"I just need to sit for a minute," I say.
He nods slowly. Doesn't move. "You being followed?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"Someone chasing you? You keep looking at the door."
I hadn't realized I was doing that. But he's right. Some part of me is waiting for Derek to burst through the entrance, furious and apologetic in equal measure, ready to drag me back to the wedding and the life I just burned to the ground.
"No," I say. Then, more honestly, "I don't think so."
"But maybe."
"Maybe."
He seems to consider this. Then he moves, not toward me but to the side, positioning himself so he's between me and the main entrance. It's a subtle shift, but I notice it.
"You can sit as long as you need," he says. "Nobody's gonna bother you."
I don't know this man. I don't know anything about him except that he's a biker in a casino on a Friday night. But he's the first person in two hours who's looked at me and seen something other than a Vegas bride on a fun adventure.
He's looking at me like he recognizes something. Like he knows what running looks like.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He nods once. "You need water? Food? First aid kit for those feet?"
I should say no. I should keep my distance from strange men, especially ones who look like they've been in more than a few fights. The scars across his knuckles are obvious even from here.
But Derek had soft hands and a nice smile, and he still made me afraid to fall asleep in my own bed.
"Water would be good," I hear myself say.
"Stay here," he says. "I'll be right back."
I watch him go and try to figure out what the fuck I'm doing. Sitting in a strange casino. Talking to a strange man. Wearing a wedding dress I was supposed to wear down an aisle toward a man who would have eventually killed me.
My phone buzzes again.
I turn it off completely and shove it back in my purse. The man returns less than three minutes later with a bottle of water and a first aid kit. He hands me the water and sets the kit on the table beside me.
"You know how to patch yourself up, or do you need help?"
I look down at my feet. They're a mess. Bloody, bruised, probably full of whatever debris was on the Vegas sidewalks. I should be able to handle this myself. I've handled worse.
But I'm so tired.
"Help," I admit. "Please."
Chapter 2 - Knuckles
I know a runner when I see one.
It's in the eyes first: that wild, hunted look that comes from crossing a line you can't uncross. The way she keeps glancing at the entrance like she's waiting for the devil himself to walk through it. The white-knuckle grip on that little beaded purse like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.
But more than that, it's the way she's holding herself. Like she's bracing for impact. Like she's learned the hard way that sitting still doesn't mean you're safe.
I invented that posture. Wore it for two years on the streets before Pope found me and gave me a reason to stop running.
