Wanderlust

  WANDERLUST

  Skye Warren

  Copyright 2013 by Skye Warren

  Smashwords Edition

  Can love come from pain?

  Evie always dreamed of seeing the world, but her first night at a motel turns into a nightmare. Hunter is a rugged trucker willing to do anything to keep her—including kidnapping. As they cross the country in his rig, Evie plots her escape, but she may find what she's been looking for right beside her.

  “Skye Warren will take you into the depths of depravity but bring you home, safe in the end.”

  - Kitty Thomas, author of Comfort Food

  Praise for Trust in Me:

  “Good gracious! Skye Warren is a true mistress of dark and twisted love stories.”

  - The Forbidden Bookshelf

  “Skye Warren knows how to deliver a powerfully poignant story that will keep her readers engrossed.”

  - Sizzling Hot Books

  Night Owl Top Pick! “The author plays with metaphors and imagery in a prominent way to express Mia’s abuse at the hands the men in her life. This story was literally hard to put down.”

  - Night Owl Reviews

  Praise for Hear Me:

  “This is a disturbingly arousing book I couldn’t put down until the last page was turned.”

  - Day Dreaming

  “From the story title to the striking imagery of Melody being an echo of one man’s dark need and desire, HEAR ME has a smart and eloquent literary quality that stands out from page one.”

  - S. Richards, Amazon reviewer

  “…achingly detailed, beautifully written, and just so much to experience.”

  - Maryse’s Book Blog

  AUTHOR’S FOREWARD

  Dear readers,

  Wanderlust explores captivity and dubious consent. It is intended as a fantasy for those who enjoy these themes in their fiction.

  This book is dedicated to those who have been found—but who never forget how it feels to be lost. Many thanks to the beta readers and editors who helped me, including Leila DeSint, K.M., Antoinette M—, Em Petrova, and Helen Hardt.

  Yours,

  Skye Warren

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Niagara Falls were formed by glacier activity 10,000 years ago.

  A clash of pots and pans came from downstairs. I winced but remained cross-legged on my bed, staring at the assorted items I’d deemed essential. Some clothes, toiletries.

  A map.

  There was so much I didn’t know, so much I hadn’t seen. My absence of knowledge had become an almost tangible thing, filling me up, suffocating me until I needed to kick up to the surface just to breathe.

  Ironically, my innocence was my mom’s explanation for keeping me home. The world was too scary, and I wouldn’t even know how to protect myself. To hear her tell it, the streets were filled with ravening men who would attack me as soon as look at me.

  That was the anxiety talking. At least that was what the counselor had said before we’d stopped going.

  “Evie!” my mother yelled from the kitchen.

  It would be three more times before she elevated to screams. Four before she threw something. Six before she came up to my room, demanding I make her coffee or whatever else she needed.

  I’d grown up fast, fumbling with mac and cheese before I was tall enough to see over the pot, explaining away my excess absences to disinterested teachers. In high school, I’d stayed home and studied to get my GED. Two years of correspondence classes through the community college, and I was desperate for any human contact.

  I picked up my book, running my fingers over the cool, glossy surface.

  The library was one of the few places approved by my mother. I must have read almost every book in that place, living a thousand lives on paper, traveling around the world in eighty days and through the looking glass. I knew about hope and death, about fear and the dignity required to overcome, but only in theoretical constructs of ink and ground tree pulp. That was my irony: to wax poetic about the meaning of life while being unable to do something as simple as pay rent.

  Weary of re-reads, I’d wandered into the nonfiction section. I’d picked this one up on a whim, on a joke almost because the title seemed so silly. Everything You Wanted to Know About Niagara Falls. Who wanted to know anything about Niagara Falls?

  Then I read it.

  I snuck back every day for a week, enamored by the descriptions, in awe of the pictures of water rushing, enchanted by the majesty and magic of this place both faraway and someday attainable. My mother didn’t let me get a library card, so I’d stolen the book and kept it ever since.

  Now the paper was thin and pliable, well-worn from years of turning the pages. The binding was loose, the stitching visible between the cardboard and glue. By now it was probably held together by the clear tape that held the library tags to the spine.

  “Happy birthday,” I whispered.

  My present to myself: to finally see the place I’d been yearning for. The place I’d dreamed about even before I’d gotten the book, for all twenty years of my life. For room to breathe. For freedom.

  Even my camera couldn’t sustain me. I flipped through the photographs on the digital screen, every single one taken in the house or the yard. Nowadays mom got antsy when I walked over to the park. There were only so many times I could pretend a new angle of the flower pot was artistic instead of just plain pathetic. I wanted to see new things, new places—new people.

  I piled everything into my bag. I was far too old for the purple backpack. But then, my body was too old for me. Somewhere in the past five years, I had blossomed into a woman, with full lips and fuller breasts, with hair in places I was almost afraid to touch, except when I just had to at night in my bed, and I did—oh, I did, and it shamed me. I shamed myself with the wetness and the horrible, rippling pleasure around my fingers.

  My twentieth birthday. Neither my mother nor I had acknowledged it at breakfast, as if even the mention of passing time would crack the fragile votive that ensconced us.

  And now, I would shatter it.

  I wouldn’t be going around the world or even outside the state—at least not today. But the fear felt huge inside my stomach. Her anxiety was rubbing off on me. I had to get out of here.

  Everything fit neatly into my faded backpack, but then I was well-practiced in packing it after having done so at least a dozen times. Each time had ended in screaming, in tears, and in me back upstairs in my room.

  Not this time. If I didn’t follow through now, I would be stuck here. I’d live here forever.

  I’d die here.

  Feeling queasy, I slung the bag over my shoulder and headed down the stairs. My mother sat at the kitchen table, her thin robe loosely tied, eyes glassy from the pills. The medicine was supposed to help her, but she never got better—only worse. More fearful, more controlling.

  All those chemicals had taken their toll on her body. She looked so tired. The weary shadows around her eyes and tension lines around her lips always made my gut clench. I should be here to protect her. I just couldn’t, I couldn’t.

  I leaned my backpack against the leg of the table and sat down across from her.

  “Mama.”

  Her eyes came into focus. She sighed. “Not this again, Evie.”

  I swallowed. “Please, Mama, try to understand. I need to see more of the world than these walls.”

  “What is there to see? Suffering? People starving? Go look at the TV if you want to see the world so badly. You know I’m right.”

  We used to watch the news together. Every young girl abducted, every college girl who had her drink drugged was somehow a mark against me.

  That could have been you, she would say.

  Whereas most families might let the tragedy of strangers p
ass them by like waves, she would catch them, collect them, marking down their names and ages in her notebooks and checking whether they had been found in six months, a year, five years, until I felt like I was drowning in unseen violence.

  “I don’t want to watch the news. I want to see things for myself. Ordinary things. I want to be ordinary. I want to live.”

  She scowled. “Don’t be dramatic. You’re living here. You’re safe.”

  I firmed. “No, Mama. I know you need to stay inside, but just as much, I need to go out into the world. Experience things for myself. And I’m going to. You can’t stop me this time.”

  Her face seemed to crack. Plump tears slipped down her cheeks. “I don’t understand why you’re talking this way. What have I ever done but protect you?”

  Guilt swelled my chest, but I forced it down. I would be strong.

  “I can’t stay here. I love you, but I just can’t stay.”

  “Evie, Evie, my baby.” She clasped her hands together, begging.

  I knelt at her feet, taking her hands in mine. I could feel each bone, each tendon beneath the paper-dry skin.

  “Please. Give me your blessing to leave. I’ll come back to visit. Maybe even move back to town after a while. I need to see something of the world first.”

  “How are you going to afford it?”

  I’d been lucky enough to get a job doing touchups for a small photography studio up the road when I was sixteen. I could do the work from home, and the paychecks were deposited directly in our account—well, technically my mother’s account. I wouldn’t take that money even if I could, knowing she didn’t have another source of income.

  I did get a small weekly allowance, though, and had saved up a hundred and sixty dollars. Not enough to get me all the way to New York, not with paying for gas, food and motels along the way.

  “I talked to someone through the college’s job placement system. There’s an opening at a photography studio up in Dallas.”

  I’d work there for a while, saving up money and looking for another stop closer to Niagara Falls. That was the plan anyway.

  She sniffed. “If you leave, you won’t ever come back.”

  It was a pronouncement, bitter and unyielding.

  “I will, I promise—”

  “No.” She hardened, her tears drying as quickly as they’d come. “I mean it, Evie. You wouldn’t be welcome here anymore. You’d be one of them.”

  The paranoia. I knew it was a sickness, but labeling it didn’t help me.

  “I’m your daughter. Always.”

  She shoved back from me. “If that were true, you wouldn’t leave me. If you leave, you wouldn’t be my daughter anymore.”

  Her words sank into my stomach like a lead weight. No shock, only resignation. Maybe I had always known it would come to this.

  “I love you, Mama,” I whispered, and it panged with permanence.

  As if finally realizing I was serious, her eyes widened, filling with rage.

  “You won’t last a second out there. Not one goddamn second, you hear me? You have no idea what kinds of things happen out there—”

  “I do, Mama. Because you’ve told me every day that I can remember. Well, do you think nothing bad ever happens here? That I’m safe just because I’m trapped here? What about Allen?”

  Her head jerked back as if I’d slapped her, and in a way, I had. We never talked about that, not even to the counselor.

  Mama had dated a few men when I was very young, when she still left the house. The last man she dated was Allen. He had been so very understanding of her desire to spend nights at home instead of going out for dates, even if it meant her young daughter was in the way. My mother would take her pills and go to sleep and he would slip into my room.

  One night, she caught him in the act. She’d kicked him out of the house the next day, and that fall, I’d stayed home to be homeschooled instead of going to ninth grade.

  She had stopped dating altogether. She stopped going outside too. The world was too scary. Well, I was a little scared too, but I was even more terrified of rotting here. At least her isolation had led to me getting my driver’s license and the rust bucket I used to get groceries each week. It was a pumpkin turned into a carriage, ready to take me away from here.

  I softened my voice. “I’m not mad at you for what happened. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Her nostrils flared. “You ungrateful bitch. I picked you over him. Is this how you pay me back? By leaving?”

  I steeled myself. “I’m going now. I’ll call in a few days to let you know I’m settled.”

  A plate landed at my feet like a Frisbee, clattering harmlessly to the floor, shatter-resistant. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked to the door. A bowl of oranges spilled around my ankles. A mug thudded against my leg.

  She screamed at me, and I kept walking. I wanted to be smug. I was finally getting what I wanted. I had done it. It was a victory. But I couldn’t shake the feeling I had left something important behind.

  Not all those who wander are lost. I knew that, I believed it, but just now, with my mother sobbing obscenities while I drove away in my ten-year-old Honda, I felt very alone and a little bit lost.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Niagara Falls mark the border of Ontario, Canada and New York, USA.

  By late afternoon, I knew I’d taken a wrong turn. I’d only driven two hundred miles away from home. The three-lane highway had narrowed to one lane on either side, flanked by deep ditches and wide fields.

  I’d only run occasional weekly errands in my car, and now I was driving across Texas—which felt as broad and wide as the world. The signs changed as soon as I left our small city. Different colors, different markings than the maps, and I soon found myself turned around and twisted.

  I considered going back but I’d been driving this way for two hours. By the time I got back to the main freeway, it would be dark. I might miss it again and make everything worse. Besides, I was tired, hungry, and I really had to use the bathroom.

  An exit sign had little pictographs for food, gas, and lodging. I pulled onto a smaller road, also devoid of cars or buildings. The pavement was smooth enough. The little reflective lights in the middle were comforting, like maybe I couldn’t be too far from civilization if they’d bothered with safety features.

  Eventually I saw a complex up ahead, several buildings clumped together with a row of semi-trucks parked by the gas pumps. It looked like an all-in-one business, with hot food specials listed next to the gas prices and a vacancy sign for rooms to let.

  Inside the tiny gas station building, a large balding man sat behind the counter while a tiny fan blew directly at his face. He looked me up and down in a way that made my skin crawl.

  “How much?”

  “I’m sorry?” I stammered.

  Somehow, my mind had made a leap to something inappropriate, as if he were asking how much I would charge to have sex with him.

  Crazy thought.

  “How much gas?” He nodded toward my car at the pump.

  I exhaled, feeling silly. Why had I even thought such a dirty thing? I felt bad for doubting him. That was the anxiety talking, secondhand anxiety leftover from all the lectures my mother had ever given me. Brushing off the embarrassing dust of fear, I paid for my gas and rented a room for the night.

  Forty dollars made a sizable dent in my small pocket of cash, but the musty bed and aging particle board furniture would be more comfortable than the back seat of my car. Even better, the door had a thick, shiny lock that looked like it had been replaced recently, as well as a latch that only opened from the inside. After examining all the entry points, I berated myself for paranoia again.

  My stomach growled. The soda I had bought wouldn’t tide me over all night. Maybe I’d pick up some chips to go with it. My jeans and a T-shirt seemed stale and a little constricting after the long car ride.

  I put on a loose-fitting sundress that fell below my knees. It was white and airy, dar
kening to baby blue at the hem. I had bought it on impulse from the Walmart about a month ago but never worn it before today. My mother would have said it invited men to sin with me. I thought it was pretty and normal, and hopefully it would help me fake my way to confidence. Slipping twenty bucks into my coin purse along with the room key, I set out.

  My car cooled in the night air right outside my door, but there was no point driving such a short distance. The buildings of the gas station, the diner, and the motel rooms were nestled together amid a wide expanse of concrete in an even larger plain of empty farmland. The other motel rooms I passed seemed vacant, their windows dark and parking spaces empty.

  I felt tiny out here. Would it always be this way now that I was free? Our seclusion at home had provided more than security. An inflated sense of pride, diminishing the grand scheme of things to raise our own importance. On this deserted sidewalk in the middle of nowhere, it was clear how very insignificant I was. No one even knew I was here. No one would care.

  When I rounded the corner, I saw that the lights in the gas station were off. Frowning, I tried the door, but it was locked. It seemed surreal for a moment, as if maybe it had never been open at all, as if this were all a dream.

  Unease trickled through me, but then I turned and caught site of the sunset. It glowed in a symphony of colors, the purples and oranges and blues all blending together in a gorgeous tableau. There was no beauty like this in the small but smoggy city where I had come from, the skyline barely visible from the tree in our backyard. This sky didn’t even look real, so vibrant, almost blinding, as if I had lived my whole life in black and white and suddenly found color.