Wind ripped past me as I flew down the dark highway, my eyes glued straight ahead. My motorcycle purred beneath me, the roar of its engine lost to the white noise of rushing air. I was barely listening to “Slaughterfest” by Claim Your Dead playing through the speaker in my helmet, too distracted by my wild thoughts to pay attention.
I was going back, the way I’d gone back every time I considered leaving over the last ten years.
Back to the circus.
It was all I’d known since I ran away at fourteen, but it wasn’t home. I was just passing through—though a decade in the arena was starting to feel permanent—waiting for something else.
For what? I didn’t know.
Something to disrupt the monotonous cycle of setting up equipment, performing, and breaking it all down just to travel to the next city and do it again. Something that gave me purpose and made me feel like I belonged because even in a troupe full of freaks, creeps, and outcasts, I still didn’t fit in.
I knew logically it wouldn't be difficult to leave. I could hit the road with a full tank of gas and drive until I didn't recognize the scenery. And I had more than enough savings to put down a deposit on an apartment.
But I couldn't do it.
Every time I considered disappearing, like tonight, I would drive an hour or so away from the caravan, letting my mind wander with the possibilities of what I’d do when I finally left the circus.
And then… I would go back.
Zero was probably already waiting for me, ready to ask if I was done feeling flighty. Waiting to say, “I told you so.” He never believed that I would actually leave, but one of these days I’d prove him wrong.
Not tonight though.
Thankfully, it had stopped raining half an hour ago, but it was still a bitch to drive at night when the asphalt was wet. Lights glared off the road, and shadows leaped out from the trees lining the highway. Once or twice, I even thought I saw a deer readying to race across the four-lane road, but it turned out to be a trick of the light.
The third time a shadow emerged from the trees, I tracked the figure in the dark. Expecting it to dissolve when I got close, I was surprised when it only became clearer.
It was a person. Short, thin, and wearing a hoodie. Female if I had to guess, with a backpack slung over her shoulder.
As I passed, she poked her hand out, thumb pointed at the sky.
My insides twisted.
Is she really hitchhiking?
I could have kept driving—in fact, I should have. It was a shame that she was out here alone, trying to bum a ride in the middle of the night, but was that my problem?
Nope. No, the fuck it was not.
But what if she’s in danger?
“Fuck.” I groaned and hit the brakes, pulling onto the shoulder.
My instincts had always been extra sensitive to displaced people, ever since I presented as an alpha. I remembered what it was like to be lost and alone at fourteen, sleeping on park benches, and sticking to the shadows to avoid unwanted attention. Females weren’t the only ones snatched off the streets and fed into trafficking rings. I’d had to watch my back at every turn.
Being alone in the world for the first time with no resources and no decent head on my shoulders was a rude awakening. Scary. Uncertain.
What if the girl I passed was also running away? Trying to escape a life of neglect and abuse like I did?
There weren't many drivers on the road at this time of night.
What if I’m her only shot at getting a ride?
I could at least see if she needed help. Maybe I could call the cops, and they could handle it.
I can’t just leave her on the side of the highway.
Killing the engine, I hopped off the bike, the soles of my black boots crunching on the gravel-littered ground. I adjusted my leather jacket, the one I always wore when I rode, and glanced back at the figure in the dark. She was hurrying toward me, head lowered, her hands stuffed in the front pocket of her hoodie.
