Page 7 of July 27

She'd rather wear Ruger's big shirts than anything that belonged to the men who'd hurt her.

Glancing over at him, she muffled her sigh. He always sensed when she changed because he'd turn his back, giving her privacy while she redressed. Despite her sleeping in the same bed with him and all the times he'd held her to stop the nightmares, he'd never tried to take advantage of her.

Maybe if he had, he'd feel responsible for ensuring she stayed safe. Because he'd kept his distance, he now believed he could dump her off at home and ride into the sunset.

She paused before putting on the jeans. Maybe it wasn't too late.

"Stop finding excuses not to go home." He kept his back to her. "If your brother says it's safe, you'll be fine."

Her brother had told her she was safe before she was kidnapped. Look what happened? As long as Shady lived up to his name, someone would always be after her.

Shady ran the streets, just like her parents. That's all they knew, and never tried to better their lives. It was easier to earn money selling something, stealing something, or doing something illegal than getting an honest job.

She had no choice but to hold down a real job—even if she got paid under the table. But she couldn't go back home and expect Bruce, the restaurant owner, to let her wait tables after dropping out of sight for weeks without notice.

Even if she returned to the restaurant, she'd end up talking about her kidnapping, and Bruce would get law enforcement involved. That was the last thing she wanted to happen. Her kidnappers warned and threatened her about what would happen if she tried to escape or if she refused to give them the location of her brother.

They told her that on July 27th, they'd find and kill Shady if she refused to cooperate.

Every time they walked into the basement, they kicked her, trying to get information out of her about her brother. But she would never turn on him, even if he was safe in prison.

Shady was all the family she had left. She wasn't going to lose him.

She learned long ago, when she was five, that what happened at home wasn't supposed to leave the family. It was after she tried to get other kids on the playground to stick pencils in their arms because she thought that was what her mom was doing at home.

But it wasn't pencils her mom used. It was syringes.

Because she played at school like her mom acted at home, the school brought children's services to the house. Her dad was angry at her. The second the door shut, he put her in her room and told her never to do what she saw at home, in public, or around her friends.

Ruger remained with his back to her. Giving up on changing his mind, she slipped on the pair of jeans. They were too big by a size, but they'd stay up on her hips. She took off Ruger's old shirt she'd slept in and set it on the couch before picking out the Blink-182 concert tee.

To her surprise, a pair of sneakers was in the bottom of the bag. Having not had shoes on for weeks, she quickly slipped her feet into them. They were too big, so she laced them tighter.

For the first time in a long time, she almost felt normal.

Ruger turned around, eyed her up and down, and nodded. "That'll do."

Any good feelings that came from the clothes evaporated. He remained indifferent to her after everything they'd survived together.

"Put this on, too. Inside out so the patches don't show." He handed her a leather jacket. "I took the sleeves off."

She held up the leather, noticing the Havlin patch on the back. Slipping her arms through the holes, she pulled the leather around her, overlapping the edges in front of her. It was way too big.

Ruger took the zipper and worked it together. Using his hand inside the jacket, he pulled it closed. The leather hung on her, covering her clear to her thighs.

"That'll keep the wind off you, and you'll still be able to hold on with your arms."

"I don't want to go."

She lost control of her emotions. They were choking her.

He palmed the back of her head and looked into her eyes. "It's for the best."

Uncomfortable, struggling to walk in clothes and shoes that were too big, she kept her head down and followed Ruger through the clubhouse. The people here had kept their distance. They were neither welcoming nor combative.

They fed her. She had a roof over her head. And Ruger to protect her. That was more than she had at home.

At his motorcycle, her stomach churned. She covered her mouth, afraid she'd throw up. The last time she rode on his Harley, she went out of the need to escape. She wasn't afraid because going anywhere was safer than being held captive in that house.