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Lie, steal, run. Survive. Survival didn’t care about morals.
I lined up my shot, the pool cue perched against my finger. Someone pressed up against my ass, their hot breath on the back of my neck. A rough hand slid down my arm to rest thick, dirty fingers against my wrist.
“Third game in a row, girl,” he said. It was the guy I’d been playing against for the last hour, Will. Big guy, farmworker, bald head and a trimmed beard. “You know I don’t take kindly to giving my money over to a cheater.”
I tried to straighten up; his body bent over mine didn’t allow it. I sighed heavily, and said, “I’m not a cheater, Will. You’re just a sore loser.”
He yanked me up, gripping my denim jacket tight as he forced me to face him and pressed me back against the table. His friends chuckled, and as my eyes scanned the bar, I saw people looking, but not a single person getting up.
Figured. I’d find no help here.
“Don’t you try reaching for that gun, bitch,” he said, his breath reeking of liquor and chewing tobacco as he noticed my hand edging for the pistol. “This can go down nice and easy, understand? You can keep all that money, but you’re gonna earn it. Hell, my friends and I would love to have youearna little from all of us.” Still gripping my jacket, he pressed his fingers against my lips, hard, forcing them into my mouth.
Dumbass. Did he actually think I wouldn’t bite?
He jerked his hand back with a yelp, and I spat his blood on the floorboards as I grinned at him. But the hand I’d bit came back with a vengeance, his bare knuckles striking hard against my cheekbone and sending me crumpling to the floor.
Perfect.
“Fucking bitch!” he huffed, wiping his bloody fingers on his jacket. “I’ll teach you to fucking bite me —”
I pulled out the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
The back of his head burst open like a watermelon, and chaos erupted around us.
His friends came for me, people ran for the door, and the drunk-as-hell band kept playing as if someone hadn’t just been murdered in front of them. But Will was only the first to go down. A pool cue swung at my head, and I fired again, hitting my mark in the shoulder before my second shot hit between the eyes. I dodged a punch from another, kneed him in the balls, and as he doubled over in front of me, my bullet found its home in the back of his skull.
It didn’t matter who died. It didn’t matter how much blood was spilled. There was only ever one thing on my mind: survive, in whatever fucked up ways I needed to.
One bar fight had a way of inspiring others. I was surrounded by mayhem, broken bottles, gunshots, screaming, and cursing. The perfect opportunity to make a quick escape. I rummaged through the pockets of the men I’d shot down, found another hundred-dollar bill and a twenty, and stuffed them in my pockets before I hugged the wall to make my way toward the door.
I’d nearly reached the exit when I was shoved hard from behind — hard enough to knock the wind out of my lungs and send me to the floor. I tried to crawl away, but a hand grasped my ankle and dragged me back.
“You think you’re going to get out of this so easily, you fucking —”
The voice choked off into frantic screams, and the hand that had been gripping my ankle suddenly released — only to drop down beside my head, severed, leaking blood across the stained floorboards.
What...what the fuck?
I turned. The man who’d grabbed me was gripping his arm, screaming at the stump that remained where his hand had been, but his screams cut off with a gurgle. His throat was slit, leaking blood down onto his white shirt. I stared, wide-eyed, as he dropped to the floor, and the man responsible gave him a little nudge with his foot.
“Well, that’s a bit of a mess,” he said. He was tall, broad-shouldered, the front of his jacket stained deep red and his hood pulled up. Honey-brown eyes, strangely bright, peered at me from beneath his hood. There were snakebites in his lower lip, the silver rings shining in the light, and a barbell through his eyebrow. His throat, and I assumed the rest of him, was tattooed. He absent-mindedly scratched his bloody fingers on his cheek, before he extended them to help me up. “You good?”
Those eyes were familiar. It tugged at some old memory in me, something hazy and nearly forgotten. Had I met him before?
It didn’t matter. I leaped up, ignoring his hand, and sprinted out the door. I didn’t have time to exchange words with a hot-as-hell murderer. No, sir. It was time to fuckinggo.
The air outside was hazy with dust, as bar patrons took off from the dirt parking lot at high speed, their trucks tearing down the long, dark road. I ran for my Jeep, yanked open the door and cranked the engine, pumping the gas to get her going. I set my pistol on the seat, and as I threw the Jeep into reverse, I glanced back at the door…and saw the bar owner come outside in a rage, a shotgun in his hands.
Fuck.Fuck.
I slammed on the gas, the Jeep’s massive tires gaining traction on the dirt, and peeling out onto the road. The bar was in the middle of nowhere, but that meant there was a long, straight drive ahead where I could push the old girl as fast as she could handle.
The trees closed in as I drove, cypress and pine enclosing the road beneath their boughs. The cicadas’ song filled the night, and with no streetlights along the old road, only my yellow headlights lit the way. I put a mile between me and the bar, then three, then five. Only then did my heart stop pounding.
The only radio station that came through was playing Delta blues, and I let it play softly as I drove with the windows down, the cold air on my face. I planned to drive through the night; I’d try to make it until noon tomorrow before I stopped. Some people pursued exercise to ease their stress, but I pursued exhaustion. If I could tire myself out utterly and completely, my brain would be too tired to dream.
Too tired for the nightmares.
