“You have a good afternoon now.”
I waste $12 on the cigarettes to get out of the awkward situation without rousing suspicions. Since it’s the only thing I bought in a panic instead of buying food like a normal person, I smoke a single cigarette behind the truck.
Not food, but it gives me time to think about that boy inside. Could the Hollingsworth family be connected to the Rebel Barbarians? Somebody cleaned up the scene here, and I can’t tell if the people who did it are friends or foes. I finish the cigarette and keep driving West in the general direction of Zebulon’s place.
I regret being on my phone so much that I’m out of practice identifying my location using landmarks and traditional human tracking systems. I’m so reliant that I have to stop and charge my phone at another McDonald’s. I can afford a little more food, but this will have to be my last meal just in case I need more gas.
I hope I find Zeb soon.Once my phone gets some juice, I send a message to Zebulon. It’s pitch black outside, and I have no idea where the hell I’m going to sleep since my ride is a stolen motorcycle. I suppose I could hide out outside one of the rest stops, but there could be state troopers there and that seems too risky. I need to find somewhere else.
The message goes out to Zeb, and I walk outside McDonald’s to give finding a place to sleep one last shot. I’ll drive for forty more minutes west and if I don’t see anything I recognize by then, I’ll need another way out of this situation. Zeb doesn’t reply instantly, and as I ride for the first ten minutes, I don’t feel the phone vibrate. I pull over on the shoulder when the highway clears out – it’s pretty dead out here regardless in the spooky way – and see that he really hasn’t texted me.
I’d better keep driving. Sticking my phone back in my pocket, I keep driving, praying that I don’t run into any state troopers,other bikers, or anyone else who could make trouble for me on the highway. There’s nobody for a full half an hour, but I don’t recognize anything either. The “low fuel” light comes on the bike, and I honestly wish I had a way to ditch the whole thing altogether.
Instead, I have to stop for gas at the next spot. When I get there, I only spot one motorcycle parked out front and it’snice.I’m covered in sweat, smell like shit, and technically, Ihatemotorcycles, but my body is strangely drawn to the gorgeous black chrome beastie parked outside… wherever this is. Eventually, I find the bike logo and look it up on my phone because the bike is too nice not to stand out.
Ducati.Woah. Okay. Whoever has this bike parked has big bucks. I pace back towards my bike, questioning the wisdom of having someone else witness me here. Impulses push me to enter the gas station and once I enter, I know I’ve made a huge mistake. The man standing inside might be about the same height as Zebulon. He’s red-haired, freckled and has a mean look on his face. There’s also something strange about the way he looks at me.
He doesn’t look like a biker, but I might be wrong. He’s covered in tattoos, but his white t-shirt is crispy clean rather than covered in engine oil or grease like I would expect. Also, do bikers in gangs really drive Ducatis? He might be an actor or something. I feel paranoid about this man’s presence for some reason. I just need to buy my gas and get the hell out of here. Fast.
Act cool, Janelle. But get out quick.I pretend like I’m not watching his every move in my peripheral vision as my heart rate quickens.The tall man disappears behind one of the aisles and I purposefully walk up to the counter, where a black-haired boy of around nineteen with a gold hoop stuck in his lip and eyeliner stares at me bored.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” ‘
I always have a gun if shit gets out of control with Mr. White T-Shirt.
“$15 on pump 5,” I mutter.
“Sure thing.”
I shove fifteen dollars across the counter and hurry out of the gas station without looking for the guy in the aisles. That might have been a mistake. His Ducati is still there.Fuck.I look over my shoulder back inside the gas station and I don’t see him.
My hand white-knuckles the pump as I spill droplets of gas in a spray pattern around the bike unintentionally trying to fit the nozzle into the hole. My free hand rustles around my hoodie pocket for one of my bullets and the gun I pulled off the guys who took Rana.
He could be one of them.
I hate that I can’t see him anywhere, even if the gas station interior is clearly illuminated, even more so because it’s dark out. It doesn’t take long to get $15 worth of gas in my tank. That amount of money doesn’t take you far anymore. When I reinsert the nozzle in its pump slot, a booming Texan accent nearly makes me jump out of my skin.
“Is your name Janelle Norris by any chance?”
I pull the gun out of my hoodie and whip around, pointing it at the tall red-haired man who could overpower me and kill me if I give him the chance. I didn’t have enough time to put a bullet in, so I’m pretty sure I’m fucked.
Chapter Thirty
Deacon
Ican’t be certain that it’s her, except that the Blackwood men mostly have a type. They like a certain type of woman who approaches the world with her claws out. Women like this one, who responds so viscerally to the name Janelle, that even if she were to deny her identity, I wouldn’t believe her.
But if this is Janelle… What the hell did Zeb and the others ride into?
“Put that gun down, ma’am,” I tell her calmly. “And make things easy for us both by confirming who you are.”
I hope she doesn’t shoot. Then again, if she’s spent time with Zeb Blackwood, chances are he rubbed off on her and that might have inadvertently influenced the state of things.
“Who are you?” she says to me, keeping the gun pointed at me. She must be the one Zeb’s looking for. She reminds me of Keyshawn with her burnt sienna skin tone. I have to calm her down before she puts a bullet in me. I’m sick of getting shot at.
Keyshawn thinks I’m the one looking for trouble and the more I get in, the less she trusts me to leave the house on my own. I need to get out of this in one piece, especially considering the plans I have for my wife and our new playroom toys tonight.
“My name is Deacon Hollingsworth. I’m here on behalf of Zebulon Blackwood.”
