After a while, Augustine got up, stiff and muttering, and rummaged through the kitchen until he found a bottle with an inch of whiskey left. He also came back with a half-smashed pack of Camels. He flopped next to me on the floor, handing over the cigarette and waiting while I tried and failed to flick the damn lighter. He watched me for a second, then took the lighter and thumbed it for me, the flame popping up like magic. I tried to play it cool, but the gesture—so small, so easy—made me want to start crying again. Instead, I sucked down smoke, let it torch my lungs, and passed it back.
We took turns on the whiskey and the cigarette, sharing the only things worth sharing, and didn’t talk for a longtime. There was a peace in it, the kind you get after a tornado tears up your trailer and leaves nothing but foundation and sky. No secrets left, no illusions about what was coming for us.
It was Augustine who broke the silence. “You wanna tell me what happens when the Leatherbacks catch up?” he asked, voice raspy. “Or you wanna keep pretending this is just a road trip gone bad?”
I took another pull on the bottle, let the burn settle in my stomach, and exhaled slow. “They’re not getting me. That’s the one thing I know for sure.”
He looked at me over the rim of the bottle. “That a threat or a suicide note?”
I stared at the ceiling, watching smoke curl up and blend with the cobwebs. “Maybe both.”
Augustine let that sit. His hand found my shoulder and started tracing circles, the skin there still buzzing from the last round. He didn’t push, didn’t ask again. I think he knew I needed to say it out loud, if only to make it real.
“My dad’s not gonna stop,” I said. “Doesn’t matter how many times I run, doesn’t matter how many people get killed along the way. I’m not even sure if it’s about me anymore. I’m just… leverage. I always was.”
Augustine’s hand stilled, but he didn’t say anything.
“You wanna know why I can’t go back?” I asked, louder now, like I needed to convince the walls. “Because he’ll just trade me again. For a deal, or a patch, or some sick power move over Saint Etienne or the Blackjacks. I’m not even his kid half the time, just a fucking bargaining chip.”
He finally spoke, soft but certain. “He ever hurt you?”
I shook my head. “Not with fists, but with everything else, yeah. You don’t need bruises to know you’re property.” Augustine made a low, animal noise, but I held up my hand. “Don’t. Don’t turn this into some noble rescue. I fucked up, and I’m paying for it. That’s the deal.”
He snorted, passing me the cigarette again. “Nobody’s that good at fucking up. Not even you.”
I laughed, a little. “You don’t know me.”
“I’m learning,” he said, and his hand started moving again, slow and soothing, like he was tracing a map of someone else’s life on my skin.
We passed the bottle back and forth until it was dry. My tongue got thick, my lips numb. I felt like I was floating half an inch off the rug, lighter than I’d been in years. The words came easier, so I let them tumble out.
“I watched my mom die,” I said. “Not all the way, but enough to know what happened. She was running, just like me. And he—Cutler—he let her go, because he needed me more. Because I was useful. He only started chasingafter she was gone, and then it was like I was the only thing keeping him king of the dipshits.”
Augustine squeezed my shoulder, not saying anything. It was weirdly better than any words.
“I keep thinking if I run far enough, or fight back hard enough, he’ll just stop trying. Or that Saint will finally put a bullet in his head, and I’ll be free.” I coughed, bitter. “But that’s not how it works, is it? You never really get out.”
He leaned in and rested his chin on the top of my head. “You get out, or you die trying. That’s all there is.”
We sat like that, nothing left but empty bottles and the taste of old ash, for what felt like hours. Augustine’s body was a furnace, all muscle and heat and restless energy, but his hand stayed gentle, never pushing for more. It was the first time I’d ever felt safe with someone who could so easily kill me.
“I’m not going back,” I said again, this time a whisper, a vow.
He nodded, his chin rough against my scalp. “You won’t have to.”
I believed him, or wanted to. It was enough for now.
Outside, the sun was bright enough to turn the glass in the broken window into a sliver of fire. Inside, I let my past burn down to the foundations. I would build somethingout of this ruin, even if it was just a different version of myself.
The next time someone came for me, I wouldn’t run.
I’d be ready to fight.
***
The sun was full up by the time the bottle ran dry. The fire had turned to embers, and the only warmth left was what Augustine and I could steal from each other. I sat cross-legged on the rug, blanket around my shoulders, and watched him patch his side with a half-assed mix of duct tape and gauze he’d found in the bathroom. There was blood on his hands, dried in the lines of his palms. It made him look older, almost ancient, like a statue left out in the rain.
He caught me watching and shook his head, then tossed the whiskey bottle into the corner. “Guess we’re out of ways to ignore the shitstorm,” he said.
