There’s a boy behind the counter, maybe nineteen, slouched in his chair with his feet up, scrolling through his phone. He glances up when I walk in, eyebrows lifting.
“Hey,” I say, forcing some kind of normalcy into my voice. “Is there a clothing store around here?”
His brow wrinkles as his eyes sweep over my stained, wet clothes, probably wondering why I look like I just crawled out of a dumpster. “Uh . . .” He scratches his head. “There’s a thrift shop a few blocks down. They have some clothes. Are you okay, Miss?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I answer, forcing a tight smile. “Can you point me in the right direction?” I ask, backing away.
His index finger juts to the left.
Stepping back out into the sun again feels like stepping into an oven, and I tug at my hem, trying to keep it from riding up over my ass as I walk. Each step I take in these shoes makes me cringe, though the pain is a welcome distraction from thinking about Damian. One step at a time. Between each curse and wince, I try to formulate a plan. I need clothes, ouch, food, ouch, and ugh, these heels are fucking torture devices, a plan.
The walk takes forever, even though it’s really only a handful of blocks. The sun is relentless, baking the ground beneath my feet, but at least my dress is drying out. The motel is far enough behind me that I can almost pretend I’m just a normal person on a normal day. Yeah, sure—walking in a bloodied prom dress, with a bruise the shape of a handprint across my throat.
Finally, I spot the thrift store, wedged between a pawn shop and a bar that’s playing loud country music. I push the door open, and a bell chimes overhead. The place is empty, not another soul shopping, just the scent of old fabric and that weird, musty smell thrift stores always have. A teenage girl behind the counter nearly jumps out of her skin when I walk in. She’s leaning against the register, her hands still wrapped around some boy’s shirt collar. He’s got his hands on her waist, both of them red-faced and guilty. They scramble apart, muttering apologies like I give a damn.
I swallow down the urge to warn her about men. About how they’ll smile and kiss you like you’re something special, then leave you alone and hunted. But I bite my tongue. Not my business.
I move past them, heading to the racks of clothes. There’s not much: rows of mismatched items sorted mostly by color, not size. I sift through the shirts, my hands moving automatically.
I pull out a faded t-shirt with a retro print that saysBlockbuster Video: Be Kind, Rewind.It’s soft and worn, probably from the early 2000s. I keep digging until I find a pair of patched-up jeans that look like they might fit. They’re frayed at the ankles and ripped at one knee, but I can’t be picky. I just need something clean. I find a pair of old skippy sneakers that are one size too big and a pair of thick fluffy socks.
I grab the clothes and walk back to the counter. The girl is smoothing down her shirt, trying to look professional while the boy has already vanished into a back room.
She gives me a shaky smile. “Did you find everything okay?”
I nod and pull out one of the bills from the nightstand cash stack I have stuck down the front of the dress. A crisp hundred. I hand it over.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh, uh . . . I don’t have change for this.”
My jaw clenches. “Bet you do. Bet if I rip that cash register off the counter and smash it against the wall, a lot of change will fly out.”
Her mouth falls open, and I immediately regret saying it. I sigh, trying to reel in my temper. “Just keep the change,” I mutter.
She gasps, “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Seriously.” I grab a plastic bag from the end of the counter and stuff my new, old clothes inside. I’m not about to change here, not with her looking at me like I’m some kind of psycho. I stalk out of the store, the bell chiming behind me, and hit the sidewalk again.
I feel raw and worn out, like the world’s been grinding me down to nothing. I can still see Damian’s face over me last night, that little flicker of something almost soft. Forget about him, Lo.
I don’t know where I’m going. My feet just keep moving. I can’t seem to stop. I’m too angry and hurt to figure out what to do next.
Before I know it, I’m back at the strip mall where the vet’s office is. The building looks even shabbier in the daylight, the paint on the sign faded and chipped, but it’s the only place that feels remotely safe right now.
A middle-aged woman sits in the waiting room, clutching a small terrier. The little thing lunges at me, yapping and growling. The woman shushes it, casting me a suspicious glare.
Behind the front desk, Arden looks up from a clipboard. He jerks his head back, and his whole expression changes from relaxed to tense in a split second. He drops the clipboard onto the counter and stalks toward me, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Come on,” he mutters, grabbing my arm, not hard but firm enough to make it clear I shouldn’t argue. He pulls me into one of the patient rooms and shuts the door behind us. Hecrosses his arms and leans back against the door, brows pulling together. “What the hell are you doing back here?”
“I—I don’t know. I was just walking.” I sit down on the edge of a chair, trying to keep my breathing steady. I suddenly don’t know why I thought coming in here would be safe.
“Seriously. What are you doing back here, Lo?” he asks, his tone sharper than before.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I thought maybe?—”
He cuts me off with a dry laugh. “You guys have a hit out on you. You know that, right? Joel’s got people crawling all over looking for you.”
The room spins for a second, and I grip the chair. “A hit? Are you serious?”
Arden’s eyes narrow. “You think I’m making this up? You walked into a war zone, sweetheart. I don’t know what you did, but Joel’s not fucking around. You’re all targets now.”
