He’s had a setback from this.
He grabs his duffel bag, pulls out some granola bars, and then heads for the sissy bar.
My breath catches in my throat. I watch his large, calloused hands yank the straps tight, completely unaware of what’s sitting at the very bottom of that bag.
The Colt .45.Before we fled the farmhouse, while he was frantically checking the perimeter and kicking the motorcycle’s engine over, I had wiped the cylinder clean on my jeans and reloaded it. I wrapped the heavy steel in one of his spare T-shirts and buried it deep beneath our clothes.
I don’t know why I kept it. I don’t know why I didn’t tell him either.
Just panic, probably.I don’t know.
But as I watch him secure the bag, a cold, creeping instinct settles into my bones. He promised he would figure everything out when we reached Maricopa. He promised me andus.
But I killed a man yesterday. I crossed another line I can never uncross, and I’m not sure that we won’t have to cross it again. And while I can’t be sure about him, I know I’ll do anything to protectus.
“Ready?” Noah asks, his jaw tight as he hands me my helmet.
“Yeah.”
Getting the bike out of the boxcar is a nightmare. Noah has to ease it down the slight drop, the heavy front tire hitting the frosted dirt with a thud. He curses, his hand flying to his wounded shoulder, but he refuses to let me help.
By the time we hit the two-lane highway, the sun is fully over the horizon, casting long, sharp shadows across the flat, dead scrubland.
The ride is once again grueling. There is no romance in it today—if there ever was. My arms ache from holding onto him, and the wind is a relentless, howling force that batters my helmet and seeps through the zipper of my jacket. I press my face against his back, not for comfort, but purely for survival against the cold.
Hours bleed into one another. The landscape shifts from flat plains to rugged, jagged mesas in the distance. The fuel gauge on the teardrop tank slowly dips toward the red line.
How long until we can stop again?
Eventually, civilization begins to dot the desolate highway. Billboards for cheap motels and hot springs. A rusted water tower in the distance.
And then we pass a faded green highway sign.
Truth or Consequences - 2 Miles.
Noah signals, pulling the sputtering Harley off the highway and coasting into a dilapidated, sun-bleached gas station on the edge of town. It looks very similar to the other—the same one we defiled the bathroom at.
He kills the engine and kicks the stand down, staying seated on the bike. He pulls a crumpled wad of cash from his pocket and hands it back to me over his shoulder. He keeps his head ducked, the brim of his helmet obscuring his face from the store’s windows.
“Go inside,” he orders, his voice clipped and all business. “Pay for the gas. Buy as much high-calorie food and water as you can carry. Other than that, same drill as before.”
“Got it.” I take the cash, my frozen fingers brushing against his warm ones.
I slide off the bike, my legs feeling like lead as my Converse hit the cracked concrete. I pull my hood up over my messy hair, shove the cash into my pocket, and turn toward the glass doors of the convenience store, completely unaware that the world I left behind is waiting for me on the other side of the glass.
The fluorescent lights inside the convenience store are blinding.
I keep my head down, as if I’m searching the shelves for something. The store smells like stale coffee, burnt taquitos, and wretched cleaner. My hands are shaking so badly that I nearly drop the three bottles of water and the packages of beef jerky I’m clutching against my chest.
Noah is outside, huddled near the gas pumps, waiting on me.
“The rest can be put on pump two.” I step up to the counter, pulling the crumpled bills from my pocket. The cashier, a bored-looking teenager chewing gum, doesn’t even look up at me as he rings up the items.
And that’s when I pick it up.
“...authorities are still asking for the public’s help in locating a vehicle of interest…”The voice comes from a small, boxy TV mounted in the upper corner of the store.
I freeze. The bill slips from my trembling fingers onto the counter.
