Don't Say It:Ronacks Motorcycle Club(5)By: Debra Kayn
The phone stopped ringing. "Hm?"
"Please, please, wake up. It's Gia," said Gia on a whispered hiss of urgency.
"I'm here. I'm awake," said Bianca, the female crisis worker who helped Gia escape Seattle and found her the duplex in Montana to stay in.
"I arrived late this evening and met the man next door a few minutes ago. He said his name was Swiss, not Greg Jones." Gia let her chin fall to her chest. "I came all the way to a different state and the shelter sent me to the wrong place."
"Swiss? Like the cheese?"
"That's what he said his name was when I finally caught him outside the duplex in the middle of the night." Gia pulled up her legs and leaned her elbows on her knees. "What am I supposed to do now?"
Bianca had gone over every detail with her on how to cover her tracks. Gia made sure she gave no verbal clues to her location.
"Don't panic, yet. Let me think."
Gia raised her head to the empty room. "Think fast. I'm freaking out and feel like screaming or crying, maybe both."
"Okay, listen to me. The rent is paid for six months." A heavy sigh came over the phone. "It'd take me awhile to get the money together for you to go anywhere else. I'd have to go in front of the board again because we normally don't send women out of the state. Our budget is low. There are women who get turned down when all they need is a hotel room for a few days until a family member can help them find somewhere safe to stay."
"I know, but you have no idea how scary it is here. The duplex is a dump. I'm not just slumming. It's a health hazard living in this place," whispered Gia. "And, Swiss is big. I'm not talking fat. He's huge. He wasn't even scared when I pointed the gun at him. If he's the wrong guy, I'm in more trouble staying here."
"You showed him the pistol?" Bianca groaned. "Gia, I gave you the weapon off the record and went against the rules of the shelter. You're only supposed to take it out of your bag if you feel your life is in danger."
"It could've been. I don't know the man or what he'd do to me." Gia pushed to her feet and paced the bare room. "I thought for sure when I arrived, the man you sent me to was here. There was a motorcycle parked out front and everything."
"Wait. Why didn't you say he had a motorcycle?" Bianca scoffed. "Did you find out if this guy named Swiss is part of a motorcycle club?"
"Yes, I asked him. He said Rowacts or Ronacks. I'm not sure what the guy said because I was shaking so bad I couldn't even hear, and it was dark out so I couldn't read the patches on his vest." Gia peeked out of the bedroom into the living room and lowered her voice. "You don't get it. This place is nothing like back home, and the men do not wear suits or look like yuppies."
"What's he look like?"
"I told you, big and scary. Rough and physical. He's got tattoos, and he probably beats people up in his spare time." She walked back into the room. "I don't know anything else about him. It was dark, and I could barely see."
Even the lack of light couldn't hide what she had seen.
Swiss had arms on him bigger than her thigh—that was saying a lot. Her legs weren't skinny. He'd shown no fear at having a gun pointed at him, and that bravery in the face of danger frightened her more than being alone with him. Who knew what he was capable of doing.
She'd barely got a good look at him before he turned on the light and she had to look away from his face. All she knew was he had short hair, almost a military cut, and a dark goatee. He had black tattoos over both shoulders and at first glance, she thought he wore a black T-shirt, but when she looked longer, she made out a flannel shirt with the arms cut out under his vest.
"Did he have a scar on his face? On his cheekbone?" asked Bianca.
Gia pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose and tried to picture the man's face. He had a wide forehead, broad nose, and he squinted. She dropped her hand, excitement filling her.
"Yes," she said, echoing in the empty room. "I think so. I can't be positive, but he squinted, even when he wasn't talking or looking at me."
"It's him. It's Greg Jones."
"You're sure?" she said, stepping away from the dirty, curtain-less window. "This isn't something to guess about. I'm living in a disgusting room and worried about not having a current tetanus shot. You need to be positive."