Saved by the Devil (Devils Arms Book 3)

from Johnny. She was mere days away from freedom. If she could manage not to piss him off enough for him to try and kill her then she’d be free. On the run—sure, but free. Phoebe knew that he’d try to find her because he’d already threatened to kill her if she tried to leave him. The thought sent fear spiking through her and she had to shove it down and remind herself that freedom was worth the risk.
She peeked down the hall and watched Johnny move around in the bedroom. He was throwing stuff from the closet, most likely looking for drugs or money he had stashed there. Even with him currently distracted she didn’t dare try to get up or move. He typically left her alone if she didn’t try to get up after he’d beat her; not always but more often than not.
Johnny finally found what he’d been looking for and stormed from the bedroom. His strong jaw line and tanned skin looked red and blotchy from his high. His hair was wild from where he’d run his hands through it, making it stick up in uneven spikes of ice blonde with dark roots. He was such a handsome man to be so evil. Phoebe remembered when the sight of him had sent butterflies of excitement stirring inside her. Now the only thing that he stirred in her was fear and hatred.
“Won’t be home tonight, whore. Going to be out all fucking night so don’t expect me back till tomorrow. You better not be shaking your ass at another man while I’m gone,” Johnny snapped, shoving her leg with his foot before he slammed out of the apartment, leaving her in a huddle on the floor.
Phoebe waited about ten minutes to be sure he wasn’t coming back before she stumbled to her feet and limped to the bathroom, locking herself inside. She stared at her tear streaked face. Her left eye was swollen with a small cut just above it. She titled her head, noting that she had bruises along her jaw from where he’d grabbed her face. Her neck was the worst. Where he’d choked her there were dark finger prints that throbbed when she touched them.
Most of the bruises weren’t too bad, but they’d be hard to hide with concealer because they were pretty dark already. Having experience with bruises she knew the ones that started off deep were the hardest to cover. When they hit that awkward yellow-green stage they were always impossible to conceal, and she would know because she’d had to do it more than once. Phoebe evaluated the rest of her body and noted that the worst of the bruises were on her arms and her legs where he’d kicked her.
Brushing her dirty blonde hair from her face, she inspected the deep handprints on her jawline before closing her eyes and trying to imagine her life if she’d never met Johnny. Would she be finishing up the degree he’d convinced her not to get? Or would she have changed majors to art because she loved to draw and paint. Maybe she would have found something she loved to do and started doing it. Would she have been there when her mother died? Or for her friends’ weddings or their first babies? She didn’t know but it had to be better than this life she was currently living.
When she’d first met Johnny, he’d been so sweet and attentive. His jealousy and possessiveness had seemed romantic. For the first three years she’d been happy but around the beginning of year four things had begun to change. Johnny stayed out late after work and his behavior had seemed erratic. His jealousy had become rages and then violence. By that time, she’d been completely dependent on him. She didn’t have any money of her own and all her friends had gotten fed up with his constant jealousy.  She’d felt trapped, like she couldn’t leave. At first, he’d been apologetic when he’d hit her, treating her like spun glass for days before flying off the handle in another fit. Afterwards he’d been tender and gentle. It was a cycle—a pattern. One that had become familiar over the past months.
He hit her, then he said he was sorry. Phoebe had known he didn’t mean it after the second time so she’d fought with him, trying to get away as he hit her. That was how she’d ended up in the hospital a few months ago. It had been a particularly rough night and he’d been especially violent. That night had changed her life because the ER nurse had recognized the signs of abuse. She’d talked to Phoebe about leaving and the tools she had to offer. That was the first time she’d realized there a way to escape this tragic relationship. It had taken about four seconds for her to decide that she was ready to take that step.
Maryann—the nurse—had gotten her in touch with a shelter that helped battered women and children in the area create new lives. They’d helped her create a plan, one that would work for her. She’d told them no when they offered her a room at the shelter. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Denver when she finally settled. She was headed towards Iowa or maybe Minnesota, she didn’t really know where but she was damned sure it was going to be hundreds of miles away from here because she wasn’t planning on starring in her own true crime story. Her husband wouldn’t be murdering her and hiding the body.
They’d found her a part time job at the shelter that paid her enough to stash away about six thousand dollars over the last three months. Not having any bills of her own made it easy to save. Phoebe knew she’d have to be careful to make sure she didn’t leave a paper trail. One of the women at the shelter