Reva parks near the stairwell. Gets out with her backpack slung over one shoulder. She doesn’t carry a suitcase. Doesn’t look like she’s staying long.
Or like she has much.
She walks up the stairs with a tired kind of determination—eyes down, hair falling forward, one hand gripping the strap of her bag like it’s an anchor.
Shiloh’s voice drops. “You still think she can handle herself?”
I don’t answer. I point, instead, and open the door. Two men step out of the shadow near the vending machine.
They don’t strike me as staff or guests. Not anyone here to sleep. And I don’t like the way they’re watching Reva—purposefully.
Reva reaches her door and starts fumbling with the keycard. Even from here, I can tell it isn’t working properly. She scans, works the doorknob, pushes into the door with her shoulder, and cusses. Her shoulders lift and fall in a sigh and she repeats the sequence.
She glances over her shoulder and sees the men. One of them says something, too far away for me to make out.
Her breath catches—I can see it from here, the slight hitch, the stall. She turns back to the door and her hand shakes.
The keycard slips and falls to the concrete floor.
One of the men laughs—I can hear that. They start up the stairs.
Shiloh is out of the truck before I finish inhaling. I move, too. We take the stairs hard and fast, boots pounding, the sound of it swallowing everything else.
Reva bends to grab the keycard. One of the men reaches for her shoulder. She flinches instinctively and shoves backward, swinging her backpack like a shield. It barely does anything.
Shiloh hits the first guy from the side with his shoulder, slamming him into the railing. The man grunts, stumbles, tries to swing.
Shiloh’s fist lands. Once. Twice.
The second man turns toward me, smiling now, like this is fun. I grab him by the collar and drive him into the wall. Hard. He spits something filthy.
I hit him. Not to kill, although for the first time in a while, I actually want to kill. My nerves are singing with a kind of twisted fury, and I have to restrain myself, temper my justice. To simply end it, instead of ending him.
He folds.
Shiloh is already on the first guy, putting him down with efficient violence that doesn’t look like rage. It looks like the habit we’ve honed together for years.
Reva stands frozen by her door, backpack clutched to her chest, eyes wide and shining. Her mouth is open but no sound comes out.
She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t call for help. She just…stares. She looks young in that moment. Not childish. Just unprotected. Like the world is too close.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Shiloh asks the guy under his fist.
The man laughs through blood. “Same thing you are.”
Shiloh’s smile goes sharp. “Wrong.”
He hits him again, then lets him drop like dead weight.
I keep my grip on the second guy long enough to make sure he’s done fighting, then shove him down the stairs. He tumbles and lands hard at the bottom, groaning.
The lot goes quiet around the noise. Somebody’s curtain twitches. A TV blares faintly through thin walls. Nobody comes out. Nobody intervenes.
That’s what places like this teach you: mind your business and you’ll be okay.
Reva finally finds her voice. “Why…what are you doing here?”
Shiloh wipes blood off his knuckles on his jeans like it’s nothing. “You’re welcome.”
