2. Mila
MILA
Arizona, May
F uck off, asshole.
The man watching me from the other side of the platform hasn’t looked away since I sat down, and I can feel his gaze roaming across my skin like a thousand little cockroaches.
I glance at him.
—Still watching.
I glance at the clock hanging on the wall.
—Three minutes until my bus is set to arrive.
The back of my neck feels sweaty, but it has nothing to do with the sweltering dry heat of the Arizona weather.
I tug the brim of my hat lower to cover my eyes. Slipping from my seat, I hoist my bag over my shoulder and walk in the other direction.
Careful. No need to draw attention.
Slipping through the crowd as casually as I can, I make my way down the platform, passing through families and people speaking on their phones.
I feel eyes on me everywhere I go, but I force a shallow breath through my lips and keep walking at the same leisurely pace when all I really want to do is run as fast as I fucking can.
I’ll leave and come back later. I’ll call an Uber and get to the station a few towns over.
I knew I was overstaying my welcome in this town. I should have left two nights ago when I was sure I felt someone watching me.
Heat trickles up the back of my spine, and I know, without turning around, that the mystery man is following me.
They’re all the same. Every man they send is just as dangerous as the last. Men twice my size, trained to deal with nasty little problems like me.
With my stomach in my throat, I approach the bathroom, slipping inside. The moment I’m out of sight, I let out a deep breath.
Great, now I’m trapped.
I scan the room, looking for anything I could use to protect myself. I can’t alert the security at the station. They’ll call the police, and then I’ll be a sitting duck in a jail cell, waiting for one of their big, bad Mila-killing machines to find me and put me out of my lonely misery.
Fuck that. I’d rather die in a dust bowl bathroom in southern Arizona than in a jail cell surrounded by shitty, corrupt cops.
Think, Mila.
While scanning the bathroom, I spot an air vent in the back of the large stall.
Guess it’s better than being dead.
Internally gagging at the crusty toilet paper beside my left shoe, I sink down and pull out the small screwdriver I keep in my backpack.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
There aren’t even any screws. It’s just painted shut with years of cheap five-gallon bucket paint from the hardware store clearance section.
I try again, a desperate attempt to pry it off, but it just scratches off the top few layers of paint.
“ Fuck .”
A pounding at the door causes my heart to lurch in my chest, and I fall back into the wall, toilet paper-covered floor be damned.
“Just a minute,” I call out, my voice shaking as I scramble to my feet.
I only have one option.
It’s not one I like.
When the door opens, I move further back in the stall, pressing my back against the wall. The sound of heavy boots on scuffed tiles fills the empty bathroom. At three o’clock in the morning, there aren’t many of us in the station, and those of us who are here are almost always running from something.
I’m no exception.
Climbing on top of the toilet seat, I lift my legs and clap a hand over my mouth to silence myself from breathing too heavily and pray to God someone else will come in the bathroom.
“Here kitty, kitty . . .” a man sings, voice low and menacing. And I know it’s the man that was watching me. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”
He pauses in front of my stall, his boots coming to a halt, sending ringing vibrations through my chest.
Okay, scratch that. Maybe I don’t want to die in a dirty bus station bathroom.
“Aww . . . Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be scared. I won’t bite.”
Fear seizes my chest, and silent tears slip down my cheeks to my fingertips, covering my mouth.
There’s no way out of this.
I let out a squeak when he pounds at the door, clenching the screwdriver tighter in my palm and scampering back on the toilet.
Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .
“You find her?” another voice asks when the bathroom door opens.
The man outside my stall turns away, facing whoever else has just walked in.
“She’s hiding out in there.”
You fucking bet I am, asshole.
“Boss told you not to scare her.”
“I’m not going to scare her. I’m just playing with her a little bit.”
“Well, stop,” the other man says. I watch his boots come across the floor, a slight drag to his step.
“Come on, Mila.” Tap, tap, tap . “I’m sorry if ol’ Jerry scared you. He ain’t a bad guy.”
Jerry can go suck a dick for all I care.
“Let’s stop playing these games now.”
The soft lilt of his slight southern accent would be comforting—if there wasn’t already dried blood on the toe of his boot.
And, you know, if he wasn’t here to kidnap me.
“Come on out, now,” he says gently like I’m a scared dog hiding under a bed.
Right now, I feel like it.
Fuck.
“Ain’t no one going to hurt you.”
Double fuck.
I have to get away.
Slipping from the toilet, I stand on shaky legs and face the door. When I open it, I keep my gaze trained on my toes.
“There she is,” the one with the gentle voice purrs.
Never mind that he already has rope in his hand.
So, I stab him with my screwdriver.
“Fucking bitch!” he roars. Even if the screwdriver didn’t fully penetrate his skin, it still sliced him open, and that’s enough for me.
I dart for the door, swing it open, and get out before either can grab me as they clamber around each other in the tiny bathroom.
“Fucking bitch, stabbed me—”
Not so pleasant, now, are we ?
I throw my full weight in the door, jamming the screwdriver through the handle in a brief moment of pure genius that surprises even me.
They crash against the door, the thud of their heavy bodies sending a shot of panic through me.
Hoisting my backpack up higher, I dart for my bus.
Pennsylvania, here I come.
The doors are just starting to close when I push through them, earning me a dirty look from the driver. I’m sweaty, and my legs are shaking as I make my way through the bus to a spot in the back.
I don’t let out the breath I’m holding until we pull away. And when I look back, the door to the bathrooms finally burst open with the men sent to kill me.