She covered her mouth and shook her head, but the tears came anyway, hot and angry. She pounded the wall with her fist and let out a sound so raw it startled me. For a long minute, she just sobbed, shoulders heaving, hair hiding her face. I wanted to say something, anything, but every word I could think of sounded like a lie.
She straightened, wiped her nose, and stared at me like she was looking for a fight. “Why’d you bring this to me? Why not just go to the cops?”
I laughed, a mean bark. “Cops are in his pocket. Maybe the Feds, but even then, it’s a coin toss. If I went public, we’d both be dead before sunrise.”
She turned away, clutching her arms like she could hold herself together. “So what do we do?”
“First, we get you safe. Then we blow his whole operation sky-high.”
She spun, eyes blazing. “I’m not running. Not from him. Not from anybody.”
God, she was reckless. And beautiful in a way that made it hard to think. The river wind kicked up, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the glass in the windows. I moved closer, hands out, not sure if I was going to comfort her or hold her back from self-destruction. She made the decision for me, surging forward and kissing me with a desperation I’d never tasted before.
We crashed to the workbench, knocking over a can of rusty nails that scattered like dice across the concrete. Her lips found my neck, biting, angry. I gripped her hips, feeling her heart beating wild under my fingers. She tore open the snaps on my vest, her breath hot in my ear. “Prove I’m real,” she gasped. “Prove I’m not him.”
I picked her up and slammed her back against the wall, hard enough to make the studs groan. She wrapped her legs around my waist, grinding against me, her dress bunched up and panties already soaked through. I yanked them down, felt the heat of her, the pure fucking need. She unzipped me with shaking hands, then grabbed my cock, guiding it into her in one smooth, furious motion.
She bit my shoulder to keep from screaming, nails digging bloody crescents into my back. I fucked her hard, fast, like we were racing death itself. The whole building felt like it might collapse, every thrust echoing in the rafters, dust falling from the ceiling. The world shrank down to her breath, her body, her pain, and mine tangled together. She dug her fingers into my hair, pulling me into a kiss that tasted of salt and defiance.
We finished together, muscles locked, eyes shut tight. I held her there, bodies shaking, until the adrenaline faded and only the cold and shame were left.
She slid down to her feet, breath ragged. “Sorry,” she whispered, voice hoarse.
“Don’t be.” I zipped up and leaned against the bench, heart still jackhammering. “Sometimes you gotta remind yourself you’re alive.”
She laughed, bitter. “You sound like my dad.”
The shame hit deeper than any punch. I looked away, staring at the battered walls. “You want to get out of here? I can stash you with friends—clubhouse, maybe out of state. Safe until this is over.”
She shook her head. “If I run, he’ll just find me. He always does.”
I reached into my boot and pulled out the switchblade I’d taken from Shivs. “Take this, at least.”
She tucked it into her bra, eyes hard. “You really think I’ll need it?”
“I think your father’s already got people looking. You can’t trust anyone. Not even the old ladies at church.”
She nodded, then looked up, fear and rage wrestling for control. “What about us?”
I thought about lying. About saying we’d ride into the sunset, fuck this town, start over in Mexico or some shit. But that wasn’t our story. I took her face in my hands, kissed her slow this time. “We survive. That’s all I know.”
A sudden flare of headlights slashed through the cracked window, hitting us both dead-on. I killed the flashlight, shoved the phone and papers into my jacket, and pulled her down behind the bench. A heavy engine idled outside, then the sound of boots on the porch.
Darla squeezed my hand, knuckles white. I mouthed, “Stay.”
I crept to the door, peeking through the gap. Bart. Alone, maybe—but that didn’t mean shit. He scanned the room, gun out and ready, then moved along the wall toward the river.
I turned back to Darla, whispered, “Run. Now. Meet me at the old gas station off 24. Don’t look back.”
She nodded once, then slipped through the side window, silent as a ghost.
I waited for Bart to get closer, then chucked a rock at the back wall. He spun, fired a round into the dark. I bolted, leading him down the dock, heart hammering, every footstep on the wood sounding like a starter pistol.
Bart was fast, but he was predictable. He took the straight line; I went for cover, ducking under the collapsed deck, mud and river water soaking my jeans. I circled behind him, popped up, and got a look at his face—stone calm, no fear, just the cold focus of a man doing a job.
He shouted, “Martin! Come out, and I’ll make it quick!”
I laughed, spitting river water. “You’re gonna have to do better than that, Hammer.”
