Page 13 of Atlas
“I’ve been riding half the country looking for you.”
“Congrats,” she mutters. “You found me. Now, what?”
I jerk my chin towards the door. “Now, I take you somewhere safe.”
She hesitates then grabs her drink and downs the last of it. “Fine, but if you’re planning on locking me in a basement or selling me to some creepy biker friend, I’ll stab you in your sleep.”
I crack the first smile I’ve felt all day. “You’ll fit right in.”
We roll into the edge of town just after midnight. I find the least flashy, least memorable bed and breakfast I can, the kind with a flickering neon ‘VACANCY’ sign and zero questions asked at the front desk.
The woman behind the counter gives me a once-over and doesn’t bother hiding her distaste. “Just the one room?” she asks.
“Yeah, separate beds.”
Kasey scoffs behind me. “How romantic.”
She hands me a key, her judging eyes watching as we both head upstairs.
The room smells like old toast and cleaning spray. Two twin beds, one rattling radiator, and a suspicious stain on the curtain. I toss my bag onto the nearest bed and lock the door behind us.
She drops her jacket and flops onto the other bed like she owns the place.
“I’m not gonna run, you know,” she mutters, staring at the ceiling.
“You thought about it though.”
She shrugs. “I always think about it.”
I don’t reply. I sit down, pull off my boots, and set them neatly by the wall. My gun goes under my pillow, not because I think she’s dangerous but because it’s habit. She watches me the whole time.
“You always sleep with that thing?”
“Only when I’m babysitting.”
She smirks. “Cool. I’ve been downgraded to a toddler. I don’t need you looking after me,” she says after a moment.
“I’m here to get you back to the clubhouse in one piece.”
She rolls onto her side, facing away from me. Her voice is quieter now. “You have kids?”
I blink. That one hits deeper than I expect. “No.”
“You talk like you might’ve.”
I don’t answer that.
She shifts again. “Is it true what they say? About clubs like yours?”
“What do they say?”
“That women disappear. That you sell girls, kill people, that sort of thing.”
I snort. “You watch too many shit documentaries.”
“But youhavekilled people,” she says. Not asking. Stating.
I don’t answer that either.
