AllFreeNovel
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The gas station buzzes with the faint hum of electricity, the occasional rumble of thunder drowning it out. A lone street lamp flickers a few times on the other side of the parking lot before it goes out.
My stomach churns with fear as the realization dawns on me—I have no idea where I am. How long were we driving? How far had he taken me from home?
My mind races, but I push those anxious questions aside and focus on what little information I do have.
There are three cars parked in the lot, including one at the pump.
I crouch down a little, letting myself catch my breath and figure out my next move. The likelihood of finding someone willing to help me is relatively high. But considering I just ran at least a mile through what I’m pretty sure is an alfalfa field, this might not be a well-traveled area. And I’ll be damned if I go through all of this only to end up with some other psychopath. I’m not sure how many chances I have left before my luck runs out completely.
My eyes scan the store until they land on her—a petite woman with a red braid peeking out from under her hood. She pays for her items and makes her way toward the exterior bathroom on the side of the building.
Another glance reveals an older man with a long, gray beard working behind the counter . . . and that’s it. I don’t see the driver of the third vehicle. Maybe they’re in the bathroom or somewhere deeper in the gas station. Though the front exterior is almost entirely windows, I can’t really see that far into the building.
I sink my teeth into the corner of my bottom lip, worrying the tender flesh as I decide what to do. Thunder rumbles above me, the rain a steady drizzle. Rocking forward onto the balls of my feet, I make the decision to ask her instead of the employee. Women are more inclined to help other women, right? Isn't that the saying?
I blow out a breath, and as quickly and smoothly as possible, I beeline for the bathroom. I keep my face angled away from the gas station doors and cross my fingers that the woman will help me.
I push open the metal bathroom door, flakes of gray paint sticking to my fingertips. Musty air greets me like a long-lost lover, smothering me with its acrid scent. Pausing in the threshold, the metal door rests against the side of my sneaker, propping it open. Two stalls—one open and one closed, a rusty sink, and a cloudy mirror. It’s not the cleanest restroom I’ve ever been to, but it’s not the worst either.
I take a step forward, letting the door close behind me with a muted clink. "Hello?"
Only the sound of rain answers.
I swipe my hand across my face and exhale. "Look, I-I need help. There was this guy and?—"
Something sharp pricks against my neck in a flash of movement, stealing the rest of my words.
"Who sent you?" a feminine voice growls low from behind me.
I feel it then, her presence behind me. Menace and fury roll off her in waves, spilling into every corner of this room. It pulsates with each breath she takes, like a living, breathing entity.
It takes me too long to catch up. I'd convinced myself that she would be my ticket out of here, my way to get back home. I wasn't prepared to be thrust back into the thick of chaos.
My hesitation doesn't go unnoticed. A moment later, she adds pressure to the sharp point against my neck. "Who sent you, bitch?"
My hands fly up into that universal "I'm not going to hurt you" pose, palms facing outward. My shoulders rise with my hands, nearly to my ears as I brace for the pain. I crashed my way out of the frying pan only to unknowingly walk into the fire.
"I said?—"
"No one," I answer quickly, letting all my frustration and desperation bleed into my tone.
"Cut the shit. Just tell me who sent you, and maybe I won't leave you bleeding out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere America."
"No one sent me, I swear. I don't know who you are or where we are." I swipe my tongue along my bottom lip, and the taste of summer rain summons nostalgia so thick and potent, I do something reckless. I open my mouth and words tumble out, one after another, before I even give them permission to leave my lips.
"I just strangled a fucking psychopath with what could very well be my actual stolen panties. The cheeky, high-cut kind in the color sugar pink. I don’t know why the style or color are important, only that it feels like an important detail, ya know? That alone would’ve been a feat itself, but he was driving at the time. So he crashed into a ditch, and somehow, I miraculously walked away. Which I’m pretty sure is thanks to my grandma. She passed away last year, but she’s been, like, appearing to me lately. Like I half-thought I was losing my mind when I could hear her voice inside my head as clearly as I can feel your metal biting into my skin. And I’m a little worried about opening another cut when I’m covered in mud from running through the crop field—after I crawled out of a wrecked car. And this asshole who took me from my-my boyfriends’ house during this shootout with a bunch of other psychopaths on motorcycles and?—"
“Jesus, fuck, stop talking.” The words are spat out through gritted teeth, her voice low and sharp.
I roll my lips together tightly, my shoulders flying toward my ears once more.
“Tell me about the guys on motorcycles.” Her command is harsh, amping up the rising tension in this tiny restroom.
I nod a couple times, keeping my movements shallow. "Sure, sure, can you, uh, move the knife though? It's kind of hard to think with it against my neck like that."
“Bullshit,” she grunts, angling the blade up until a quick, sharp pain lances through me. “You just told me your life story without blinking. Start talking.”
I swallow, my Adam’s apple pushing against the sharp blade. “Right, okay. Well, I’m not exactly sure who they are. Just that they came to send a message to my men.”
