Escape
Page 8

“Why do you care?”
She was taunting him. Maybe she didn’t mean to do it, but she had, and Grant found himself unable to resist. He liked touching her and wanted to do it more, enough that she’d forget all about Keith and how close a friend he was.
He moved toward her, which backed her against the front door. From here, he could smell her skin and the sweet-scented lotion she’d smoothed over it. He lowered his head so that his mouth was right by her temple and breathed in deep.
His world spun for a moment, and he had to force himself to remember where he was and why he was here. “I care because I want you to be happy.”
Her voice was thin, almost breathless. “And you don’t think Keith could make me happy?”
“Maybe. I bet he’d like to try.” Grant knew he sure as hell could make her happy. At least for a few hours. He’d love to make her so happy she’d howl for him.
Just the thought of getting the chance made him sweat.
Isabelle pressed her hands against his chest and gave him a push so slight he wasn’t really sure it had happened. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, and a sexy hint of color warmed her skin. “This isn’t right,” she told him. “You and I.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re leaving tomorrow and I’m not into hit-and-run sex, no matter how good it might be.”
Right. Grant knew that. She was a nice girl. A freaking elementary school teacher. He had no business pursuing her like this.
So why the hell couldn’t he stop?
“And even if I was into it,” she said, “Dale is right upstairs.”
Dale. A kid. One who didn’t need to see his foster mom sprawled out on the living room floor, next to his fish tank, naked with a total stranger.
That was enough to get Grant thinking straight again.
He nodded slowly and backed away from her. His blood was pounding hot and hard through his limbs, but he’d spent too many years controlling his body’s reactions to let them get the better of him now. “Sorry.”
Isabelle swallowed. “How about some tea? That will keep your hands busy.”
“No thanks. I’ve been on the road since two a.m., so I’m ready to hit the sack. I’ll go see the police first thing tomorrow and see what they have to say.” And he’d be sure to tell them about Dale’s father, in the hopes that they might have a patrolman drive by her house a few times every day. If Wyatt was a coward, as Keith suggested, then he’d be less likely to mess with Isabelle if the police were always around. If not . . . Grant would just have to stick around a while and find out.
Dale was deep into the futile effort of studying for the SATs when he heard the click of a small rock hitting his window.
For a second he thought it might be Angela and his heart kicked in, pounding hard. Her image filled his head, knocking out everything else that had once occupied the space. He saw her sweet smile, her long blond hair that always looked too perfect to touch. In his mind, she was still wearing that tight pink sweater she had on last Thursday that showed off her perfect breasts—the sweater that had him staying up until well after midnight to learn the history lesson he’d missed in class because he couldn’t quit staring at her. She was so pretty he had no idea why all the other guys in his class hadn’t fallen on their knees at her feet for just the chance to talk to her.
Maybe they were as gutless as he was, too afraid she’d turn him down to actually ask her out. As long as she hadn’t said no, there was still a chance she might say yes, and that was the thing that got him out of bed every morning. A chance with Angela.
God knew he needed something to get up for.
Another rock hit the glass, and Dale scrambled off the bed to see who it was. In his head, it was Angela and she’d come to confess her undying love for him. He’d climb down to her and she’d throw herself into his arms. They’d find a nice, quiet place where they could make out, which would, of course, turn into a wild night of endless sex that would ruin her for all other men forever. They’d run off together to a place where SAT scores didn’t matter, and he’d buy her a pink sweater for every day of the week.
When he looked down into the yard, all his hopeful thoughts that Angela had fallen in love with him shattered. It was dark outside, but the neighborhood was well lit enough for him to recognize his dad’s prison build and the expectant stance he’d used with Mom until the day he’d beat her unconscious and gone to jail for it.
Cold, bitter pain slammed into him, making it hard to breathe. He missed Mom so much. Isabelle was nice, but it wasn’t the same. It never would be.
Dale stared for a moment, choking on his anger and hatred for the man below. He knew that killing his old man wouldn’t bring Mom back, but some days, it still sounded like a good idea. Wyatt should have been charged with murder, not just assault. He’d beaten his wife so often she felt the need to escape with a hefty does of heroin as often as she could get it. If it hadn’t been for that, his mom might still be alive.
As far as Dale was concerned, that was murder.
Wyatt motioned for Dale to open the window. For a long moment, Dale considered ignoring him. Let the bastard freeze down there while he was safe and warm up in his room.
But if he did that, chances were Wyatt would get angry. And when he got angry, he hurt people. Isabelle didn’t deserve to have that kind of shit come down on her just because she was nice enough to open her home to him. Dale owed her more than that.
He opened the window and stood there with his arms crossed over his chest. He’d been hitting the weights pretty hard for the past year, but he was no match for the strength of a fully grown man—especially one who’d spent the past eight years with little else to do in prison but lift weights, getting stronger and meaner.
“I need to talk to you,” Wyatt whispered.
“Fuck off,” Dale whispered back, adding in a hand gesture to ensure that his dad didn’t misunderstand.
“Get your ass out here, boy.”
“You’re not even supposed to be here. Supervised visits only, remember?”
“I’d be happy to come in and let the little lady supervise.”
Shit. Dale had heard Grant go to bed about an hour ago. Wyatt would never mess with a man like Grant, one who radiated confidence with every breath he took, but if Isabelle was alone . . . Shit.
“Hold on,” said Dale. He grabbed his new letterman’s jacket—the one that made him feel like he was part of something for the first time in his life—and crawled out the window.
The trip down wasn’t too hard, but the trip back up would be interesting. Maybe he’d wait until Isabelle went to sleep and sneak back in the back door. Assuming he didn’t get caught first.
Dale reached the ground and stood eye to eye with his father. “Whatever it is you want, make it quick. I have homework to do.”
“Well,” sneered Wyatt, “wouldn’t want to get in the way of such important stuff, now, would I?”
Dale kept a tight hold on his temper. What the hell did he care whether or not his murdering-son-of-a-bitch dad approved of his life?
“What do you want?” he demanded.
Wyatt pointed over his shoulder. “My car’s down the street. We’ll talk in there, where it’s warmer.”
For half a second, Dale wondered if his dad didn’t intend to kidnap him rather than go through the messy process of regaining custody. Part of Dale hoped he’d try. He could kill the man and it would be self-defense. He’d get rid of his asshole father and avenge Mom’s death all at the same time. Two birds. One stone.
“Okay,” said Dale. “We’ll talk in the car.”
CHAPTER FOUR
After two hours of grading papers and doing next week’s lesson planning, Isabelle went upstairs to check on Dale. He hadn’t come down for a snack before bed, which was unusual. He could hardly go two hours without eating.
She knocked on his door, but he didn’t answer. Panic flared inside her, but she tamped it down. She would not overreact. He was probably just listening to music on his headphones.
“Dale?” Isabelle knocked again, and still there was no answer.
She opened door open, hoping she wouldn’t walk in on him changing but willing to risk it to get rid of this seething fear that something was wrong. His room was empty and cold thanks to a wide-open window. His bed was rumpled where he’d been lying on it, and his SAT prep book lay open as if he’d just vanished in the middle of studying.
“Dale?” she called. She checked his closet and under his bed, though why he’d be in those places she had no idea, but she looked anyway. He wasn’t there. She raced down the hall to the bathroom, which was open and empty.
“Dale!” She shouted louder.
Grant burst from his bedroom wearing only a pair of tight boxers. A sleek black gun was in his grip, and though his messy hair and creased cheek said he’d been soundly asleep, there was nothing sleepy about his gaze or movements. His eyes were clear, bright amber. “What’s wrong?” he asked in a calm, sleep-roughened voice.
“Dale’s gone.”
Grant didn’t waste time asking if she was sure. Her panicked tone made that much obvious. “Is his car still here?”
Isabelle hadn’t checked, so she hurried back into Dale’s bedroom, which faced the front of the house, poked her head out the window, and looked down into the driveway. “Yes. It’s there.”
Grant’s tall body was right behind her, peeking out over her shoulder. “Do you recognize that car down the street?” he asked.
Isabelle hadn’t seen it until he pointed it out. It was an old beat-up Tempo that had probably been manufactured the year she started high school. “No.”
“Turn out the lights.”
So they could see better. Right. Isabelle rushed to the switch and flipped it down. The light from the streetlamps was bright enough to see by, but the car was too far away for her to tell if there was anyone inside.
“He’s in the car,” said Grant.
“You sure?”
“I have good eyesight. From the looks of it, there’s a man in there with him.”
“Oh, no. It’s got to be his father.”
“The one Keith warned you would stop at nothing to get his son back?”
Isabelle nodded in numb horror.
“Call the police,” ordered Grant. “I’ll deal with this until they get here.” He shoved his gun in the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs, opened the window wider, and stepped through.
Isabelle watched Grant glide down the side of the house, using the porch roof and support beams to climb down to the ground as easily as he would have used the stairs. Muscles rippled over his torso as he moved effortlessly, making no sound. A few feet from the ground, he jumped down and landed in a crouch. A moment later, he disappeared into the shadows.
For half a second, she was too stunned to act. Then she pulled herself together, found Dale’s phone sitting on his desk, and called the police.
Grant used the deep shadows cast by the well-aged landscape to cover his progress toward the Tempo. The air slid over his skin, sucking heat as it went, but he ignored the chill the same way he ignored the sharp bits of rocks and sticks that poked the bottoms of his bare feet.