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Chapter 2
Scarlett
Two weeks later
The bar – aptly named Bruisers – stinks of stale cigarettes and booze. It’s dimly lit, but by the faint light, I can make out the grime in the worn and faded carpet, as well as stains from years of spilled beers. The walls are covered with posters of classic rock bands and fading sports memorabilia. Tattered, the edges curling, I can barely make out what the original images were.
It’s just been over two weeks since my escape from Cartwright’s party. Two weeks during which I’ve been laying low with no contact with Carl and the team. Two weeks of jumping from one grimy motel room to another.
I’m going out of my mind.
A couple of days ago, I decided to throw caution to the winds and head down for a drink at the local bar. When the sky didn’t fall on my head, I took on the chance of coming out again. And now, here I am, reveling in the glorious ambiance.
There’s a mishmash of furniture, ranging from mismatched barstools to rickety tables with battered chairs. None of it looks sturdy enough to hold the drinks that they’re bearing, let alone the asses that seem to have grown roots there.
The bar is droning with the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. An intermittent waft of smoke floats through the air and blends with the rest of the dull stench that seems ingrained here.
I ignore it. I’m not here for the ambiance. I just need a drink to regain my sanity after being locked in a motel room for several days. And a place to lay low until I’ve got enough cash to get somewhere safe – far away from the thugs on my tail. Mexico is calling, and I need a way to get there.
I’ll stay just long enough; long enough to make some money, but not so long that anyone starts to recognize me.
Although it seems there’s fat chance of that happening. I’ve picked up a fan.
“Hey, hon’! Good to see ya!” The beaming face of the bartender swims into view. “That color looks so good on ya. Not a lot of redheads brave enough to wear pink. I know I’m not.” She points at my magenta t-shirt, then ruefully holds up her own strawberry-blonde braid. It’s nothing like my vivid red curls. “The usual?” she asks.
“Sure. Thanks, Lena,” I answer, keeping my tone neutral. I learned her name during my last visit. The woman seems hellbent on making friends with me, but if I get too surly, it’ll draw attention.
Lena’s still grinning at me as she pushes a frosty Budweiser across the counter. I nod and reach into my pocket to extract some cash but she shakes her head.
“I’ll run you a tab.” She winks. “Scarlett, right?”
Dammit. I don’t want a tab. I don’t want anything I have to put my name to. But I give a small smile and then retreat to a seat at the dark end of the bar and pull out my phone.
Scrolling through job postings has become a daily routine – and I’m no longer fussy about what I’d try my hand at. Maybe dog walking, maybe house cleaning, maybe something else entirely. As long as it gets me closer to freedom.
Yeah. Scarlett Jones – professional dog-walker in Presidio, Texas. My dream come true.
That dream could still be within reach if I could just sell the hunk of ice I have stashed back at my motel room. But there’s no way I’m moving a diamond like that. My only option is to wait to get in touch with the fatcat buyer I stole it for in the first place. Until then, I’ll subsist on my savings and any other cash I can scrounge up, because I didn’t get out of town with a big bundle of loot.
An hour passes quickly as I scan through jobs, though none of them seem promising. I’ve been trying to stay off the grid and avoid any unwanted attention. But part of me feels that it’s not going to last long. It seems like trouble always finds me, no matter where I go.
“See anything interesting?”
I glance up to see Lena lingering nearby. She’s peering at my screen and I set it face-down on the counter in front of me.
“Just browsing,” I mutter.
“Yeah…the job market around here’s pretty limited,” she says, leaning on the bar as if settling in for a chat.
No chatting!
No!
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m not really interested. Just curious, you know?”
She nods but looks skeptical, then gives a pointed look at my glass. “Need a refill?”
“Not yet.” I’m not here to get pissed, but sitting at a bar without a drink will look strange. “I’ll probably need another in twenty. Pacing myself.”
