I bulldoze my way through the throng of people, hyper focused on that door, on my escape from the bouncing bodies and the blaring bass and the nachos swaying heavy in my stomach.
The second the cool night air hits my face, I suck a big gulp into my lungs. My nausea recedes, and as I lean against the brick wall and take in another big breath, relief washes over me.
The alleyway next to the bar is narrow and dimly lit by a string of lights hung above small wooden tables topped with ashtrays. The back of the area is lined with wooden fencing, the front with a small wooden gate spanning the space between the bar and the building beside it. Out here, a few small groups of people mill around, laughing, drinking, smoking. A mix of weed and tobacco hits my nose, and my stomach lurches again.
I need to lie down.
With a deep breath, I look out at the street, searching for that unfriendly face. The Raiders’ enforcer hasn’t let up on his attempts to track me down. Anticipation and unease are my constant companions. Day after day, I wait to find myself falling into his grasp, but he’s been cautious, keeping his distance, taunting me from afar. That’s what this man does. Tortures and torments, has you running scared. Then, when you least expect it, he pounces. He’s a tall, dark figure standing in the shadows. A menacing smile in a crowd. Watching. Waiting. And then hestrikes. Like this morning, when he sent a very graphic text detailing exactly where he wanted to shove his knife.
I shudder. What I actually need is a distraction.
Me:
Find your keys?
Decker has been suspiciously silent since our altercation in that field. But after that kiss, it’s taken effort for me to do the same. He said my pretty ass would be his. What the hell does that even mean?
Decker:
Not a lot of reasons to be messaging a man at 1 a.m., Grace. You might have me thinking you want something from me.
Me:
Maybe I do.
Three dots jump at the bottom of the screen and then disappear. Then, for a long minute, nothing. As if he’s thinking on what to say. Then they’re back. Those three dots. Six, actually, with the double vision. Fuck tequila.
Decker:
And what would that be?
Me:
You. Half naked in a field.
Decker:
Not falling for that again.
Me:
That’s wise. Also. You still have something of mine. I’d like that back soon.
Decker:
No.
Are you drunk?
Me:
Why would you assume that?
Decker:
Because I need a fucking cipher to figure out your texts.
With a thumb on the screen, I scroll up and scan through our chat. Sure enough, most of the messages I’ve sent are… well, they’re messy. Messy like how I’m feeling right now. I respond with a single word.
