Disregarding his question and focusing on the fact that I needed to play a part to keep my identity hidden, I shook my head.
In the background, we heard yelling and glass smashing from the bar. It startled me, and I whipped my head in that direction to make sure no one new was coming to harass me. He didn’t flinch or shift his attention from my battered face—a clear sign he was used to chaotic scenes.
I nearly jumped to my feet to take off running before he shushed me.
He stood, reaching a hand out for me to grab and lift myself up as well.
“I’m leaving tonight. You can come with me until you get somewhere safe, but I have no idea where I’m going. If there’s somewhere you’d rather be, you need to decide now.”
There was the lopsided smile I had predicted—a subtle smirk slipping into a serious moment, as if he needed to lighten the mood.
I hesitated before I brushed away his hand and brought myself to my feet on my own.
“Who are you?” I finally asked, my voice breaking through the quiet night between us.
“Erich,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets once I proved I wouldn’t collapse backward into the brick wall.
I couldn’t make eye contact when I lied. If Erich noticed, he chose not to push.
“Jack,” I mumbled, picking the first boy’s name that came to mind.
Erich turned his back to me and started walking slowly, giving me time to realize we were leaving.
“Alright, Jack. Let’s see what we can do about your face before we get out of here.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You look like shit.”
Chapter 4 – Camille
Erich wasn’t the extrovert I had pegged him to be. As we walked, I found he had no desire to tell me about himself, and he couldn't care less if I said more about myself. There wasn’t much else to talk about, and the silence was deafening.
His attitude and character didn’t change, but I kept questioning whether I had made the right decision. Unable to hold a conversation with my unlikely savior, I was left alone with the scenarios running through my head. He could easily throw me over his shoulder and kidnap me. Even in a physically healthy state, I wouldn’t put up much of a fight against someone at least a head taller than me. There would be no reason for him to stay polite once he had me following him to another part of the street. Every late-night crime show told me never to go to a second location, yet there I was.
Erich and I made our way to his car, parked only a street over from where he had approached me moments before. Hedrove a black 1977 Chevrolet Nova—the name and model only familiar to me because a boy in my class drove one. If Reed were here, he would scoff and call it junk. The car itself, though, was well kept, with no rust despite its age.
The silence was eating me alive. As we stopped in front of the car, a chilling breeze forced a shiver up my spine. Agonizing. I gave in to the unspoken rule of no small talk and tried to involve myself more with my new companion, hungry for clues to better understand him.
“Why did you stop to help me?” I asked. “What’s your motive? What do you plan on getting out of this?”
I had no control over the nerves in my fingers. I tapped the passenger-side door, feeling the smooth paint beneath my fingertips before tensing and cringing at the nail-on-chalkboard sound as I scratched against it.
I couldn’t see the glance Erich shot me over the hood of the car because I was avoiding eye contact, trying instead to peer through the window to check for anything suspicious—like a trash bag or a handsaw. When he answered, I imagined the look he gave me didn’t match his tone.
“Unless you know how to buff that scratch off my door, no motive.”
I pulled my fingers away as if I had touched a hot stove, staring down at my nails and the tiny black paint chips clinging to them.
Even though it wasn’t entirely my fault his car was old enough for the paint to peel at the slightest touch, I chose to offer an olive branch instead of defending myself.
“Thank you for stopping for me.”
“Sure.”
Erich opened the driver’s side door and climbed in, reaching across to rummage through the glove compartment until he pulled out what appeared to be a first-aid kit—a smallred box, stained with oil, probably from doing his own repair work.
The heat of my embarrassment faded, replaced by the cold. The night air cut through the stolen jacket like an icy blade. I crossed my arms, trying to steady my shivering, cursing my rushed choice of clothing.
The driver’s side door shut, and with it went any warmth I had managed to gather. Erich reappeared moments later, setting the first-aid kit on the hood and opening it, digging through for antiseptics.
“Where are the cuts?” he asked, turning to face me. His voice lacked the smooth southern drawl I was used to. I was beginning to suspect his accent came from somewhere I couldn’t place.
