I pulled it out with shaking hands, my fingers fumbling with the zipper. The screen’s glow illuminated my face in the growing darkness.
Crystal:Where’d you go? Cade’s looking for you.
Ice flooded my veins. Cold and sharp, and terrifying. The kind of cold that started in my gut and spread outward until my whole body felt numb.
Another text.
Crystal:Girl, he’s PISSED! What did you do?
My stomach twisted into knots. I could picture Crystal’s face, confused and concerned, probably standing in the break room or hovering near Cade’s office, watching the drama unfold.
She had no idea what I’d done. No one did.
Crystal:Alex, seriously, where are you? He’s freaking out.
Crystal:He’s calling people, IDK who, but this is bad.
The messages kept coming, each one more urgent than the last, each one sending another spike of adrenaline through my system. My hands were slick with sweat, making the phone hard to hold.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. What would I even say? Instead, I turned the phone off, held down the power button until the screen went black, then pulled the battery out with trembling fingers that barely cooperated. I threw both pieces into mypurse, burying them under receipts and lip gloss and all the other detritus of my former life.
They could track phones. I had seen enough crime shows to know that. Seen enough episodes ofForensic Filesduring countless sleepless nights to know exactly how people got caught. It was always something stupid, something small, that they overlooked.
I wasn’t going to get caught.
Not yet. Not ever.
I started my bike, hands still shaking as I pulled out of the parking lot too fast, tires squealing on the asphalt. The sound echoed off the nearby buildings, drawing attention I couldn’t afford. A man loading groceries into his trunk looked up, watching me speed away.
I didn’t care as I revved the engine.
I didn’t know where I was going.
I just knew I couldn’t stop. Not at a red light longer than necessary, not at a gas station, not anywhere that would give me time to reconsider.
If I stopped, I would think.
If I thought, I would panic. If I panicked, I would do something stupid, like turn around, drive back to the club, fall at his feet and beg for forgiveness. I would confess everything, return the money, and pray he wouldn’t press charges, or worse, kill me.
No, I couldn’t let that happen.
Behind me, the Prancing Pussycat’s neon sign flickered in my rearview—a pink silhouette of a woman on all fours, tail curved suggestively, the words “GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS” flashing underneath in electric blue.
I hated that sign from the first day I saw it, three years ago when I rode into town with nothing but a tank of gas and fifty dollars to my name. Hated what it represented, what it reducedme to. Hated the way men would point at it and laugh, the way it made me feel like I was an animal in a zoo.
Now I watched it shrink in the distance, getting smaller and smaller in my rearview, and I felt something crack open in my chest.
Not relief. Not yet.
But maybe the beginning of it.
Maybe the first breath after drowning.
I drove through Rapid City’s empty streets, past closed shops and dark houses, and the gas station where I bought cigarettes yesterday. Was it yesterday? It felt like years ago. The streets were nearly empty except for the occasional truck or cop car, and every time I saw headlights I had to fight the urge to floor it and run. I was heading east on I-90 without really deciding to, just following some instinct that said, “Run. Get away. Don’t look back.”
I didn’t know who he worked for. Didn’t have the faintest clue. Didn’t know what kind of organization had seventy-five million dollars sitting in a strip club’s accounts, hidden behind layers of corporate shell games and offshore transfers. The kind of money that didn’t show up on any legitimate balance sheet. The kind of money that bought silence, loyalty, and when necessary, violence.
But I knew enough to understand that people like that didn’t forgive debts. Didn’t accept excuses or sob stories, or promises to pay it back with interest. Didn’t care if I was beaten or broken or begging on my knees with tears streaming down my face. They had heard it all before. They had seen every desperate play, every pathetic attempt to buy more time.
