Page 6 of Hideaway Whirlwind
He crouches to untie my bag, but I stop him. “I have clothes on under these,” I whisper, though there’s no good reason I need to keep my voice down.
He stands and holds up the chopping board, and now it makes sense. We need to get rid of that, too. Respectfully,he gives me his back again while I take off my hoodie and roll down my sweatpants, even removing my outer layer of socks.
“I’m done,” I say, holding the bundle of clothes up for him to take.
He carefully inspects my clothing, then holds up my sweatpants and eyes my leggings. “Think a bit of blood might have seeped through.”
I don’t bother saying anything when he forgets to turn around after I reach under my T-shirts to grab the waistband of my top layer of leggings, his brows shooting up when I roll them down in front of him, only relaxing when he sees that I’m wearing a second pair.
He swallows and takes the dirty leggings, rubbing his thumb across the material, nodding when he decides that’s good enough. After rolling up the cuffs of my long-sleeved T-shirt for me, he produces a small bottle of hand sanitizer from the kit, dousing my hands and forearms. Next comes the worst part when he gently grips my jaw to clean my cheek with an alcohol swab, then plasters the cut with two clear butterfly bandages. When he lifts me into the cab afterward, I’m more prepared for it, keeping a lid on my reaction to his hands on my body.
The kids are so worn out that they hardly stir as I undress them, finding specks of my blood on their pajamas from when I’d crushed them in a hug, and I rebuckle them in their seats, so fucking thankful I thought to dress them in so many layers.
After I slide into the driver’s seat and pass him the kids’ clothes, he closes the door and disappears around the back of his truck, then stalks off with his duffel bag, moving silently. I don’t question what he’s doing, though I keep watch through the window, spotting a low flame mostly concealed by thetrees in the distance, burning the evidence of my fight. When the fire is stamped out, he returns without his ball cap, dressed in all new clothes, and opens the door, propping one boot on the top step.
“What’s your name?” I ask, remaining in his seat instead of letting him climb inside, my eyes flitting all over my rescuer’s expressionless face.
Though it’s hard to see in the low light, I don’t miss the deeply creased lines at the corners of his eyes and how there’s not a strand of any color other than silver in his thick beard and mustache. If I had to guess, I’d place him as older than my dad would be, if he hadn’t passed from a dune buggy accident when I was three, but not quite old enough to be my grandpa, who I never got to see again after my mother remarried when I was ten and moved us out to the Nevada desert. He’d died before I made it out.
“Elliott Berenson,” the bear says, tipping his head to the side.
I lean too far out to get a better view of the tall, red BERENSON TRUCKING logo painted on the side of the white trailer, and with my shifting center of gravity, I slip from the truck. Elliott catches me with a sigh before I’m ever in danger of hitting the ground, my nose pressed to his barrel chest. His arms around me are a furnace, staving off the chilly morning.
A lifetime seems to pass as he holds me, until he jerks when I break the taut silence, my voice muffled by his smoky, dark green and gray flannel. “You’re the owner?”
“My brother.” He immediately lifts me back into the truck and drops his baseball mitt-sized hands at his sides. “We need to go,” he says in a rougher voice, staring blankly over my shoulder.
Coming to my senses and recognizing I’ve been dismissed after that seriously awkward interaction, I crawl into the rear of the cab and sit on the floor, resting the back of my head against the truck frame, my eyes pinned to my babies. They’re my whole world and the only reason I keep putting one foot in front of the other.
We’re free, we’re free, we’re free, is all I can think as the confusing man gets us back onto the road, headed for Texas.Third life’s the charm. Hopefully.
* * *
I wake from my curled position on the floor with my hands for a pillow beneath my uninjured cheek. I don’t want to open my eyes, my head still pounding with a headache and every muscle too sore to move.
Elliott says in an annoyed tone, “She’s asleep.” A brief pause follows, and he grunts, “Sure.” His seat creaks, the rig shifting with his bootsteps, and then I feel his presence at my back. “Teagan,” he says more softly.
I roll over, lifting and dropping my hand when it almost drifts to my stomach. Nearly halfway through my pregnancy, I catch myself rubbing my bump more and more often, knowing this baby will be my last. I’ll make sure of it.
Blinking a few times to clear the sleep from my eyes, I find Elliott crouched on his steel-toe boots with the sun spilling in behind him. He hands me his phone, watching me when I answer, “Hello?”
Marigold says on the other end of the line, “I’m so happy to hear your voice. I was worried when I didn’t hear from you. I mean, Elliott told me he got you all out, but I just wanted tocheck. How are you? How are the kids?”
I twist my head to check my babies, who are slowly waking themselves. “We’re ok,” I say simply. Physically, they’re mostly ok, but mentally…I don’t know how to answer her questions just yet, too tired to go into much detail, especially in front of little ears.
“Elliott says you should be here tomorrow or the day after, depending on the weather. We’re so excited for all the kids to meet. I’m sure they’ll be best friends. And we have everything ready for when you get here,” she fires off, more chipper in the morning than I ever am.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my brows creasing when Elliott remains still as a statue, listening to our conversation.
Kendall is the last to wake with a cry, confused as to where she is. I sit up, my forehead nearly colliding with Elliott’s if he hadn’t reared back in the nick of time. Holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I roll onto my knees to unbuckle Kendall from her car seat. “Can I call you back? The kids just woke up.”
“Yes, yes, please do,” Marigold answers.
Elliott moves around me, taking a knee to unbuckle Dustin and Sydney, helping them down from their seats and steadying them when they stumble in their exhaustion. We might have slept, but that’s different than having rested.
Right when I’m about to end the call, I bring the phone back to my ear as I gather Kendall close. “Thank you for sending him to us.” I rest my chin on Kendall’s head and look at Elliott. Taking a deep breath when our eyes meet, my voice cracks when I tell Marigold, “We wouldn’t have made it out without him.”
Elliott drops his eyes and stands, though he has to crouchunder the low ceiling when he leaves with his duffel bag. I push Elliott’s phone into the side pocket of my leggings and scoop Kendall up, ushering Dustin and Sydney ahead of me toward the front, where Elliott is waiting with the passenger side door open.
