Page 95 of Hellbent
It’s three miles to the garage. And I could make it on this bike. See Wyatt. I’ll be safer with him than alone.
I pump the tires, wheel the bike out the door, and soon I’m bouncing along the dirt road between the houses, guided by moonlight and the flickering streetlights to my left. But when I get to the garage, no lights are on. No sign of Wyatt’s bike out front.
I let myself in, climb the stairs to his apartment, and knock.
“Hello?”
No answer.
Loneliness settles deeper into my bones.
I head back outside, glance at the field behind the garage. There are tire marks where Damian’s been driving straight down from his house.
A new idea forms. I get back on the bike and follow the tracks. The bike jitters, the dirt broken and uneven, roots grabbing at the tires. The further I go, the darker it gets, moonlight the only guide.
But when I reach the boys’ house, the lights are off there too. No trucks out front. I drop the bike to the ground and try the door. It’s locked.
I press my forehead against the door, breathing hard.
The silence out here isn’t peaceful. It’s suffocating.
My mind won’t stop running. Back to the photo. The bounty. The bar.
Who took that picture? Who knew where I was?
My brow furrows. I can’t keep doing this—sitting in silence, waiting for someone else to make a move.
I’d rather walk straight into the fire than be left to smolder here, forgotten.
I pick up the bike.
If no one will tell me what that picture means, I’ll find out myself.
The ride takes a long time.
Warm night air brushes against my skin, thick with the hum of cicadas and the occasional rush of passing cars. I stay tucked along the shoulder of the highway, head down, pedaling hard, the wheels whirring steadily beneath me. Streetlights break the dark in long, slow intervals, casting gold pools of light that stretch and vanish behind me.
By the time the trees give way to sidewalks and storefronts, my legs are shaking. Sweat clings to my back. I coast down Main Street, past the gas station and the old diner, all the little shops I noticed the first time Jake and Damian brought me here.
Up ahead, the bar’s neon sign glows red and blue against the dark, pulsing like a heartbeat. I lean the bike against the wall out front, brush damp hair off my forehead, and pull open the heavy door.
The bar is quiet. Not empty, but low and slow. Muted conversations, the occasional clack of pool balls, something twangy humming from the jukebox. Not like the last time I was here. No dancing. No crowds. Just a few locals nursing drinks and not much else.
Two men seated near the door eye me as I walk in. I keep my expression blank, my stride casual, and move toward the bar,careful not to make eye contact. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A familiar face. A flicker of recognition. Maybe just someone who saw something they shouldn’t.
I slide onto a barstool halfway down the counter. The bartender—a woman with a silver braid and muscular arms in a sleeveless plaid shirt—gives me a look.
“What’ll it be?”
“Coke. No ice.”
She nods, and a moment later, she sets the glass down with a dull thunk. I curl my fingers around it, grateful for something to do with my hands.
I wait a beat. Then lean in slightly, pitching my voice low.
“I was here a few weeks ago,” I say. “With two guys. Tall, both dark hair. One of them—uh, Damian—he plays pool? Kind of cocky?”
She shrugs, not offering much.
