Chapter 29 – Janelle
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Janelle
They got Rana. Whoever they are. All I know about Iron Frontier MC is that they’re racist and they want me or Zeb dead.
They have my friend captive. Not dead. I don’t think she’s dead.
I don’t want to believe that Rana could be dead.
I’m a zombie operating on autopilot. I fill up the motorcycle with gas and buy a map.
I don’t want to rouse suspicion or stay anywhere too long, so I drive East until I see the familiar golden arches of a highway McDonald’s.
It’s amazing how you can form a trauma bond to McDonald’s on road trips.
I sit in the parking lot, not worried at all about anybody bothering me as I study my map and try to reason my way out of the situation I’m in.
It’s getting hot, so I might need to spend more time inside another McDonald’s later so the sun doesn’t kill my ass on the highway.
Using my map, I identify what might have been the gas station where they snatched me and Rana up.
There are no labels, just little icons identifying gas and restaurant stops…
I head inside the McDonald’s because now I need a pen.
I order a chicken sandwich and when the cashier turns around, I steal a pen off the counter and disappear to a seat in the back of the restaurant while I wait.
I circle the gas station on the map where I think they got Rana from.
Then, I try to reason out where the hell they might have taken her. Or where I originally left Zebulon.
My first goal is to head West once the sun goes down a bit. I finish my chicken sandwich. On my way back towards the gas station where I last saw Rana, my body fights to pull me away from the scene of the crime.
I could save myself instead of potentially getting shot, killed, kidnapped or worse by a dangerous biker gang.
Maybe I should worry about the cops being at the gas station, but it doesn’t even cross my mind.
Enough time has passed that if there were a cop around here, he would be running surveillance or something.
I should be careful. This gas station could have cameras too and I haven’t put a lot of work into hiding my appearance.
It hits me for the first time that maybe I’m already way too deep in Zebulon’s lifestyle to escape.
My efforts to use Rana as a springboard to get out of my biker gang affiliation not only failed, but possibly got my best friend killed.
The guilt eats away at me. Especially because as soon as I’m done at this gas station, I’ll have to find Zeb – the same man I did all this to get away from.
I park my bike behind a big Mac truck, hopeful that does enough for me to avoid detection.
I keep the keys in my pocket within easy reach so even in a hurry and with shaky hands, I can grab them and start the bike’s engine.
I don’t even notice until I notice a trucker staring at me bewildered that I’m not wearing a helmet.
You couldn’t have paid me to get on the back of that bike without a helmet before.
I walk away from his truck quickly just so he doesn’t get a good look at my face.
I walk towards the gas station convenience store entrance, searching for signs of the rental car.
It’s not there. I don’t know why I foolishly hoped it would be.
But there’s something odd about this situation.
It’s close to sundown and there’s no bloodstains on the ground.
No broken glass. No sign that anything happened here.
Do police clean up crime scenes this well this quickly?
I’m nervous about walking into the convenience store, but the person inside wouldn’t have seen me the first time I came here with Rana.
Plus, it was hours ago. As easy as it is for me to convince myself that I should just walk into the store, it’s just as easy for me to generate a hundred ways this could go wrong.
I talk myself into it for Rana. And because when I find Zeb, I want him to know that I’m not totally useless. Maybe I thought I was, but I was wrong.
There’s a tall, red-haired eighteen year old boy working at the register.
I don’t know if he’s actually eighteen, but he has a much more youthful face than I do.
He smiles big when I walk into the gas station, and I appreciate the total transparency younger men have about how attractive they find a woman. He can’t hide the look on his face.
I don’t think I have to worry about the cops.
“How’s it going ma’am,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. Men.
“I’m alright, thank you sir. How about you?”
“I’m doing alright. Can I help you out with anything today? Zyns?”
White boy, do I look like I Zyn?
“I’m alright. I’ve just had one hell of a day,” I tell him, flashing my eyelashes half-aggressively at the boy behind the counter. I’m not proud of myself for flirting with a guy who is a barely legal adult, but it’s for a good cause – keeping my ass out of prison.
“Bad boyfriend?”
“Nothing like that,” I tell him, winking at him. “I’m single. What about you? Has it been crazy over here? It seems like the kind of place that might have cartel activity. I saw a TikTok about that…”
Don’t overexplain, hoe!!! My inner voice is going crazy. I don’t just feel my heart throbbing out of control, I can taste metal on the back of my tongue. The guy behind the counter doesn’t notice and even if he did, he wouldn’t give a fuck because his eyes are glued to my boobs.
“Oh, I just came in an hour ago to help out a friend. You know Hollingsworth bourbon?” he says, green eyes sparkling at me as he gets all flirty and name drops what must be some type of family connection.
“I’ve had a few sips.”
“My family owns it,” he says. “And a bunch of gas stations. This is just a summer gig… In case you were wondering if a guy my age could afford to take you out.”
Okay. This time, I’m in seriously hot water.
“I… I’m taken. I’m sorry. I just… I’ll take a pack of American Spirits and a phone charger.”
I don’t even smoke. I feel stupid, but again, the red-haired man is totally oblivious. He might grow up to be quite handsome, but even if it weren’t for Zeb, he’s way too young for me.
He winks, all ego like men his age usually are. “Don’t be sorry. Happy to be of service to a beautiful woman regardless.”
“You have a good afternoon now.”
I waste $12 on the cigarettes to get out of the awkward situation without rousing suspicions. Since it’s the only thing I bought in a panic instead of buying food like a normal person, I smoke a single cigarette behind the truck.
Not food, but it gives me time to think about that boy inside.
Could the Hollingsworth family be connected to the Rebel Barbarians?
Somebody cleaned up the scene here, and I can’t tell if the people who did it are friends or foes.
I finish the cigarette and keep driving West in the general direction of Zebulon’s place.
I regret being on my phone so much that I’m out of practice identifying my location using landmarks and traditional human tracking systems. I’m so reliant that I have to stop and charge my phone at another McDonald’s.
I can afford a little more food, but this will have to be my last meal just in case I need more gas.
I hope I find Zeb soon. Once my phone gets some juice, I send a message to Zebulon.
It’s pitch black outside, and I have no idea where the hell I’m going to sleep since my ride is a stolen motorcycle.
I suppose I could hide out outside one of the rest stops, but there could be state troopers there and that seems too risky. I need to find somewhere else.
The message goes out to Zeb, and I walk outside McDonald’s to give finding a place to sleep one last shot.
I’ll drive for forty more minutes west and if I don’t see anything I recognize by then, I’ll need another way out of this situation.
Zeb doesn’t reply instantly, and as I ride for the first ten minutes, I don’t feel the phone vibrate.
I pull over on the shoulder when the highway clears out – it’s pretty dead out here regardless in the spooky way – and see that he really hasn’t texted me.
I’d better keep driving. Sticking my phone back in my pocket, I keep driving, praying that I don’t run into any state troopers, other bikers, or anyone else who could make trouble for me on the highway.
There’s nobody for a full half an hour, but I don’t recognize anything either.
The “low fuel” light comes on the bike, and I honestly wish I had a way to ditch the whole thing altogether.
Instead, I have to stop for gas at the next spot.
When I get there, I only spot one motorcycle parked out front and it’s nice.
I’m covered in sweat, smell like shit, and technically, I hate motorcycles, but my body is strangely drawn to the gorgeous black chrome beastie parked outside…
wherever this is. Eventually, I find the bike logo and look it up on my phone because the bike is too nice not to stand out.
Ducati. Woah. Okay. Whoever has this bike parked has big bucks.
I pace back towards my bike, questioning the wisdom of having someone else witness me here.
Impulses push me to enter the gas station and once I enter, I know I’ve made a huge mistake.
The man standing inside might be about the same height as Zebulon.
He’s red-haired, freckled and has a mean look on his face.
There’s also something strange about the way he looks at me.
He doesn’t look like a biker, but I might be wrong.
He’s covered in tattoos, but his white t-shirt is crispy clean rather than covered in engine oil or grease like I would expect.
Also, do bikers in gangs really drive Ducatis?
He might be an actor or something. I feel paranoid about this man’s presence for some reason.
I just need to buy my gas and get the hell out of here. Fast.
Act cool, Janelle. But get out quick. I pretend like I’m not watching his every move in my peripheral vision as my heart rate quickens.
The tall man disappears behind one of the aisles and I purposefully walk up to the counter, where a black-haired boy of around nineteen with a gold hoop stuck in his lip and eyeliner stares at me bored.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” ‘
I always have a gun if shit gets out of control with Mr. White T-Shirt.
“$15 on pump 5,” I mutter.
“Sure thing.”
I shove fifteen dollars across the counter and hurry out of the gas station without looking for the guy in the aisles. That might have been a mistake. His Ducati is still there. Fuck. I look over my shoulder back inside the gas station and I don’t see him.
My hand white-knuckles the pump as I spill droplets of gas in a spray pattern around the bike unintentionally trying to fit the nozzle into the hole. My free hand rustles around my hoodie pocket for one of my bullets and the gun I pulled off the guys who took Rana.
He could be one of them.
I hate that I can’t see him anywhere, even if the gas station interior is clearly illuminated, even more so because it’s dark out.
It doesn’t take long to get $15 worth of gas in my tank.
That amount of money doesn’t take you far anymore.
When I reinsert the nozzle in its pump slot, a booming Texan accent nearly makes me jump out of my skin.
“Is your name Janelle Norris by any chance?”
I pull the gun out of my hoodie and whip around, pointing it at the tall red-haired man who could overpower me and kill me if I give him the chance. I didn’t have enough time to put a bullet in, so I’m pretty sure I’m fucked.