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"Hey, officer, slow down! You're making us look bad!" some beat cop jokes as I breeze past him for the umpteenth time.
"Ha, if only you knew," I throw back over my shoulder, not breaking stride. But inside, I'm screaming. Because I've got to find her, got to tell her that she’s everything to me.
* * *
I'm running on fumes, the city's heartbeat pounding in sync with my own. It's been days, endless days of turning over every rock, every alleyway. The neon lights flicker above me, mocking my desperation as they illuminate another night of fruitless searching.
"Seen her?" My voice is hoarse as I shove my phone under the nose of the barista at a coffee shop. She squints at Lori's picture, shaking her head slowly, her apologetic "sorry" barely registering over the grind of the espresso machine.
"Thanks anyway," I mutter, stepping out into the chill that cuts through my jacket and straight into my bones. I've become a ghost among the living, haunting the places that hold the echoes of her laughter, her touch.
The diner where I once watched Lori get some late-night fries, I hit that next. I flash Lori's photo at the weary-eyed waitress who just nods toward an empty booth in the back. “Haven’t seen her in days, poor thing. She’s a good girl, really. I used to let her mop the floor in exchange for a meal.”
I look toward the booth. I can picture her there, Lori’s green eyes sparkling with that mix of mischief and innocence that hooked me from the start. God, what I wouldn't give to go back, to freeze time.
I go back there every day, hoping that Lori has stopped back.
"Nothing, huh?" I say, my reflection in the window showing a man I hardly recognize anymore. The waitress's pitying look says it all—she has no news, and my heart sinks another inch.
"Good luck, hon," she calls after me as I push through the door, back into the cold.
"Thanks," I throw over my shoulder, but it's just noise. Empty noise in a city deaf to my pleas.
I end up outside a club, the bass vibrating the sidewalk beneath my feet. I never saw Lori at a club, but it doesn’t hurt to try.
"Hey, man, you alright?" The bouncer's brows are knit with concern as I approach, looking like hell warmed over.
"Have you seen her?" I ask, the edge in my voice sharper than I intend. He studies Lori's picture, then shakes his head with genuine regret.
"Sorry, brother. Haven't seen her."
"Damn." My fingers dig into my scalp, frustration making me want to scream into the void. I’m wound too tight, a spring about to snap. But snapping isn’t an option—not when Lori’s out there, somewhere, without me.
"Keep an eye out, will ya?" I plead, the bouncer’s nod offering little comfort as I turn away.
"Will do," he says, but I'm already lost in the thrumming crowd, invisible in my search for a girl who doesn't seem to want to be found.
CHAPTER SIX
Lori
My breaths come out in short, sharp bursts, fogging the air as I dart through the darkened labyrinth of New York's streets. It's late, way too late for a girl like me to be out running, but fear doesn't care about time. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat a drumroll that echoes the panic zipping through my veins.
I slip into an alley, the kind you pass without a second glance during the day, but now it looms like the gaping jaws of some concrete beast. The dim light from a flickering street lamp casts long, treacherous shadows across the cracked asphalt, painting pictures of menace and pursuit on the walls. It's a scene straight out of a thriller, minus the comfort of knowing it's all just make-believe.
The alley reeks of garbage and something else... desperation maybe, which is fitting because that's exactly what's seeping out of every pore in my body right now. There's a dumpster to my right, overflowing with trash bags and broken dreams, and it feels oddly symbolic. Discarded, forgotten, hidden away where no one can see—yeah, that's the vibe.
With the city's incessant hum reduced to a mere whisper here, isolation wraps around me like a thick scarf, heavy and suffocating. My own footsteps sound louder than they should, a rat-a-tat-tat that seems to scream "Here she is!" to anyone who might be listening. I press myself against the cool brick wall, trying to blend in with the grime and the graffiti, willing my pulse to quiet down before it gives me away.
I'm used to tough situations. Hell, they've been the bread and butter of my nineteen years. But this? This is a whole new level of screwed up.
I whip my head around, convinced I hear footsteps ghosting mine. My chest heaves, breaths tearing from my lungs in ragged gasps that taste like fear and cold air. The shadows cling to me, as if they're alive, whispering secrets of escape I can't seem to grasp. My eyes dart frantically, searching for a glimpse of anything in the darkness, even as I pray for invisibility.
"Nothing there," I tell myself, trying to sound convincing, tough. But the lie falls flat, dead before it hits the ground. It's a joke, right? Because here I am, Lori White, the chick who doesn't flinch at the hard knocks, scrambling like a scared rabbit in this godforsaken alley.
"Dammit," I hiss when my shoe catches on something unseen, a curse to the night or maybe to myself. My heart's doing this insane drum solo, one that's way offbeat, pounding against my ribs as if begging for a break.
And then there’s someone I hoped never to see again. Just steps away, materializing like some kind of dark angel—if angels are over six feet tall with shoulders that block out what little light dares to trickle into this place. Mikey. Fucking Mikey.
