Silver Bastard (Silver Valley #1)(88)
Author: Joanna Wylde

“I’m sorry about that,” she said after a long pause, nodding toward Teeny. I swallowed, wondering what the hell I should say or do. I wasn’t dead—that was a good thing. But despite the fact that she’d saved me, Mom was scary as fuck and obviously batshit crazy.

“I need to get going,” she announced, and I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me or herself. “Need to get out of here. Can’t let them find me like this.”

“Wait! You have to help me. Just help me get the tape off. You can just drop me in town. It’ll all be over.”

She glanced down at me, her face suspicious. Suspicious and almost feral . . . Like a cornered animal. I couldn’t even tell if she recognized me.

Shit. Trapped in a motor home in the desert with a dead body and a crazy woman.

“Gotta go,” she said again, grabbing my purse. She shoved my wallet back inside, then walked toward the back of the RV. I raised my hands and started tearing at the tape with my teeth. I needed to get myself free and get the hell out of here. I didn’t think Mom would hurt me, but who knew? She’d obviously lost touch with reality.

I’d worked one strip of the tape loose when she came back carrying a bright red suitcase.

“Okay, then,” she said, stepping over Teeny’s body to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. “You just sit tight and I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

She smiled at me, then turned and stepped out of the motor home. Seconds later I heard the sound of a car door closing before she drove off.

I looked down at Teeny’s body and closed my eyes.

This really, really sucked.

SEVENTEEN

It took me about ten minutes to get my hands free. The feet were easy after that. Then I was up and moving toward the back of the RV. I don’t know what I expected to find there—so long as it wasn’t a bloody corpse, that would be an improvement.

Stepping into the tiny bathroom, I caught a look at myself in the mirror. There was blood on my face. Blood and . . . brains? Oh fuck. Fuck. Trying not to panic, I turned on the water and scrubbed myself frantically. After a couple minutes the sink wheezed and ran dry. I clutched the edges of the counter, trying to catch my breath.

At least my face was clean. Now what the hell should I do next? You can do this. My phone had been in the purse, along with my gun. Thank God for Puck and the fake ID he’d provided—if Mom ditched it somewhere, it wouldn’t lead straight back to me.

Fuck, if only that was my biggest problem. That title went to the dead guy waiting for me outside the bathroom door. I didn’t know where I was, didn’t have a phone, and the only potential escape vehicle was a meth camper. Of course, odds were good the RV couldn’t drive anyway, which made things even better, right?

I needed to look around, see what I could find to work with. Oh, and not lose my shit in the process.

Counting to ten, I opened the bathroom door and stepped back out into the hallway. There was a small bedroom to my right. I started searching it, which wasn’t easy because Mom had obviously just ransacked the place. Lots of clothes everywhere. Couple bags of weed. I pulled open a drawer to find a purple dildo with dry, crusty stuff on it.

Ewwww . . .

I almost didn’t open the second drawer, scared of what I’d find inside. Get over it—you could die out here. Sliding it open, I hit pay dirt in the form of a .38 semiautomatic smiling up at me. I grabbed the pistol and checked it for ammo. Fully loaded. Now that was a thing of beauty. Feeling better, I kept looking, hoping for a phone or some keys. Thirty minutes later and still no joy. Pisser. There was only one place left to look. The most obvious place, really.

I needed to search Teeny’s body.

Biting my lip, I walked over and poked him with my foot cautiously. I knew he was dead, but somehow I kept expecting him to jump up and start yelling at me or something.

He didn’t.

My stepdad seemed smaller now. He’d never been physically imposing—if I’d fought harder, could I have protected myself? I’d never really fought him that much, not after the first time. I’d been too afraid to try.

Now he just looked pathetic. Almost fake. When he’d raped me, he smelled like stale sweat and grain alcohol. Now he smelled like raw hamburger. It was so pathetically mundane—shouldn’t a dead human smell like more than meat? If he’d managed to shoot me, I’d smell like that right now, too. Just another bag of burger.

Trying not to gag, I leaned forward and caught his hip, rolling the body to the side so I could reach his pockets. Inside I found a set of keys and a cell phone, my fingers leaving bloody streaks on the glass as I turned it on.

No service. Fuck.

Maybe the keys would work. I moved toward the front of the RV, wondering if I’d actually be able to drive the thing, assuming I could get it running.

Moot point—none of the keys even fit the ignition.

Now what?

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been in the camper, but it felt like hours had passed. The sun was pounding down, superheating everything. A fly buzzed by, landing on Teeny’s body. When I heard a motorcycle in the distance, my first reaction was a surge of excitement. Puck is coming to save me! Except Puck couldn’t possibly be coming to save me, because his bike was still up in Idaho.

The roar of the bike’s engine grew louder.

I ran over and locked the camper door, then darted into the tiny bedroom. Peering out from behind a faded curtain, I watched as a motorcycle pulled up next to the camper. A man wearing Longnecks colors swung off. He pulled his helmet free and I gasped.

It was Bax—Teeny’s brother.

Crappity crap crap!

Frantically I grabbed the .38, sitting down with my back against the bedroom wall. What should I do? Hide? The whole vehicle shuddered as Bax pounded on the flimsy door. I heard him cussing at Teeny, then everything shook again as he took his shoulder to the door. Seconds later he stepped inside.

“Oh, Jesus,” the man muttered, and I imagined the scene before him. His brother on the ground, chunks of brain and hair spattered around the room. The murder weapon still sitting right there, dripping with blood and slime. “Teeny, you little asshole.”

More rocking as the big man shuffled around. A gasping, wheezing noise. Was he crying? My tension grew as long seconds passed—would he search the bedroom? If he found me, I was fucked. I’d have to shoot him. Shoot to kill, preferably before he even realized I was here.

Looking down at the gun, I swallowed. Could I do this?