The Breakaway Read online

  “Lush, literary, and multi-layered, The Breakaway is completely compelling. Michelle Davidson Argyle is a talent to watch!”

  ~Zoe Winters, author of Save My Soul

  “With secrets layered upon deception, The Breakaway is a book that kept me up late into the night. It has that amazing quality that left me thinking about the characters long after I was finished reading.”

  ~P. J. Hoover, author of Solstice

  “Michelle Davidson Argyle is not only a writer of great skill, she is a writer with a very sharp and compassionate understanding of the human condition many of us fail to appreciate. I believed every word of The Breakaway. And you will, too.”

  ~Jessica Bell, author of String Bridge

  “The Breakaway is a suspenseful, contemporary novel layered with psychological tension. Argyle gives us a peek at the internal struggles of a kidnap victim and keeps us questioning one thing—is Naomi a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, or is she being smart and waiting for her one and only chance to escape?”

  ~S. R. Johannes, author of Untraceable

  (The Nature of Grace series)

  “The Breakaway is a total mind-bender. This literary roller coaster ride of love, hate, right and wrong will leave readers riveted and breathless.”

  ~Karen Amanda Hooper, author of Tangled Tides

  “An unflinching portrayal of a young woman’s growing attachment to the criminals who kidnapped her, Michelle Davidson Argyle’s The Breakaway will leave your heart broken, but your spirit hopeful. You won’t be able to put it down until you’ve read every last word.”

  ~Jennifer Hillier, author of Creep

  Other works by Michelle Davidson Argyle:

  Monarch

  2011

  The Breakaway

  2012

  Bonded

  2012

  The Breakaway

  Published by Rhemalda Publishing

  P.O. Box 1790

  Moses Lake, WA 98837

  http://www.rhemalda.com

  The Breakaway

  Copyright © 2012 Michelle Davidson Argyle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Diane Dalton

  Cover art by Melissa Williams

  http://mwcoverdesign.blogspot.com/

  ISBN: 978-1-936850-61-7 Paperback

  978-1-936850-62-4 ePUB

  978-1-936850-63-1 ePDF

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012934741

  Visit author Michelle Davidson Argyle at

  http://www.michelledavidsonargyle.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The Breakaway has literally been around for half my life. It was the first novel I ever wrote, and has been through many revisions and edits, not to mention read by countless people throughout the years. This means the book has been influenced by many, and it would be impossible for me to remember and name every person who has made a difference in this novel. There are several people, however, who stand out in my memory for helping to shape Naomi’s story in very significant ways. One of them is a fellow writer, and although she is no longer here with us, her writing has changed my life and was a powerful influence for The Breakaway in its later drafts. Thank you, Kate Chopin, for writing such brave, beautiful fiction.

  Natalie Whipple, you gave me new hope for this story. In a lot of ways, a door opened when you talked to me about how parts of Naomi’s relationships affected you. I can only hope the story will touch those who need it, just as you have said.

  Thank you to Kasie, Candice, Jenn, Ren, and Sara. Without you, Karen’s story would never have worked.

  Thank you to Mandy and Angie. You two stuck with me when this story first took shape. Your enthusiasm was a defining factor in my choice to keep writing.

  Calista, if it weren’t for your encouragement, I would not have blown off the dust and started writing this book again. Or maybe even writing, period. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  Becca, you rock in more ways than anyone will ever know. You are my touchstone for story logic. You make my words shine.

  April, how can I say this? You handed me the missing puzzle pieces I could never find. You understood this story (and me) on levels I never wanted to see before, but now I can embrace them. Happily!

  Mom and Dad, thank you for being dedicated parents. That has been my greatest touchstone for this novel.

  To Mom

  For always being there. Now and forever.

  The Breakaway

  Michelle Davidson Argyle

  Rhemalda Publishing

  CONTENTS

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  I

  February

  THE KIDNAPPER LOOKING DOWN AT NAOMI held a book of poetry to his chest. She didn’t know what he was doing with the poetry, but it was the first thing that fueled her hope of staying alive.

  “I’m Jesse,” he said, and bent down to touch her arm. His hands were small, but she guessed he was stronger than he looked. “How do you feel? Dizzy? Sick?”

  She tensed. Why did he care how she felt?

  “Not dizzy,” she said slowly. Her tongue was dry, and her voice was strange through a faint ringing in her head, like the sound of a muffled bell. “I don’t know. I thought I was home. I thought—”

  A few things came back; screeching tires, darkness, the smell of leather. Now she felt a flattened, unfamiliar pillow beneath her head. It smelled of dirty hair. She hated that smell, and held her breath. Up until this moment, her life had been simple. Or at least she had thought so. Now it all felt upside-down.

  “I won’t hurt you if you do what I say,” Jesse said, pressing her forearm with his thumb. With his other hand he clutched the book closer, if that was possible. Naomi winced at his touch. She wanted his hand off her, but she didn’t dare resist him. The calm side of her brain took over. It told her to stay still, do what she was told, and an opportunity for escape would come later. There was always a chance for things later.

  She clutched the bedspread as she looked around. Sunlight peeked through a thin gap in the curtains across the room. There was a patch of blue sky, parked cars. She was in a motel. Her heart picked up pace and it made the ringing in her head louder. What would they do to her here? She didn’t want to think about that. She couldn’t. She shoved the thought away and focused on the moment.

  Jesse curled two more fingers around her arm. “What did you see in the parking lot last night?”

  “Parking lot?” She looked into his eyes, hoping she would find an answer. All she found was a beautiful green. It was a striking combination with his short, reddish brown hair. That was unexpected, like the poetry. What kind of a kidnapper read poetry? It was the only thing she could
cling to—a delicate flower in the middle of a burned field of weeds.

  “You mean the parking lot outside the window?” she asked. She had no clue what he meant by asking her what she had seen. What day was it? Friday? She had gone to school, done her homework, spent most of the night with her boyfriend, Brad. His sheets had smelled like his cologne, so strong she thought he might have spilled the bottle. When she complained, he kissed her. Then he kissed her some more. One thing led to another. She hadn’t finished her homework, she realized. They had walked to the park at two in the morning, Brad hauling her camera equipment.

  “Think,” Jesse urged. “I need to know what you remember. Try, please.”

  Why didn’t he just leave her alone? She didn’t want to talk or think. She touched the base of her skull. A tender wound. Red flakes on her fingers. Her head must have hit something hard. She blinked and scrambled to sit up, groaning as pain shot through her arms and legs. Aching bruises everywhere. None of them hurt as badly as the one on her face. She knew what had caused that one.

  Jesse backed away when she let out a cry and fell back to the pillows. “What happened to me?” she whimpered. “What did you do to me?” She craned her neck to find the motel door. It was across from the bed, begging her to run.

  “Tell me what you remember.” He was starting to look angry.

  She didn’t remember anything! She should be in a hospital, or at least her own bedroom. She should be in Brad’s arms. His bed was familiar, his embrace comforting and protective, until last night. No, it was earlier. She lifted a hand to her left cheek. She still couldn’t believe he had done it.

  “Start talking,” Jesse ordered. He was obviously losing patience. Naomi looked up, frantically searching her mind for one scrap of memory. Would he hurt her if she didn’t come up with something right this second? She kept her mind focused on the poetry. A strange side. A soft side.

  “The park,” she said, remembering a grove of black eucalyptus trees, misty through a veil of fog. Brad leaning against a tree with his hands pushed into his pockets. “I was taking pictures.”

  She remembered squinting through the lens of her camera, deciding what exposure she should set to capture the fog rolling through the grove. “I wanted to go home, so I cut through the parking lot.”

  “And?”

  Garbage dumpsters loomed through the fog. Out of nowhere, a set of blurry, yellow lights slammed into her.

  “A car.”

  “What kind of car?” His voice was more urgent.

  “I don’t know. I just remember the lights. I–I was hit, wasn’t I?”

  “You’re certain that’s all you saw? No license plate? No make or model of the car? Nothing else?”

  “Nothing.” She glanced at the book. Seamus Heaney, a poet she had studied last month in her advanced English class. That was weird. Nothing about this seemed right. She wanted to curl up and hide, but instead she looked at Jesse’s face. The stubble across his jaw was a deeper red than his hair. He was dirty and messy, not much older than her, maybe in his twenties. Rough. Dangerous. Not like somebody who read poetry.

  “You like to read?” he asked.

  She clamped her lips together, darting her attention to the door. He was distracted. This was her chance.

  Scrambling off the bed, she ignored her pain and ran to the door. Her body was fluid and strong, her mind instantly focused. She reached for the handle, but Jesse was too fast. He knocked her to the floor so hard she yelled out. The scratchy rug reeked of cigarette smoke.

  “Damn it! I said I didn’t want to hurt you!” He gripped her shoulders and pulled her to her feet, his hands surprisingly gentle compared to how rough she expected a kidnapper to be. She focused on the door, feeling her knees give out as she strained to pull away.

  “Let. Me. Go!” Her voice came out louder than she thought. Her throat swelled like it was filled with cotton.

  Wrapping her in an embrace, Jesse kept her upright. His chest smelled of stale cologne and sweat. It was similar to Brad’s smell after he finished working out at the gym, and she almost gagged with the realization that she might never see him again. Or maybe it was something else. That smell could make her do anything she was told.

  “Let you go? No, no, we can’t do that.” He steered her to the bed, but she didn’t fight. She couldn’t. She was limp and heavy like a wet towel that would never dry. “Stay here on the bed.” He helped her lie down on the flower-patterned blanket and picked up his poetry book that he had dropped. “Eric will kill you if you try to run again.”

  Kill her? He hadn’t said it sarcastically, and she believed him. A smudge of dried blood stained the pillow. She held her breath as she rested her cheek on it. Jesse sat on the opposite bed to watch her. She fought the desperate urge to curl into a ball and cry, but it was too late. Tears were already forming. A cold burst of air from across the room made her jump. The door closed. Oh, crap. That was probably Eric.

  “Is she awake?”

  Jesse nodded as a man walked between the beds. His jeans were dirty and wrinkled around the knees.

  “She doesn’t remember anything, Eric. It looks like this was all for nothing.”

  “What?” Eric leaned down to look her in the face. He had dark brown eyes. His mouth was drawn into a taut line. “Sit up.”

  She obeyed and squeezed her knees to her chest. He was older than Jesse. She guessed maybe forty. The oddest thing of all was how nice he looked, almost handsome. He was clean-cut except for the black scruff on his jaw. His thick, carefully shaped sideburns were knifelike.

  “What did you see in the parking lot?” he asked.

  It was hard to make her voice come out. She was sure he wanted a specific answer. He wanted her to say something about the car and the headlights.

  “I don’t remember very much,” she said and looked up just as his fist met her cheek. She hadn’t expected that.

  “You don’t have to hit her!” she heard Jesse yell as her head collided with the headboard. She kept the scream bundled inside her throat. If she let it out he would hit her again, she was sure of it.

  “You said you wouldn’t hurt her.” Jesse glared at Eric.

  “Shut up.”

  Naomi pressed two fingers to her numb cheek. Her face felt broken. She couldn’t tell if she was crying. She had to stay calm and give them what they wanted. That was the only way out of this mess. If there was a way out without getting herself killed.

  “Like hell, you don’t remember.” Eric curled his upper lip into a snarl. “Even if you don’t, it doesn’t matter now. You’ve seen us.” He pulled her off the bed, past Jesse, and into the bathroom.

  “What are you doing?” Jesse asked.

  Eric glanced down at the poetry still gripped in Jesse’s hand. “Ditch the damn book and help me out. Go get the scissors.” He wrapped a cold hand around Naomi’s neck and leaned her over the sink with a fierce shove. Her tears dropped into the porcelain sink. She was crying. Great. So much for staying brave. Of course, she had never thought of herself as particularly brave. This was not a situation in which she would shine.

  Her lip was bleeding, turning her tears pink as they slipped down the drain. She wondered why these men didn’t just kill her. Not that she wanted them to, but keeping her alive meant they were going to do something with her, and that was what she didn’t want to think about in any amount of detail.

  “Here.” Jesse stepped into the bathroom and handed Eric a pair of office scissors, the kind with the bright orange handle. Her dad had a pair of those in his office. She remembered cutting her own hair with them when she was six. Her nanny had spanked her so hard she couldn’t sit down for the rest of the day.

  Eric snatched the scissors from Jesse and pushed her head down farther. He parted her hair in the middle. It was so long it coiled into the basin of the sink like two golden snakes. She stared at it, somewhat relieved. At least he wasn’t planning on stabbing her. She hoped. She repeated the same phrase in her head over and o
ver—stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. Her body relaxed.

  “Don’t,” Eric said when her knees wobbled and her body went limp. He shoved her against the counter before she fell over.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled into the sink. The little resolve she had left was unraveling quickly, and she couldn’t tie it back together fast enough. All she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and cry.

  He finished the first section in four strokes and moved to the other side. He yanked. He tugged. He had obviously never cut hair before. When he gripped her shoulders and forced her to straighten, she stared at herself.

  Her hair was gone. He had cut it a few inches above her shoulders. She gripped the counter so hard she thought her fingers might break. What was this? Why? Why any of this?

  “Take off your sweater.”

  After wiping the last of the blood from her lips, she pulled off her hoodie. It was the one Brad had bought her at the mall a year ago. She handed it over, hoping he wouldn’t ask her to take off anything else. She would freak out if he did. If Brad ever met this man, he would break his neck.

  “Take your earrings out.”

  She lifted a hand to her ear. “Why?”

  “Because I said so, that’s why.” He leaned forward as he spit the words at her.

  The earrings were a Christmas gift from her parents. Or what they wanted to call a gift, taking her to the jewelry store two days before the holiday to pick them out. Two diamond studs, a full carat each. Had she been kidnapped for ransom? Her parents had a lot of money, but that didn’t seem to be what these men wanted.

  Eric slipped the earrings into his pocket. “It would be a hell of a lot easier to kill you, but I don’t want to do that if I don’t have to.” He shrugged. “It’s your choice. If you try to escape, I’ll kill you. If you want to live, stay with us and do exactly what we say.”

  She took a step back.

  “You’re not a fighter,” he said, rubbing the knuckles of the hand he had hit her with. “That’s good.”