I glance down at the fuel gauge on the teardrop tank. The needle is hovering dangerously close to the red line. We are running on fumes, and the engine is starting to run hot.
We have to stop. We have to risk it.
I spot the flickering neon glow of a solitary, run-down gas station, a beacon in the encroaching dark.
I pull the clutch in, easing off the throttle, and the roar of the Harley finally begins to dial down to a heavy, rhythmic chug. I reach my right hand down, pulling it off the handlebars for just a second to rest it over Rue’s freezing, numb fingers linked across my stomach.
“Hold on, Little Rabbit,” I mutter into the wind, an unsettling feeling washing over me as I pull in. “We’re gonna stop now.”
And I hope like hell she can hold it together.
46
RUE
The abrupt absenceof the wind is what finally pulls me out of my trance. I haven’t let my mind move. Or my body, for that matter.
The bone-rattling vibration of the Harley slows to a heavy rumble, and my ears immediately start ringing in the sudden quiet. I blink, my eyes stinging and dry even with the helmet, as Noah steers us beneath the flickering fluorescent canopy of an isolated, run-down gas station.
My mind fills with the image of what happened the last time we tried to get gas, freezing me right on the spot.
“You can let go, Rue,” Noah’s rough voice barely pierces through the ringing in my ears. “We’re gonna be fine here. I’m not gonna take off my helmet. We’re just going to get gas and get right back on the road.”
Even with the prompt, it takes my brain a full ten seconds to send the signal to my arms. My muscles are completely locked. When I finally unlace my numb fingers from his stomach, my arms drop to my sides like dead weight.
I swing my leg over the seat, but the second my sneakers hit the oil-stained concrete, my knees completely buckle.
Noah’s good arm shoots out, catching me by the waist before I hit the ground. He holds me flush against his side, his body radiating a furnace of heat against my freezing, trembling frame.
“Easy, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his chest heaving as he helps me take off the helmet. “Just breathe and shake them out for a minute.”
I nod, swallowing the sandpaper dryness in my throat. I step back, forcing my jelly-like legs to support my own weight. “How long did we go for?”
“I don’t know,” Noah answers, his voice flat. “We don’t have a way to tell that anymore.”
I nod, my brain functioning on a bizarre, detached autopilot.We need gas. That means I need to pay for gas.
I stumble toward the old pump, reaching into the pocket of my backpack. My fingers brush against the familiar, worn leather of my wallet. I pull it out, sliding my credit card from the slot. I step up to the payment screen, my numb fingers moving to push the plastic into the reader.
A large, strong hand clamps down hard over my wrist.
I flinch, a sudden gasp ripping from my throat as I look up. Noah is staring down at me, his pale blue eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and sheer panic.
“What are you doing?” he hisses, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly sharp whisper.
“I’m... I’m paying for the gas,” I stutter, looking down at the card in my hand like it’s an alien object.
“Rue,” Noah says, his grip tightening just enough to ground me. “We don’t know what happens if you swipe that card. For all we know, every marshal within a five-hundred-mile radius will know exactly where we are in sixty seconds. You can’t use your name. You can’t use your money. We can’t exist anymore. Do you understand me?”
The fog in my brain suddenly lifts, replaced by a sharp, sickening wave of reality.
Oh my god.I just shot a man. I killed a man in cold blood and left his body bleeding on a hardwood floor, and I was about to casually buy twenty dollars’ worth of premium gas with my Visa.
Get it together, Rue.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my hand trembling to the point I drop the credit card onto the concrete. I scramble to pick it up, shoving it back into my wallet. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
Noah’s expression softens instantly. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled wad of Bill’s cash. He presses a fifty-dollar bill into my trembling palm, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “Go inside. Pay the cashier. Get yourself something to drink, and ask for the bathroom key if you need to go.”
