Page 6 of Captive Audience
I could practically feel my heart going into cardiac arrest over the danger she was putting herself in.
What kind of girl got ghosted right before a date and decided the next best thing was to stroll through the bowels of the city? One with no sense of self-preservation, that was who.
Christ, she’d drive me to an early grave.
I almost wished I’d let her date go ahead. Instead, I’d paid the wanker a visit and explained how short his life would be if he contacted her again.
Having followed Asha on the El to Philly’s epicenter of crime and homelessness, I kept my distance while she strolled past drug dealers and fentanyl zombies, dodging tents and discarded needles.
A stiff breeze that reeked of piss and something even fouler snapped escaped tendrils of deep auburn hair against the hood of Asha’s coat. She walked like this hellhole didn’t scare her, but her hand clenched a can of pepper spray in her pocket. That was the only thing standing between her and a city full of predators. Good thing she had me, a monster of her own, lurking thirty feet back, ready to gut any arsehole who even looked at her the wrong way.
Asha stopped at a corner where a young woman wearing fartoo little for an autumn night stood in front of a phone shop. I leaned against a light pole, raised my hood over my beanie, and scanned the street. I saw it all. Every twitch, every set of eyes that lingered too long on her. Asha flipped the girl a ten and offered her a cigarette. They spoke for no more than a minute, during which Asha held out her phone, presumably to show a picture of the missing runaway she’d been investigating on her podcast. At a shake of the girl’s head, Asha moved along.
She spoke to five more women, with similar results, before giving up and heading back toward the station. That was when I noticed I was no longer the only one watching my Wildfire.
And I recognized the son of a bitch.
Lorenzo fucking Tate.
Torin had put a hit out on the drug-dealing pimp months ago for moving in on our territory. Tate had skipped town, but it looked like the dumb shite had returned.
I stuck to the shadows while Tate moved closer to Asha. She quickened her step, and he followed suit. He reminded me of a cat excited by the prospect of capturing a mouse. But the arsewipe didn’t realize the Big Bad Wolf was right behind him, primed to bite his whole fucking head off before he touched her. But if I made a move now, I’d blow my cover.
My hands curled into fists, itching for violence. I had to wait. Just a little longer.
4
ASHA
Disappointed that none of the women I’d shown Sierra’s photo to had seen her, I made my way back toward the station.
I kept my eyes off the guy shooting up on the curb and moved past shuttered storefronts, and tents that sagged under the weight of rain and rot. Shopping carts piled with bags and blankets sat like stark reminders of whole lives that’d slipped through the cracks.
The El clattered and groaned as it passed overhead. I caught movement behind me in the reflection of a scratched convex mirror at an alley’s exit.
A man in a red puffer jacket followed me. Latino. Mustache. Face tats.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was walking to the station, too. All the logic in the world didn’t stop my heart rate from picking up.
Once the racket from the train cleared, the man was close enough that I heard his footsteps and the swish of his jacket as he walked.
Moving past a fenced-off vacant lot, I tightened my grip on the pepper spray in my pocket and quickened my pace. The man’s steps sped up to match mine. A cold sweat prickledthe back of my neck.
There were few people along this stretch. Not that it mattered. Safety in numbers didn’t apply to this part of town, where bad things happened all the time.
Up ahead, more darkness and closed-up storefronts. A streetlight had been smashed out to leave pools of inky shadows beneath.
A siren wailed. Two women argued across the street. The stink of sewer or garbage forced me to mouth breathe.
The footsteps drew nearer. The station was a couple of blocks away. I could run for it and risk getting caught, or I could confront the stalker. Make a whole lot of noise and unleash my pepper spray. He wouldn’t expect that.
Decision made, I readied myself to go on the offensive. Then I heard it—a sharp grunt and a rustle of movement.
I spun, pepper spray clutched in my extended hand, feet wide. “Back the fuck?—”
But there was nothing there. No man. No footsteps. Just the sounds of the city and another train passing overhead.
I panted misty breaths into the cold night air. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might crack a rib or two.
