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“Fucking go, bro,” Wilder roared, and I realized I’d been sitting there while they’d been in the van.
I fucked up. We should have been gone by now.
I cranked the car, put it into drive, and peeled out of there, the sound of the tires squealing on the pavement too loud, too noticeable. I looked out the driver side window and into the laundromat, looking at her again, watching as she lifted her head and stared at the van.
I wasn’t going to let this go. I couldn’t, not if that was Nadja.
12
Nadja
I’d been at this ratty apartment for the last week, living off the processed food and bottled water I’d been able to snag at the corner store, but I had no more clean clothes, and I had to make a trip to the laundromat right next to the apartment building.
I had to venture out.
My anxiety was high, having to leave the shelter of these four nasty, water-stained walls. But I couldn’t be trapped in this place any longer. I couldn’t let fear override me. Being smart, that’s what I had to focus on. Being careful, making sure I didn’t mess up and leave any information that could lead back to me was what I had to grasp, get control of. It helped me move forward. Fear had me making mistakes.
So I grabbed all my dirty clothes, shoved them in my bag, and waited until it was late—really damn late—before heading toward the laundromat.
The scents of the stale city life filled my nose. Car exhaust, cigarette smoke, booze, and the tangy scent of indiscretion surrounded me.
I quickly made my way to the laundromat, keeping my head down, yet I was still very aware of my surroundings. Once inside, I noticed how many people were in here. Just one. A woman who didn’t seem like she was quite in touch with reality at the moment. She kept mumbling incoherent things, pacing back and forth, and swinging her arms as if pushing invisible things away.
I started focusing on the clothes, taking them out of the bag and separating them. That kept me a little calmer.
I’d only been here for about five minutes when the sound of tires squealing on pavement right outside the laundromat had me snapping my head up, panic taking hold. My heart instantly started racing, my nerves moving sky-high. I had a tight grip on a shirt, pulling at the cotton like it was a lifeline, something to keep me stable.
I looked out the front window, the glare on the glass from the light above making it almost impossible to really see anything. But I did notice a dark van speeding away, swore I could feel the driver’s gaze trained right on me. Panic swelled inside me. Was it Maximillian? Was it someone he hired to try to find me?
Common sense told me it wouldn’t actually be him, because he’d never do something as lowly as dirty work, or so I’d heard him call it. He was “too good” for that, too “high in rank” for the grunt work.
More rationalization told me I’d been very careful, so careful about leaving a carbon footprint. There’s literally no paper trail of Nadja Romanoff. She didn’t exist anymore. I was now Rachel Clayton. A name that sounded common enough. A girl who had no face, no identity, no background.
Maybe it would’ve been smart for me to leave, just wear these dirty clothes for the next couple days until I was sure things were okay. But I forced myself to stay there, to wash and dry them. And after a couple hours, I was shoving the clean clothes back in my bag and walking out the laundromat and to my shitty but semi-safe room.
I kept my head low, the brim of my hat pulled down. I passed by men who would’ve seemed frightening to other people, drug dealers, criminals, men who did deplorable things to stay alive. But I lived my own nightmare, had been around demons and devils my whole life.
These men who catcalled me, whispered, propositioned lewd things were nothing. They were no one.
They weren’t the danger. They may’ve thought they were, but they’d never stared into the eyes of pure evil like I had.
Once I was inside the building, I ran up the stairs, out of breath and sweating by the time I reached my floor. I unlocked the door and walked inside, slamming it shut behind me and leaning against it. I stood there for a moment, my hands behind me, my palms flat on the scarred, worn wood of the door, catching my breath, telling myself everything was fine.
It was. It had to be.
But in the back of my mind, there was a constant war waging.
Should I leave, continue to run?
Or should I find Frankie? Should I go to him, see if he was even still in town, if he could help me?
