Page 8 of Sinful
The crash.
When you remember you're just human, just flesh and bone, just a girl who ran away from home and can't figure out how to run back.
I don't stick around for the celebration.
Never do.
Just mount my bike and head back toward Austin, toward my apartment, toward the life I've built out of lies and fake names and the desperate hope that nobody ever finds me.
The ride back is quiet.
Just me and the desert and the stars that are brighter out here than they ever were in Florida.
My apartment is exactly what five hundred a month gets you—a studio with a bathroom that barely works, a kitchenette that's more kit than kitchen, and neighbors who mind their business because they're all hiding something too.
I park the bike, haul myself up the stairs that smell like piss and regret.
Unlock three separate locks because paranoia keeps you alive in this world.
Inside, I drop my keys on the counter, my helmet on the bed, my jacket on the floor.
The adrenaline is completely gone now, replaced by exhaustion so complete I could sleep for a week.
I count my money.
Five hundred from the race.
One-twelve left from tips.
Six-twelve total.
Rent is five hundred.
Leaves one-twelve for gas, food, everything else.
I'll make it work.
I always do.
I'm in the bathroom, washing road grime off my face, when it hits me.
The man outside Cactus Jack's.
The way he said my name.
Helle. Not Hell. Not Bailey.
Not any of my lies. Myrealname.
He knew who I was.
My hands freeze on the towel, water dripping down my neck.
Who the fuck was that? How did he know? And more importantly—what does he want? I move to the window, peer through the blinds I never open.
The parking lot is empty. Quiet. Normal.
But my stomach is doing that thing it does when danger is close.
