Hell Breaks Loose: A Devil's Rock Novel (10 page)

Then his voice rolled over her in the semidarkness. “And just in case you’re thinking of running again . . .” He sat up and
flipped the covers off them. Cool air wafted over her bare legs. She yelped as he picked up her foot and looped something
around her ankle.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, sitting up in the bed and watching him as he leaned over her feet.

She felt a tug on her ankle. He turned slightly then and seemed to be working on his own ankle. “Just tying our ankles together.
There.” Reid settled back down beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. He lifted his foot. The motion pulled her ankle
up, and she could see the plaid scarf connecting them.

Her gaze flew back to his. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“I’m a light sleeper. I will feel it if you try to untie that knot.” He didn’t wait for her to respond. He simply rolled onto
his side. Even with a good amount of slack on the scarf between them, her ankle felt the pull.

“Ass,” she muttered beneath her breath. His light chuckle told her he must have heard her.

With a huff, she rolled onto her side, indifferent to the sudden move that yanked the scarf taut between them.

Fuming, she lay there, convinced she would never find sleep, but eventually her lids grew heavy. She closed her eyes, thinking
about how glad she was going to be when she got out of here . . . and how she was going to make certain her life changed for
the better. She would tell her father she was finished living her life campaigning for him. She would break things off with
Charles for good. And she would never again be a woman longing for the touch of an unsavory criminal.

Reid woke with a raging hard-on. It wasn’t so unusual. It happened. Especially in prison where the yearning for a woman could
be so acute that wet dreams occurred with high frequency. He blinked a few times, chasing away the cobwebs of what had been
a deep sleep.

The only unusual component to the situation was the woman sprawled on top of him. Her hair was all over him like some kind
of damn silken web. An accurate description. He felt ensnared.

Her head was cushioned on his shoulder, one of her legs wrapped around him like he was a giant pillow. The fullness of her
breast nestled into his chest. She was braless. He felt the bead of her nipple through the fabric of her T-shirt. He wanted
to roll her onto her back and pull that breast into his mouth so badly he ached. And there was his dick at full mast . . .
wanting to do other things to her, too.

He faced the ugly truth. It didn’t matter what good faith words he spouted. His body wanted what it hadn’t had in years. It
wanted Grace Reeves.

He could profess that he wouldn’t touch her all he liked, but putting himself in this kind of proximity with her was just
misery.

He sat up abruptly with a curse and reached for his ankle, ready to put an end to the torture. She stirred, coming awake slowly.
“Wh-What’s happening . . . ?”

His fingers fumbled, but he eventually got the knot undone. “Go back to sleep,” he said tersely.

He strode from the room, careful to keep his back to her so she didn’t see his traitor cock. He marched into the second bedroom
and yanked the bedding and pillow off the bed. Positioning the pillow in front of him, he returned to the master bedroom.

She was sitting up in the bed now, blinking those deep, endless eyes of hers at him as he flung everything down on the floor
in front of the door. He didn’t even bother to hide his temper. He was pissed. At her, at himself . . . at how easily she
got to him. He should tie her up tomorrow and drive into town and get his itch scratched by someone else, then he would put
an end to this thing between them and put things in correct perspective. He was the captor. She was the captive. He wasn’t
some sick fuck that got his rocks off abusing women. He wasn’t like Rowdy or half the guys in prison.

“You’re sleeping on the floor?” she asked in a soft voice. Even that voice got him hard. Well,
harder
.

He settled himself down on his makeshift pallet. Even with the bedding, it was uncomfortable. His prison mattress was better
than this.

“Yeah, I’m still in the room, so don’t think about making another run for it. It won’t go well for you.” He knew he sounded
like a surly bastard, and from the way her brow furrowed she didn’t like it. Which was for the best. She didn’t need to like
it. She didn’t need to know that he was cock-hard for her either.

He didn’t want her to think he was totally soft and without threat. A little bit of fear was a good thing. For both of them.
She’d keep her distance that way, and God knew he needed that.

“Is something wrong with the bed?” she asked.

Yeah, you’re in it.

“Just go to sleep,” he growled.

It was a while before she lowered herself back down. He listened as she rustled around on the bed before finding a position
she liked and going still. He listened, counting the minutes until her breath evened and she went to sleep. It was torment.
He didn’t relish spending the next few days sleeping on the floor, but he would do what he had to do. Just like he always
had. His life had been a series of unpleasant events, one after the other. Why should that change now?

Reid never expected life to be easy. He didn’t know what easy was, so it was natural that he shouldn’t look for something
he didn’t know existed. Even so, he saw that other kids had it different. Better. Kids whose moms packed their lunches. Kids
who got new shoes and talked about the vacations they took.

His mother worshipped at the altar of whatever drug was available. Crack, molly, heroin, meth. Whatever she could get her
hands on. She was an equal opportunity addict. Whatever flavor the current man in her life provided, she gladly embraced.
It enslaved her, made her weak, made her forget about her children living under the same roof with her.

She forgot about food. That fell to Reid. He’d scrounge for loose change under the car seats and couch cushions. He’d use
that and whatever Grandpa gave him between visits. Not trusting to keep it in the house with Mom and her burnout friends coming
and going, Reid would bury the money in the woods behind the trailer park in an old mason jar.

Once a week he’d dig up his money, take what he needed, and walk to the corner store with his brother. He bought the essentials,
carefully tracking the cost. Peanut butter, a loaf of bread, some juice, a couple cans of soup. Just enough to keep them from
starving.

Reid would feed his brother first, then venture into his mother’s bedroom, wade through the stale air that reeked of sweat
and cigarettes. He’d force some water and peanut butter sandwich down her. Peanut butter sandwiches she never made him but
he was an expert at preparing.

As shitty a mom as she was, he loved her. He held on to vague memories of being tucked in, her cool fingers brushing through
his hair as she hummed him to sleep. There was that. She wasn’t all bad. Not as long as he had those memories.

The best thing she ever did was give her father unlimited access to him and Zane. They’d stay weekends with their grandfather.
In the summer he would take them for weeks at a time.

Once, when Reid was eleven, his grandfather asked if he and Zane wanted to move in permanently with him. Things were pretty
bad then. Mom less and less sober. The boyfriends not even that anymore. Simply men. Strangers that drifted in and out. Different
but the same. They ignored Reid and Zane for the most part, which made them tolerable. They were actually easier to handle
than the old man.

Whenever Tommy Allister decided to put in an appearance, Reid walked a tight rope. Tommy equated parenting to beating the
shit out of Reid. He called it discipline. Teaching Reid to be a man. Punishing him because the trash was overflowing and
he hadn’t seen fit to take it out. Or because the kitchen faucet had an annoying drip and somehow that was Reid’s fault.

The reason never mattered just as long as there was a reason . . . an excuse for Tommy Allister to beat the shit out of his
oldest son. Mom never made a protest. She was usually passed out anyway . . . or too high to pay much attention to reality.

“I can’t petition to be your full-time guardian legally,” Grandpa explained when he offered to take Reid and Zane full-time.
“I’ve made a few inquiries already. I’m old, and with my heart condition I’d likely be declined . . .” Grandpa’s voice faded
as he stared out at the pond where they fished. Zane stomped along the bank, probably scaring the fish away. “Even so, your
ma would let you boys move in. If’n you want to. You’d have to tell her it’s what you want, though. She’d need to hear it
from you. Your dad might kick a fuss when he blows through town and decides to play at being a daddy, but he won’t follow
through with anything. Never has.”

Reid thought about it hard.

Leaving his mom. Moving in with Grandpa.
Leaving Mom.
That was the part that stuck.

She needed him.

“If it’s just the same, sir. I’ll stay with Mom.”

So he had stayed. Taking care of Zane and his mom. It should have been the other way around. She should have been looking
out for him. He probably should have gotten over it. Left her. And not just for him, but for Zane.

She was just too weak, though. He’d always been the strong one.

In any case, Grandpa died six years later. He was seventeen then. A year later and he could have left, but he couldn’t leave
Zane behind.

Then he got sucked into Otis Sullivan’s web. The money. The sense of belonging. Stupid kid that he’d been, it had lured him.
He’d been missing his grandfather and at the time believed Sullivan like the grizzly old man. Rough around the edges, but
with honor. Someone who might break a few rules but was essentially good. A man with a code who looked out for his own.

Reid couldn’t have been more wrong.

He’d paid for that mistake. Eleven years he paid. He knew about consequences. And suffering.

A few days with Grace Reeves wasn’t going to break him.

He could stay away from her for a few days. He could handle a little self-denial. He was accustomed to that.

Taking advantage of her, using her, hurting her . . . he wasn’t accustomed to doing that to a woman. He never had before.
He wasn’t about to start now.

Grace woke to the smell of frying bacon. There were worse ways to greet the day. As a captive, she guessed this was especially
true. She was awake after all—alive and unharmed and, presumably, about to be fed.

She stretched sore muscles in the empty bed, her gaze straying to the door. Not only was he gone, but his makeshift pallet
was missing, too. It was as though he had never slept in the room. But she knew better, of course. He wouldn’t have left her
unsupervised through the night. Not after her bolt for freedom.

She rose from the bed and hurried out into the bathroom, her feet padding quietly over the wood floor.

She slipped on her bra and once again donned the big cotton T-shirt she’d borrowed. It was in better shape than her silk blouse.
She pressed a hand against the window above the toilet, feeling the frosty glass. It was chilly inside, but even colder outside.

She slipped the too big boxers back on and returned to the bedroom to search for something warmer. She hit pay dirt. The drawers
held quite a few garments. All for men, but she wasn’t picky.

She slipped on a pair of baggy sweatpants, knotting the drawstring as tightly as she could before emerging into the kitchen.

He looked up from the stove, lifting bacon onto a waiting plate. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she returned, easing carefully into a chair at the table as she took in the domestic scene.

“Sorry. No eggs. But we have bacon and toast.” He set a plate in front of her.

“That’s fine. Thanks.” She picked up a piece of toast, convinced she couldn’t eat beneath his watchful gaze, but the moment
she took her first bite, she didn’t stop until the last scrap of food was gone. Swallowing the last bite, she looked back
up at him. “Aren’t you eating?”

“Already did. C’mon,” he announced, turning away from the sink and moving to the door. She watched warily as he put on his
boots.

“Where are we going?” She edged to the door and her shoes waiting there. He arched an eyebrow that seemed to say:
Does it matter? You have to do what I say
.

He opened the door and gestured for her to precede him, like he was any gentleman she might have met out on the streets back
home. Except he wasn’t. He was a far cry from that world. In all her years of private school education, including four years
at an all-girls college, she had never encountered an individual like Reid. He represented a world she was never supposed
to touch. Unsavory, twisted, and of the criminal variety.

She stepped out on the porch before him, still keeping a careful distance. Everything looked much different in the light of
day. Awash in browns and greens, her surroundings hummed and crackled as wind moved through branches and leaves. There was
no grass to speak of—trees and shrubs offered the only green. It was raw and compelling and beautiful. In many ways synonymous
to him.

The morning was cold, a faint mist clinging to the air. His boots thudded across the porch and then dropped down, hitting
the dirt-packed ground. She followed him, her gaze scanning the line of brush, recalling her mad, desperate dash for freedom
that had failed so miserably. Really, she was a little embarrassed by it now. If she was going to escape, she needed to be
smarter.

“C’mon,” he called, looking over his shoulder.

She hurried ahead obediently, telling herself that for now this was how she would play it. She would follow his instructions,
play the beaten little puppy and gain back his trust until a moment presented itself for escape. No more impulsive, ill-planned
attempts to break away. The next time she made a break for it, she would succeed. If there was one thing she had learned from
watching her father and his staff all these years, it was that strategy was everything.

“Where are we going?” she asked, catching up and following one step behind him as he rounded the back of the cabin.

He didn’t answer, and she wondered if he was still angry at her for yesterday. Would he treat her to perpetual silence now?

He stopped at a shed and opened the door. Ducking inside, he emerged moments later with a fishing pole, tackle box, and net.
He extended the net to her. “Carry this.”

Bristling at his bossy tone, she accepted the net and followed him through thick shrubs that snagged and grabbed at her legs.

She addressed his back. “We’re going fishing?”

“You ever fish for your dinner before, princess?”

She bristled at the nickname. “No.”

“First time for everything, then.”

She stared at his broad back, her eyes following the play of muscles working under the thin cotton of his shirt. She couldn’t
see his face but she could hear the smirk in his voice. He thought he knew her. He thought he had her pegged. Her determination
to beat him, to escape him, only intensified.

She heard the water before they reached the edge of a midnight blue pond. Her lips parted on a tiny gasp. It was the kind
of thing photographed in nature magazines.

He squatted in front of the tackle box, flipping it open. She took the time to study him, scanning corded-tight muscles moving
like fluid beneath his clothes. This guy had escaped from prison. That meant he was more than some ripped meathead. There
were dimensions to him. He was intelligent. Cunning.

The mist had melted away and sunlight gilded his hair into dark gold as he baited the hook with a colorful bit of plastic
tackle that reminded her of something her mother teased the cat with.

Satisfied, he stood and walked out on a ridge of rocks, sure-footed, his gait even. Balanced perfectly, he tossed out his
line.

Unsure what to do but pretty certain it wasn’t stare at the way the denim hugged his amazing backside, she sank down onto
the ground, still holding onto the net.

She drew her knees up to her chest and sat there for several minutes, intermittently watching him (not his backside) and scanning
their surroundings.

He moved with quiet stealth as he fished. Even as strong and deadly looking as he was, there was a natural grace to him—a
patience she hadn’t expected. Weren’t criminals supposed to be an impulsive sort? But then, he was a criminal who had successfully
escaped prison. That probably put him outside the box of everyday criminals.

As the minutes slid by, the morning mist evaporated. The day was no longer so cold. Still chilly, though . . . a fact he was
apparently indifferent to when he reached one hand behind his neck and pulled his gray T-shirt over his head in that move
guys always did. Well, no guy she knew, but she watched plenty of guys do it on TV. Her mouth dried and she quickly looked
away, her gaze resting on the discarded T-shirt he’d flung onto the bank, anywhere but at him—at the sight of his ripped up,
tattooed body.

It was several moments before she looked back at him, and it was as though he felt her gaze. He looked sideways at her. Heat
punched her chest and flared outward, but she didn’t look away. She held his ice gaze.

He finally spoke. “Bet you’ve never had fish as fresh as you’re going to get tonight.” Was he trying to make small talk?

She pulled a dried-up bit of root from the parched ground. “You know this place well,” she stated.

He nodded affirmation.

Her mind groped on some memory, some bit of knowledge about captives making a connection with their captor. It was to her
benefit if they could forge a connection, a relationship. Ostensibly, it would be harder to harm a person you actually knew . . .
you actually liked.

She winced. Time had proven that she was not very likable. The last poll had established that America was not a fan of First
Daughter Grace Reeves.

Deciding she needed to try, she cleared her throat and asked, “So you came here a lot . . . before you were incarcerated?”

His lips pressed into a firm line and his hazel gaze hardened as he gazed out at the glasslike water. Well, that didn’t take
long. She’d gone too far. Asked something that brought his walls crashing down.

Then, suddenly, he shrugged. “Guess it doesn’t matter. This place won’t be a secret for long. Not after you’re free.”

The breath eased out of her.
Free.
Just hearing him say that as a foregone conclusion made her shoulders relax and the air flow easier past her lips. “You think
I’ll tell people about this place?”

“You won’t have to,” he said as though unaffected. “You’ll tell them about me. With the resources available to the FBI and
Secret Service, it won’t take them long to close in on this place.”

After she told them about him: Reid. Escaped convict. That’s all she would need to say. They would figure out the rest. And
of course, she would tell them. Why wouldn’t she? He was a dangerous criminal. Just because he wasn’t as dangerous as the
rest of the men who took her didn’t mean he should get off scot-free. If he was really heroic, he would have taken her straight
to the authorities. He needed to be brought to justice for his crimes.

“You know I can help you . . . put in a good word for you with the authorities.”

He smirked as he reeled in his line. “That so, princess?”

“If you let me go, sure. I would do that, of course.”

“Still angling for me to let you go?” He threw out his line again. It plopped cleanly in the water. “Already told you. I can’t
do that just yet.”

“Should I stop trying, then?” she snapped.

“By all means, keep trying. No one likes a quitter.” His smirk was a full-fledged smile now and it did stupid things to her
insides. She fought it, trying to quell the flip-flopping of her stomach.

“Don’t you want to help yourself at all?”

“There’s no helping me, princess. It’s cute you think I’m redeemable, but I’m a lost cause. So it doesn’t really matter if
you tell them my name.” He waved out at the water. “Or about this place.”

He ceased smiling. He simply stared out at the water, and despite the day’s growing warmth, she shivered. It really was pointless
trying to reach someone who had nothing to lose.

She propped her chin on her knees. “I wish you would stop calling me princess.”

“Isn’t that what you are? Closest thing to royalty we got in this country.”

She snorted. That would seem true, except for the fact that the media has dubbed her “Graceless Reeves.” She was no princess,
to be sure.

“I’m not . . .” Her voice faded. Maybe he hadn’t heard about her in prison—or seen any footage of her fumbling awkwardness.
None of the
Saturday Night Live
skits. For a moment, that perked her up, but then he filled in the gap of silence.

“You’re the closest thing to a princess I’ve ever met.”

“And what’s your definition?” she asked, still feeling that prickle of annoyance and knowing she wasn’t going to like the
rest of what he had to say.

“Pampered, spoiled . . . you probably have servants—”

Of course he would think that. “I don’t have servants. This isn’t the eighteenth century. I have . . . employees . . .” Her
voice faded under his sharp scrutiny.

“Yeah? And what is it you do, ‘princess,’ to have these ‘employees’? Besides being your father’s daughter?”

She stared at him, hating how, in that moment, he suddenly made her feel guilty for being born into a life of privilege. Her
life wasn’t all roses, but this man who had only ever experienced the harshness of the world and led a life of crime would
never understand that. “I was a student,” she began, hating how lame she sounded, trying to give her life value and purpose.
She shouldn’t feel compelled to make this argument to him, but she was doing just that.

“Was?” he cut in. “But not anymore? So what is it you do, then, to have these serv—oh, sorry, ‘employees’? And your nice clothes?
Do you work to earn the clothes on your back? I bet that nice blouse of yours cost more than most people make in a week.”

Her blood simmered. He did
not
know her. He didn’t know anything about her at all. Who was he to judge her? God only knew all the awful things he had done
in his life.

He continued, “You haven’t got a clue. And that, ‘princess,’ is why I call you princess. You don’t know what it’s like to
have to work your fingers to the bone for something, to take orders, to have absolutely no freedom, no say over when you get
to come and go. Where and when you eat, when you can take a piss.”

She snorted. Was he for real? It was like he was describing her life to the letter. She snapped. “You suck.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. You suck!” She shook her head. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to have my every move monitored . . .
my every word planned out for me? Those clothes I wear that you seem so interested in? I don’t even get to pick them out.”
She grabbed a hunk of her hair. “I don’t even get to say how I want my hair cut. I don’t know the last time I styled it any
way I wanted.” She flattened a hand over her chest. “Maybe we have more in common than you think, huh?”

He stared at her, his cat-gold stare inscrutable. “Maybe,” he finally allowed, his eyes skimming her where she sat on the
bank, warming her. She felt a sudden uneasiness under that appraisal. Was she really holding herself up to him and finding
similarities? Did she want him to see them as alike? It was dangerous ground.

Grace inhaled a shaky breath, suddenly determined to insert a little distance between them. “Except that you had a choice.
Right?” She nodded once, jumping from one cliff to another, this one dangerous in a different way, maybe even more precarious,
but she couldn’t help herself. “You got yourself put behind bars. No one did that but you.”

A ripple of something passed over his face and his eyes sparked green-gold. Even across the distance, she could see his scarred
knuckles turn white as his hand tightened around the fishing rod. “Oh, and
you
don’t have a choice then, princess?” He laughed harshly. “I call bullshit. You’re in control of your fate. You don’t like
being a princess, then don’t be.”

He made her want to scream. She never remembered a time when her father wasn’t an important man. A senator. Governor. Vice
president, and finally, president. She’d been in the spotlight all her life. Short of getting herself legally emancipated
(yeah, fat chance), she never had much of a choice in anything. “Go to hell,” she got out before she could reconsider the
wisdom of insulting him.