Page 8 of Bullet

“Stormy, we need to talk to you.” Travis stepped out from the group.

I ignored him, spun away from all of them, and ran into the main room of the club.

“Why is she running?” Travis asked.

“Stormy, wait.”

The music of the club became a roar in my head, drowning out the sound of Bristol’s plea. She’d been a good friend to me, but I wasn’t safe here anymore.

I rushed out the doors and into the afternoon sun. Inside the windowless club, the lighting was always the same. Dark, seductive, and it was as if time stood still. It could be one in the afternoon or one in the morning, and the ambiance never changed.

Squinting against the harsh brightness, I shrugged into my backpack and ran down the road. Over the last three months, if I ran, I could cover the two miles to the motel in about fifteen minutes. Today, adrenaline would have me setting a record pace.

My feet pounded against the asphalt. Sweat trickled along my spine, but energy surged through me. I ran as if a killer was after me because he could be. Would Mars come after me?

If I’d only been able to stay calm, maybe I could’ve played it off. But I’d failed to hide my reactions to Mars. If anything, I’d created more curiosity.

Because I needed to see what was coming at me, I ran against traffic. Heavy breaths wracked my body, but I pushed past the burn.

I didn’t have enough money to leave, and I couldn’t stay. I approached The Foxglove, the motel I called home. An appropriate name since foxglove was poisonous, just like the place was poison to my mental stability. Slowing my steps, I made my way to door twelve.

Not again. The guy two doors down from me loitered in front of his room. I was pretty sure he was dealing, but he wasn’t the only one.

“Hi, Pretty Penny.”

I ignored Billy and his stupid name for me. He’d called me Pretty Penny after he’d caught me reaching under the vending machines for dropped change. Fuck him. Every penny counted.

“Want to get high with me?” He sat on the steps and picked at his skin.

I pulled a small folding knife from the side pocket of my backpack. I’d never had to use it. But I lived with the forgotten, the addicted, and the unwanted. After the first day, I learned to avoid the tweakers. Politeness was mistaken for interest.

“I’ll get you high if you let me touch you.” He stood and blocked my path.

“Fuck off,” I said. Aggression worked some of the time. I waited for him to move, the knife clutched in my hand. I’d just run two miles, and now, tension burned through my muscles. I hated this. I hated what my life had become.

“I’ll make you feel good.”

I blinked to keep tears from filling my eyes. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t let fear or insecurity have power over me. Never again. I cocked my head to the side and met crazy with crazy. “Not now. Get out of my way before I stab you with my knife.” I sighed when he didn’t move. “Maybe later. Save some for me.”

“When you’re ready, come over.” His face twitched, and he stepped out of my way.

That was never going to happen. I banked my relief and scurried past him.

“You got any money?”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Would I live here if I had any money?”

I slipped the key into my door and hurried inside my room. I twisted the lock on the handle and engaged the chain, not that it would stop anyone. I dropped my backpack to the floor.

My mind splintered into a thousand directions. First, I needed a fast shower to wash the heavy makeup from my face and the stench of the club from my body. After making sure that not even a crack of light slipped through the curtains, I stripped and headed into the bathroom. Standing beneath the trickle of water, I let the tears fall.

I had to face the daunting task of starting over again. At least this time I had some money. I could go south. Maybe Florida. I had to get away from Emerson’s reach.

I could head west, somewhere like Las Vegas, where I could get lost in the crowd. I’d rather fly, but without identification, I wouldn’t get past TSA. I doubtI could get a ticket for the bus. The idea of hitchhiking terrified me, but nothing was scarier than facing Emerson.

Someone pounded on the door. I snapped off the water and listened. The handle jiggled. Shit. I’d left the knife on the bed. I wrapped a thin, stained towel around my body.

“Stormy, are you in there?”