Dark Devotions by Nichole Greene
1
OLIVIA
Six years.Every minute, every torturous second turned to ash in a giant burning wreck at the bottom of a desert canyon. I watch flames lick the twisted metal of the old Honda Civic our butler gave me for my escape. It’s symbolic—the scorched earth is the violent end of my marriage. I take a deep, shuddering breath, wincing at the pain in my ribs from the last beating I endured at the hands of my husband, Tripp.
Waking up on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, my blood on the walls and floor was terrifying. He didn’t bother moving me. He just left me there for our staff to deal with. They are the only reason I was rushed out of the house tonight while Tripp was at a fundraiser. All I have left of my life is a wad of cash, a bus ticket, and a burner phone in my pocket.
I’m four miles outside of the town where I’m supposed to catch a bus that will take me to the East Coast and, hopefully, my salvation: the only four people I know I can unequivocally trust to help me. It’s been years since I’ve talked to them, even longer since I’ve seen them.
My four best friends. The boys I met my freshman year of high school who became my family. The boys that collectively own all my firsts. The men who didn’t want to let me go but one by one fell out of my life.
I don’t know if any of them are married. I don’t know if they are still as close as they once were. I’ve been locked away for the majority of my marriage, my autonomy slowly chipped away until I was a prisoner in my own home. Part of me is concerned that they won’t care, that they’ll take one look at me and send me away.
I don’t look the same as I once did. I’m too thin. My bones protrude from beneath my skin. My hair is thin and bleached a southern California blonde. My once vibrant blue eyes are dull and lifeless. There’s been no joy to light them up.
Nothing about me is good enough. That’s what Tripp always told me. I wasn’t personable enough for his fundraisers. I wasn’t pretty enough for all the red carpets. I wasn’t smart enough to help with the business, even though I graduated ahead of him from Columbia with my MBA.
A truck pulls over on the highway in front of me, and an old woman rolls down the window. “You need a ride, honey?” Her long gray hair is pulled back in a braid, and deep lines etch her face and hands.
“Yeah, I do.” She seems harmless enough, and really, I’d rather die at the hands of a stranger than go back to my abusive husband.
“It’s pretty intense back there,” she glances in the rearview mirror. “I just came from a back road where a car went off the edge of the canyon. I sure hope everyone is okay.” She says it with enough emphasis to let me know she suspects it was my car.
“I bet they will be,” I offer noncommittally.
“Where are you going?”
I climb into the old pick-up, the broken leather seats scratching my skin, though I can barely feel pain. “The bus station in town, if it’s not too much trouble.”
We drive the final few minutes in silence. She parks the truck in the empty lot and hands me a hat and a hair tie.
“There are a lot of cameras in these places. I don’t know who you are or why you’re running, but I can tell you need help.”
“Thank you,” I say while I twist my hair into a bun and shove it under the worn hat.
“Be safe.”
I lock eyes with the stranger and feel seen for the first time in a long time. Something tells me we are kindred spirits. She ran too. I can’t help but think that she was sent to me. Protection from above as I flee. I nod and step out of the rusty truck. Sitting on a cold, wooden bench, I wait, keeping my head down to avoid anyone seeing my face in the flickering light. I didn’t even think about staying out of view of cameras. The minutes pass slowly, and every once in a while a car drives by, the headlights illuminating my face unless I look down at the ground. So I sit there, elbows on my knees and praying for the Greyhound to hurry up.
I wonder what Tripp is doing right now. Has he figured out I’m gone yet? It’s not the first time I’ve tried to get away. What if he’s tracking me? The thought occurs right as a black sedan slowly rolls past the station, causing my heart to race.
There is only one other person waiting with me when the bus finally pulls in. I pull the ticket out of my pocket as I board. The driver takes it without making eye contact, which is fine by me. The fewer people see me, the better. I settle in a few rows from the back, taking a window seat, so I can curl into the wall and be left entirely alone. I’ll be on this bus all the way to Tulsa. Then I’ll have to switch to a different form of transportation.
The hours tick by with occasional stops. People get on and off, and eventually the driver changes out with another. I’m successful in giving off ‘don’t sit near me’ vibes, aided by the fact that the bus is never full. I doze off for short periods of time, but I can’t relax enough to get any kind of actual sleep.
I’m so used to living on high alert that I have a hard time turning it off. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I don’t even know how to hold eye contact anymore.
With no bags, I switch from the bus to a train in Oklahoma. Thankfully they don't ask for ID, and we leave for Chicago right on time. I can’t remember the last time I saw my driver's license.
I’m starting to smell, so as soon as the train begins moving, I get up and give myself a rinse in the bathroom. It’s better but still not good enough. I decide I’m going to grab a motel room in Chicago. I’ve been living off vending machine food and stale coffee for two days so I have enough to splurge. Part of me is ashamed that I’m this person. The idiot who fell in love with an abusive man. The broken weakling who needed others to push her out the door in the dead of night.
The train is crowded, but I’m still able to sit in my own row. The train stops in what seems like every small town along the way, but I don't care. Each one is another stop further from Tripp. During the scheduled stop in St. Louis, I get off and indulge in a greasy food court lunch. After two days of vending machine meals and stale coffee, it is bliss. I’d like to check what hotels are in the area of the Chicago train station, but the phone that was waiting for me in the car is an old fashioned flip phone with no internet.
Every mile I travel closer to freedom fills me with equal parts dread and anticipation. I’ve been locked down for so long. My inheritance from my parents’ deaths went into my joint account with Tripp, and he controlled everything since day one of our engagement.
Thinking back on my early relationship with Tripp makes me realize how many warning signs I overlooked. He was so perfect in the early days. Charming, thoughtful, and supportive. He listened to my dreams and my fears, building the arsenal he would eventually use against me. Then he slowly started to steer me away from Sawyer, Nolan, Grant, and Lake.
Somewhere between St. Louis and Springfield, I fall asleep. I don’t wake up until we pull up to the platform in Chicago. Exhausted, I take the stairs up to street level and look around, but I don’t see any hotels. Walking back into the train station, I ask one of the workers. She takes one look at me, shakes her head in pity, and points me in the direction of a Holiday Inn.
The hotel costs me double because I don't have a credit card or driver's license. Though the room smells of old smoke and heavy cleaners, I strip out of my wrinkled clothes and wash them in the green-tinted sink with the courtesy soap. It doesn't matter how hard I scrub though, I'll never wash away the memories.
Three days of grime sticks to my pale skin as I stand below the scorching hot water pouring from the crooked showerhead. I scrub my scalp until my arms are as tired as my body. Stepping from the shower, I manage to get a towel around me before I fall into the bed and blissfully pass out.
The next few days are a repeat of the first half of my journey. I decide to stick with the bus. There are fewer people and even less cameras. I wouldn't put it past Tripp to find a way to look for me using traffic light cams or something equally benign. It takes longer, but in the end, it is the safest choice. The entire trip I stay painfully aware of my surroundings, aware that I might need to find a way to flee at any point.
* * *
I’m standing in front of the building that at least two of the guys have offices in. I’ve been watching the flow of people go in and out and taking note of everything. I can’t announce my presence because what if they’ve heard from Tripp? He’s lied to others about me before, calling me mentally ill and pretending to be a loving husband. I need to make sure that I can trust them first.
I don’t know how I’m going to get through the line to the elevators. My baggy hoodie hides my hair and hangs inelegantly over a pair of cheap yoga pants I bought in Chicago. I look like a drug addict, not one of the high-powered attorneys or accountants who have offices in this building. I have to find a way to the elevators.
Looking down the sidewalk behind me, I see a pizza delivery guy parking his bike. I watch him set his hat on the handlebars and pull out a pizza, leaving one in the heating bag as he runs into the building next door. I swipe the sweaty hat and pizza and walk into the lobby. Multiple couriers have walked past the security guards and made eye contact with the man at the end of the line. After a deep breath, I do what I watched them do and try to look confident as I breeze past them to the elevators. No one stops me.
I climb onto an elevator with eight other people and hit the button for the top floor. Small, enclosed spaces send me into massive anxiety attacks. My eyes stay glued to the increasing numbers as I hold my breath the entire seventy-eight seconds until I am able to step out of the elevator and into the tasteful lobby. On either side are glass double doors with Ambrose, Williams, and Thorne LLC etched into the glass. Two exits. Four elevators. Deep breaths.
I ditch the pizza and hat on a shiny chrome table before walking through the doors on my left. I look right and left, trying to orient myself. I know he’ll be in the northwest corner of the building. He’s always loved that view of the city. My heart is going to beat out of my chest, and my skin feels tight and hot. I manage to make it down the first hall without being spotted. When I turn the corner, I see a straight shot through to the office I need to reach. I hear a door open and dart into a vacant office to hide while a short, balding man walks hurriedly down the hall, cell phone to his ear.
I look back into the hall and start walking toward the office. Sawyer Ambrose is listed on a plaque on the wall. I press my ear to the door and don’t hear any voices. I reach for the handle and take a deep breath because my life hangs in the balance. I live or die depending on what happens next. If they send me back to Tripp, he will end up killing me. I turn the handle and quickly dart into the office, slamming my back against the door as I close it.
“Excuse me,” he stands, an angry and surprised expression on his face. “You can’t just barge in here.” The light blue button-down shirt he’s wearing doesn't show a single wrinkle as he stands from behind a deep mahogany desk. I catch the tattoos peeking out from where he's rolled up his sleeves. He goes to hit a button that I’m sure goes straight to security.
“Wait,” I say quietly. I pull my hood down, meeting his eyes, until recognition hits him.
“Olivia?” He rushes toward me with shock all over his face, “What the fuck Liv?”
He comes toward me like he’s going to grab me, and I shrink into myself and pull away. He notices my reaction and puts his hands out in front of him to let me know he’s not a threat. I know that, or I wouldn’t have come here. Still, my basic instincts are telling me to be careful with all men.
“Olivia, talk to me. What’s happened to you?” He stoops down to try to look me in the eyes, but I just can’t hold eye contact yet. “Fuck. You’re scaring me, Liv. I’m calling Nolan, Grant, and Lake.”
He picks up his phone while watching me warily. “Nolan, my office now.” He ends the call and starts texting. He looks at me again after he sets down the phone. “I texted Grant and Lake, they’re not here in the building.”
Leaning against the front edge of his desk, his blue eyes evaluate me. His good looks have matured. His jaw is a bit sharper and his shoulders strain against the seams of his shirt. His chestnut brown hair is exactly the same though, longer on top and shorter on the sides. I’m swept away into memories of the first time we met.
* * *
“Olivia!” My uncle calls from the foyer of his huge house I’ve moved into for the next four years. “Come meet the neighbor’s son. He’s your age and will be at the same school as you this year.”
I walk down the curved staircase, looking down on a tall boy with messy brown hair and preppy clothes. Butterflies take flight inside me when I get to the bottom of the stairs and our eyes meet. He has the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He gives me an equally interested look, his eyes moving from mine down my body and back up.
“I’m Sawyer.” He holds out his hand for a handshake.
“Olivia.” I take his hand and shake it.
We stand there, awkwardly looking at each other and limply shaking hands. He finally smiles and lets go of my hand.
“A few of my friends are coming over tonight. If you want to come along, I can introduce you. Founders Prep isn’t the easiest school to handle from a social aspect. Knowing people the first day will only be a benefit.”
“Oh, thank you.” I glance out the still open door. “Which house?”
“The one to the left of yours,” he says as he gestures with his head. “Come over around seven, dress casual but bring a swimsuit.”
“Okay.” I watch him jog down the steps of the front porch and cut through the yards. Aside from the preppy clothes, he seems pretty cool.
* * *
The door opening and closing behind me startles me out of the memory. Sawyer stands from the desk and holds his arm out in warning. His eyes dart pointedly from the person who just entered, to me, treating me as a cornered animal. Truly, it is how I feel right now.
The tumultuous emotions warring inside me make it hard to focus. I just want to disappear, and I’m starting to regret my decision to come here. I so desperately wish I had some way to ground myself as the room starts to spin.
“Nolan,” Sawyer says cautiously, “Liv’s here.”
“Li—” he stops as I turn to face him. He inhales sharply as he looks at me. “Livvy?” He moves toward me so fast I don’t have time to move away before his arms are wrapped around me.
I wince as his arm moves over my tender ribs. The beating Tripp gave me the night before I escaped was especially violent. The past few months he’s moved on from mostly mental and emotional abuse to physical violence.
“Sorry.” He loosens his grip on me but doesn’t release me as his hands travel down my spine. “What happened to you?”
I step back and his arms fall to his sides. “I need your help,” I say weakly. I’ve barely spoken the past few days and my voice is scratchy. “Any help you are willing to give me. I ran from Tripp, left everything behind aside from the cash our butler gave me as he helped me escape.” I turn my body so I’m facing both of them.
“Escape?” Sawyer asks, his brow creased with concern.
I nod. I’m not ready to launch into the full story yet, not when I don’t know if I’m safe here. “I wasn’t safe. I’m probably still not.”
“You’re safe with us,” Nolan says with narrowed hazel eyes, managing to sound comforting and commanding.
“Can you explain anything?” Sawyer leans back against his desk and crosses his arms. “Or would you rather wait until Lake and Grant are with us?”
“I don’t want to explain everything more than once.” I don’t even know if I can talk about it at all. “But if you don’t feel safe helping me, I understand. I can go. I have enough cash to find a hotel room somewhere.”
“You’re not going anywhere without one of us with you,” Sawyer says.
“And you’re sure as fuck not staying in a hotel room somewhere,” Nolan adds. “We’re not fucking afraid of Tripp.”
Sawyer looks up from his phone at me. “Lake is on his way to our apartments. Do you want to just go there instead of waiting here? It might be easier to relax.”
I agree, so he grabs what he needs and turns off the light in his office. They fall in step with me, Sawyer leading and Nolan at my back. My heart rate starts speeding up as Sawyer hits the button for the elevator. They both get in and give me puzzled looks when I take a few seconds to follow. I bite my lip and start counting as the doors close. Both of them look at me with worried expressions. Nolan relaxes his lanky body against the wall and links his pinky finger with mine.
“You know what’s crazy?” he asks without looking over at me.
I don’t reply, but I squeeze his finger with mine.
“I heard a song that always reminds me of you the other day. ‘Brown Eyed Girl,’” he smirks down at me, “a Van Morrison classic and our sixteen-year-old theme song.” He launches into the opening lines of the song and part of my heart lifts. He’s still Nolan, the guy who introduced me to all things rock. The guy who would lie on a blanket next to me for hours, watching clouds and listening to music and letting me run my fingers through his wavy auburn hair. He keeps singing to me, even as people get on the elevator and give him annoyed looks.