“It’s not fine,” the biker said.
“Phoenix…”
“No, this is the daughter of Lucius. If she’s here, that’s a problem for us. It means that he’s going to come here looking for her.”
I still felt a sickening fear in my chest. The words about what the Reapers would do to me if they caught me had never left my mind, and Cole’s actions had only demonstrated to this point that there were exceptions, not a general truth I had yet to uncover.
“You realize why I was out there last night, right? Did you forget last night?”
Just because I was fearful didn’t mean I wasn’t willing to fight back.
“Did you forget that I was trying to run away? Do you really think I’d want to help my father? This is the first margarita of my life. Can you just let me drink in peace?”
This Phoenix guy—I assumed it was not his real name—bit his lip. He tried to maintain his steely gaze on me as if that would allow him to save face for mocking a woman who had never before had a margarita. He eventually turned back to the bartender without a word, not even so much as an apologetic nod.
It was fine for me. Less was more.
I retreated to a corner booth, sipping on my drink, fighting to get it down my stomach. Here I was, in my mid-twenties, drinking a margarita for the first time ever. What other “mini-bucket list” items did I have that I had not tried before?
Let’s see. Fly on an airplane alone. Go to the beach for a day alone. Try marijuana—although the smell of it was something I knew better than the smell of a rose. Go on a date.
Have sex.
The list was endless, but a lot of it could just fall into two categories—personal freedom, and freedom of choice with a man. I could not concern myself with the latter right now, but the former?
First item. Figure out a place to fly. Figure out where I could go that would allow—
My phone buzzed in my pocket.Looks like I can get calls after all.I pulled it out.
It was my father.
I didn’t ignore the call, because that would have told my father I noticed him calling me. I preferred to just let it ring out to voicemail.
In the interim, I took stock of how much money I had now. Considering my bagel purchase this morning—and the money I owed for this margarita, which would probably be about five or six dollars, I hoped—I had a little over a hundred and eighty-five dollars to my name. If I got to LAX…
Well, first, I didn’t even know if LAX took cash. Probably not. So much for that.
But what about a train? How far could a train go? I looked up one-way tickets out of Los Angeles for a buck fifty, figuring I’d need the remaining thirty-five or so for food or transportation to get there. I could get as far as…
Albuquerque, from the looks of it. And that would only be a little over eighty if I took coach.
It was nowhere near New York City. It wasn’t even on the East Coast. It certainly wasn’t going to help my theatrical dreams.But it’s freedom. It’s a chance to explore, a chance to be free. A chance…
A chance to live my life.
But just as I considered finding a way to the Amtrak station in downtown Los Angeles, my phone notified me I had a voicemail from my father. I could already predict how this would go. He’d start out perhaps nice, maybe even with some kind, flattering words, but then he’d gradually get angrier and angrier as the voicemail went on. By the end of it, I would feel completely justified in choosing not to answer his call.
But I couldn’t just ignore it. As much as I sometimes hated my father... it wasn’t as black and white as I hated him and he loved me.
I listened.
“Hey, Lilly,” he said before... sobbing?
Crying?
“It’s your father. I know... I know I can be mean to you and harsh, and I’m so sorry.”
My hand felt weak. My father never showed emotion. He was too tough a man to show emotion. Now he was crying into a voicemail?
