Chapter 6 Augustine
Augustine
I hit the first motel on the strip, a concrete outhouse with neon that stuttered. No sign of her. I kicked in the door of a room that stank of bleach and old cum, found nothing but a couple fucking in the dark. The man threatened me with a tire iron. I yanked it out of his hand and tossed it.
The train station was dead. No trains for hours, nobody in the lobby except a toothless lady cleaning the vending machine. “You see a redhead in a club jacket? Maybe bleeding?” I barked. She pointed at the trail of footprints drying on the tile, but they ended at the street.
Bus depot, then. By now the sun was dropping fast, that desert twilight where every shadow seemed loaded.
There was a bus idling by the curb, lights on, and through the smoked glass I could make out a dozen silhouettes.
Two of them could’ve been Melissa if you squinted—same height, same posture, a little too upright for someone who belonged here—but when I yanked open the folding door, neither even looked up.
“Hey,” I called out, voice gone rough. “You see a girl—” I stopped myself, realized I had no fucking clue how to describe her in a way that didn’t sound like a manhunt.
The driver just shrugged. “Ain’t my business, friend. Try the diner.” He shut the door in my face.
By now, the Harleys’ pipes were screaming for mercy, and my head was pounding with it.
I peeled out and hit every shit-lit restaurant within three miles: the Gator Grill, the Fry King, that overpriced green chile joint by the old courthouse.
I checked the bathrooms, peeked behind kitchen doors, and asked every line cook and waitress.
They looked at me like I was there to collect debts.
Each time I struck out, I slammed my hand on the bars or booths so hard my palm went numb.
I kept picturing Melissa: teeth gritted, trying to blend, maybe pulling another runner if she thought I was too close.
And I couldn’t shake the idea that the Leatherbacks weren’t far behind.
Every time a pickup rolled past, I clocked the plates.
I watched the mirrors, expecting black helmets and turtle patches to materialize behind me.
Paranoia’s an ugly thing, but it keeps you alive.
By nine o’clock, I’d run out of obvious, and I was starting to lose my grip.
Sweat soaked through the collar of my shirt, and every time my phone buzzed—club calls, Damron, even Seneca—I ignored it.
I knew what they’d say. They’d say let it go, she’s not worth the trouble, just wait for her to crawl back or get picked up by the turtles.
If I slowed down long enough to listen, maybe I’d agree.
But there was one place I hadn’t tried. The Nipple Tip.
If you ever needed to disappear in Los Alamos, the Nipple Tip was the first and last stop.
It was a bar made entirely of bad decisions: the windows painted black, the bouncer a gorilla on a cocktail of steroids and disability checks, the regulars the sort of crowd that even the Leatherbacks hesitated to muscle.
The sign out front was a dead neon tit, flickering like an SOS, and even from the parking lot you could feel the rumble of bass and the promise of something broken inside.
I killed the engine and let the silence settle for a beat. My hands were shaking, and I realized I hadn’t eaten in a day. The sky was blue-black, the air so dry it made my teeth hurt. I thumbed my knife open and shut, just to feel something steady.
Inside, it was what you’d expect: bodies packed tight, the scent of sweat, beer, and desperation thick enough to choke on.
There were two pool tables, neither with a full set of balls.
A girl danced on a strip of duct tape meant to pass for a stage, her eyes flat and dead.
Above her, a shark jaw hung from the ceiling, duct-taped into place.
The bartender watched me over the glass he was polishing, then looked away quick. He’d seen my cut, knew what it meant.
I scanned the room, every instinct tuned to red alert. Melissa wasn’t at the bar, or by the pool table, or in the huddle by the dartboard. For a second, I thought I’d wasted my last lead, that she’d somehow slipped past me and was already halfway to Colorado or dead in a ditch somewhere.
Then I saw her.
She was at the far end of the bar, a bottle in one hand, staring down a guy twice her size who was leaning a little too close.
Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she wore my old club jacket—still streaked with blood from the night before.
Her left cheek was swollen, maybe from a hit, maybe just from life.
She looked tired and mean and fucking beautiful.
I almost smiled. Then I remembered what happened to people who got too soft.
I pushed through the crowd, letting my elbows clear a path. The guy next to her—six-four, hands like cinderblocks—turned as I approached. His eyes narrowed, and he planted a hand on the bar to block my way.
“You lost?” he asked, his voice pure gravel.
I didn’t bother with a warning. I hooked his wrist, twisted until I felt the tendons stretch, and dropped him to one knee with a simple, practiced move. The bottle in Melissa’s hand was up and cocked in a heartbeat, but she lowered it when she saw my face.
“You’re late,” she said, lips curling.
“Didn’t know you were waiting.”
“I wasn’t.” She tried to stand, wobbled, and caught herself on the bar. “But you showed anyway.”
The cinderblock guy was back on his feet, massaging his wrist and looking for an angle to make a play. I stared him down until he thought better of it, then nodded at the bartender. “Give the lady water.”
The bartender poured it, hands shaking.
I took a stool next to Melissa. Up close, she smelled like cigarettes and the faintest trace of shampoo from the clubhouse shower. Her knuckles were split and raw. She’d fought her way here, maybe even liked it.
“Ready to go?” I asked.
She sneered. “What, and miss the big show?”
“What show?”
She drained the water, slammed the glass down. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
I felt the stares from the rest of the bar, little knives in my back. I felt the weight of every bad decision I’d made in the last forty-eight hours. There was no way out except through.
She smiled then, a sad, lopsided thing. “You love a lost cause, Augustine.”
“You want to tell me why you ran?”
She stared at her hands. “Would you believe me if I said I just wanted a drink?”
“No.”
She waited, then said, “I don’t do well with cages, Augustine. Even the ones made of good intentions.”
I nodded, let the silence hang. The tension ratcheted up with every breath, the kind of static that said someone was about to do something wrong.
Melissa turned to face me, her eyes sharp and bright despite the swelling. “You ever get tired of playing hero?”
“I’m not a hero,” I said.
“Could’ve fooled me. You got the whole white knight routine down. Even threw in a damsel and a deadline.”
“I’m not saving you, Melissa. I’m keeping you alive long enough to figure your shit out.”
She bared her teeth. “And what if my shit is figuring out how to leave? What then?”
“I don’t let you go.” I said it quiet, but it hit hard.
The guy with the broken wrist from earlier limped back over, this time with backup. They boxed me in on either side. “You two done with your lover’s spat?” he growled. “Some of us wanna drink in peace.”
Melissa turned on him with a smile so sweet it was venom. “You want my seat, you can fight me for it.”
He looked at me, then back at her. “I don’t hit women.”
“Lucky for you,” she said, “I hit everyone.”
The bar cracked up, but not in a friendly way.
It was the kind of laughter that means someone’s about to bleed.
I felt the muscles in my neck go tight. My hand drifted to the knife at my hip, but Melissa beat me to it.
She was up and on her feet, glass raised, ready to bring it down on the guy’s skull.
He flinched. For a second, nobody moved.
“Jesus, sit down,” I muttered.
She did, never breaking eye contact with her would-be challenger. He shuffled off, muttering under his breath.
I leaned in. “If you’re trying to get killed, you’re doing a hell of a job.”
“I’m not afraid of them,” she said. “I’m afraid of you.”
That landed. I didn’t know what to do with it. I took a pull of her beer, ignoring the flecks of blood on the rim. “What did I ever do to scare you?”
She looked at me with something close to pity. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re worse than they are. At least they don’t pretend to be anything else.”
I wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but the words died on my tongue. Maybe she was right.
The jukebox cut out. For a second, all you could hear was the buzz of neon and the wet sound of someone puking in the men’s room.
“I’m not a Leatherback,” I said. “You’re not my problem.”
Her voice was so quiet I had to lean in to hear it. “But I am your problem. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’ll get yourself killed over a girl who can’t even stand the sight of you.”
I laughed, short and mean. “Is that what you think?”
“I know it,” she shot back. “You think I’m just some pawn in your little club war? I don’t belong to anyone. Not you, not Cutler, not Saint.”
A few heads turned at the name. Melissa didn’t seem to care.
I set my jaw. “You keep saying you’re not a pawn, but you sure as hell act like one. Running into bars, starting shit, waiting for someone to rescue you. If you want to be your own woman, act like it.”
She bristled. “What do you know about women, Augustine? You ever met one you didn’t try to fix?”
“I never tried to fix you. Just stop you from getting yourself killed.”
Her hands balled into fists. “Maybe I want to get killed. Maybe that’s easier than living with the bullshit. Did you ever think of that?”
I didn’t answer. I felt every eye on us, waiting for the next explosion.
She leaned in, so close I could taste the smoke on her breath. “Go ahead. Say what you’re really thinking.”
I did. “You’re the most stubborn, infuriating woman I’ve ever met. And if you keep pushing, I’m gonna drag you back to the clubhouse myself.”
She grinned, but there was no happiness in it. “You and what army?”
And then she did the last thing I expected: she grabbed me by the front of my cut and kissed me, hard.
Everything stopped. The bar, the music, even the slow burn in my chest. Her lips were split, hot with blood, and the kiss tasted like iron and spite. She bit down, just enough to hurt, and when I didn’t pull away, she kissed me again, deeper this time.
When we finally broke apart, half the bar was staring. Nobody said a word.
She wiped her mouth, still smiling. “Congratulations. You just made yourself the most wanted man in Los Alamos.”
I shrugged. “Story of my life.”
***
The bathroom door didn’t have a lock, but that didn’t matter—she slammed it shut with a boot, then went for my belt like it was a ticking bomb. She kissed me again, harder this time, biting at my lip until I tasted blood.
I should have stopped her. Should have said something, anything, about timing, about the fucking crowd outside. But every nerve ending was on fire, and I’d never been good at denying pain or pleasure.
She backed me against the graffiti-covered sink, the cracked mirror reflecting a red-and-black smear of us. My hands found her hips, felt the heat through denim. She fumbled at my jeans, fingers desperate, then cursed and yanked at the fly until the button popped off and ricocheted into the urinal.
She laughed, breathless and wild. “Nice pants.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Vintage.”
She grabbed the back of my neck and dragged me down into her.
There was nothing soft about it. She bit at my throat, pulled my hair, left scratch marks that burned in the best way.
I peeled her out of the jacket, yanked her shirt overhead, and saw the bruises—old, new, all of them stories I didn’t want to hear.
I kissed every one anyway, knowing damn well I was making the worst fucking mistake of my life. But I wasn’t about to look like some scared pussy.
She went for my cock, rough and hungry, and I let her, leaning into the edge of the sink until the porcelain dug into my ass. She stroked me with one hand and tore at her own jeans with the other, and when she couldn’t get them off fast enough, she just hiked up and hooked her knees around my hips.
I lifted her like she weighed nothing. Slammed her against the stall, the cheap aluminum rattling with each thrust. She moaned, low and savage, then bit down on my shoulder, breaking skin.
She used her heels to spur me on, and I answered with everything I had, fucking her until her eyes rolled and her nails carved bloody crescent moons into my back.
She came first, loud and raw, echoing off the tile. I followed, barely holding her up as my knees went soft.
We slid to the floor together, her back against the door, our breaths ragged and uneven. I waited for her to say something cruel, but she just put her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“I know.”
She laughed again, softer now. “You ever gonna let me go?”
“Nope.”
She poked a finger into my ribs. “Not even if I ask nicely?”
“Especially not if you ask nicely.”
She was quiet a long time, just listening to the thud of the bass and the yells from the bar outside. I held her, felt her heartbeat settle, and realized mine was already matching.
“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” she said, not quite sad.
“It’s a talent.”
She opened her eyes. “You want to know why I ran?”
“Yeah,” I said, surprising myself.
She chewed her lip. “You’re not the one they want, Augustine. It’s me. But if you get in the way, Cutler will gut you in front of his crew and make me clean up after.”
“Let him try,” I said.
She snorted. “You’re so fucking dumb.”
“You like dumb.”
She pulled me in, kissed me one more time, then stood and started putting herself back together. I watched the bruises disappear under denim and leather. Watched her become a fortress again.
She ran a hand through her hair, met my eyes in the mirror. “We should go.”
I nodded.
She stopped me before opening the door. “I’ve never fucked in a bathroom,” she said.
I shrugged, not wanting to admit it wasn’t my first time. Or second, or third. Fuck, it was actually a habit.
She smiled. “Don’t worry about it. Every girl wants to be fucked in a shitty bar bathroom at least once in her life.”
As we walked back into the bar, every head turned. But nobody said a word. They didn’t have to. I knew the shit that was coming my way.