3. Mila
MILA
Kansas, July
I ’m pretty sure someone’s died on the very bed I’m sitting on. Or, at the very least, a dozen children have been created on it.
There’s not much to Kansas. At least not in this area of Wichita. From New Mexico to Arizona. From Arizona to Pennsylvania. Then, a brief stop in Ohio—hated it. Another in Illinois—nothing but corn and beans as far as the eye could see. Then down to Arkansas—bizarre street names.
Now, I’ve made it to Kansas in Mila’s Fantastic Fifty State Journey .
At least . . . that’s what I’m calling it. It sounds a lot more glamorous than saying I’m on the run from a bunch of men who want to kill me.
My stomach growls uncomfortably, and I glance at the clock. It’s still early. The sun hasn’t even set yet. Way too early to go to bed, but way too late to try and skip out on dinner for the second night in a row.
Damn.
Tossing the pamphlet left in my room about STDs to the dusty motel comforter beneath me, I slip off the bed and cross to my bag, sitting on the small table near the door.
Someone’s definitely snorted a line or four off this table.
“Well, shit,” I grumble under my breath. I’m out of granola bars. I’m out of canned ravioli.
Out of freaking patience . . .
Moving to my wallet, I check through the cash stashed there. If I don’t find a job soon, I’m going to be fucked. Life on the run is expensive, and I think it’s an epidemic in America that we don’t talk about enough. You should be able to disappear without a trace, without starving yourself to death.
I count through the few twenties I’ve and the three one-dollar bills. Sixty-three dollars and a Chuck E. Cheese token from a little place out in New Mexico. That’s one more night at my motel before I’m totally fucked.
I chuck the wallet back in my bag and start pacing. It helps me think, even if it’s a pointless waste of precious calories. I’m afraid to weigh myself. I know I’ve lost weight while on the road, but I don’t know how much. Living off motel room ramen and dollar store granola bars will do that to you.
I push the noise of my growling stomach to the back of my mind and focus on the plan, which is . . . I don’t know. I never thought I’d make it this far.
It’s been a month since I’ve seen any sign of them. A month since I’ve had any contact. Six months on the run and a whole lot of sleazy motel rooms. I’m surprised I haven’t picked up any extra friends since I’ve been away.
The scent of something fried and delicious wafts through the vents from the restaurant next door, and my mouth waters involuntarily.
Fuck. I’m starving.
I look back at my bag on the table.
I continue pacing.
The scent grows stronger, and I contemplate jobs that I could possibly find in Wichita, Kansas, that will pay me under the table so I can afford to eat.
I could always dance. I had a friend who put herself through college that way.
Callie also didn’t have scars covering most of her torso.
My stomach grumbles again, and my wallet beckons me like a bad friend.
I’m going to regret this.
“Fine.”
I’ll eat tonight and skip eating tomorrow. I’ll ask if there are any positions open for the back of the house, next door, and that will at least be a start to the job search.
I’ve done it. I’ve made a plan.
—Even if it’s only for the next twenty-four hours.
Grabbing my wallet, I peek out the curtain to my rented room. Nothing. No new cars. No men lurking in the shadows waiting to sell me off to the sleazy psychopath that wants to hurt me.
Slipping out into the evening air, I pull my denim jacket tight around myself and lock the door. Wichita is about what you would expect from a Midwest city. It’s calm. Less crowded than LA, and everyone’s been overly friendly. Where people would walk by you if you were on fire in the streets of LA, here, they would use their last bits of water to put out the flames.
I could stay in a place like this. Somewhere . . . different. Before I ran, I’d never been to half the places I’ve stayed, and if nothing else good came from my time on the run, then at least I got to see a different side of the world than the party dresses and wealthy socialites I’d grown up with under my stepfather’s reign of terror.
I peer through the windows of the diner attached to the motel before I step inside. It’s empty, save for a few older men sitting at the counter, a family down the way, and a dark-haired man sitting near the back, reading the paper.
“Hi, I’m June. What can I get for you?” An older woman, around my mother’s age, with brown hair and bright purple eye shadow, slides up to my booth when I take a seat. I jump when she speaks because I hadn’t seen her approach, but her gentle smile never moves.
“Sorry,” I murmur, my cheeks flaming as I stare down at the menu. Everything’s cheap, but I am still Broke, with a capital B. “Can I just get some toast, please? And a water.”
She eyes me like she wants to say something, but I’m thankful when it’s just to ask me white or wheat.
“Wheat, please.”
“Wheat toast, coming right up,” she smiles and takes my menu.
In probably one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, my stomach growls as loud as possible, like a hostage trying to alert the police that I’m starving it.
Asshole.
“Sorry,” I chuckle, brushing my hair over my face to hide the scar at my hairline. It’s not that noticeable, but I know it’s there. Unfortunately, her eyes catch on the mark, and now she knows it’s there too.
“Sure you don’t want something more than toast?” she grins, flashing a knowing smile at me while my cheeks feel like they’re going to melt at any moment.
“Nope,” I lie. Someone has bacon, and I’m this close to selling a kidney for a bite. “Toast is great.”
I hate toast unless I have strawberry jam.
“Alright, that’ll be out in a jiffy.”
She heads back to the kitchen, and I twist my fingers around in front of me. I don’t have a phone—it’s too easy to track. I left the only book I have back in the room, and besides, I’ve read it probably six times in the last six months.
So . . . with nothing to do, I look around. The diner is old and rundown, but like most places like this, it seems to be a favorite among the local elderly population. That means they have good coffee, something I haven’t had in months because I’m too afraid to use the motel coffee makers. I’ve heard the horror stories about urine.
“Here we are,” June returns, but instead of the toast I had ordered, she sits two plates of scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, and bacon on the table with two glasses of soda.
I just stare at her when she slips into the booth opposite me.
“Well, aren’t you going to eat?” she asks, reaching for a fork.
God, it smells amazing .
“I ordered toast,” I whisper as if she hasn’t realized what she placed in front of me.
“I know,” she nods. “And I brought it.” She points to the piece of wheat toast on the edge of the plate. “Don’t make me eat alone. I’ll feel like a pig.”
“June, I can’t pay for this.”
She fixes me with a bored stare.
“Robby cooked up scrambled eggs instead of sunny side up,” she rolls her eyes as if Robby fucks up eggs all the time. “That means it’s free. More for us, I guess,” she shrugs and dives into her matching plate.
I really, really shouldn’t.
My stomach grumbles again, and June looks at me, clearly judging me.
“Fine,” I grumble, grabbing my fork.
“What’s your name?”
“Casey,” I lie. I’ve used a different name for every city I’ve gone through. My last name was Matilda.
When no one knows who you are, who’s to argue if your name is believable or not?
“No one’s going to take it from you,” she admonishes when I shovel the eggs in my mouth.
God, I could die; they’re so good.
“How long’s it been since you’ve eaten?”
“Oh, I had a granola bar yesterday,” I say, not even realizing what I’ve just told her about myself in a single sentence.
I pause, fork halfway to my mouth.
Fuck.
“Girl’s got to eat,” she chastises. “Otherwise, you may as well have just stayed with whoever gave you that scar.” She points to the scar on my forehead, and instantly, I move to cover it with the brim of my hat. She reaches out, pulls my hat back, and inspects the mark. “Fucker got you good, didn’t he?”
I don’t bother to tell her it wasn’t a lover like she’s probably thinking. Just a psychopath who caught me when I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Did it hurt?”
“Well, it didn’t feel good.”
She points her fork at me, and for once, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who doesn’t know who I am or what I’m running from. Like having brunch with an old friend.
If I had any of those.
“You know, my first husband, Francis, was an alcoholic. Used to beat me black and blue.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I grimace, biting into the toast.
Everything here must be laced with cocaine because it’s fucking delicious.
I guess it could also be the fact that I haven’t had a real meal in weeks.
“No use being sorry,” she shrugs. “I shot the bastard. Didn’t kill him, of course.” She rolls her eyes, stabbing at a potato. “Did divorce him, though. Then, I met a real nice man named Steve and had my two kids with him.”
“I’m glad it all worked out in the end.”
“It didn’t. Steve up and died. Asshole was a gambler. Got in with some bad people,” she grumbles. “Died when my kids were only ten and twelve.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
“Nope, then I was stupid enough to get back with Francis,” she waves. “That’s the first husband. Then he died, and I started to think I had a voodoo cooch.”
“Voodoo cooch?” I pause, and she nods.
“It’s where all your sexual partners start dropping like flies,” she explains. “ But then I met Robby—the one who can’t cook eggs—and I realized I just needed a strong man.” She waves, and I follow her gaze to where a tall man is watching us out the kitchen window. He grins when she smiles and waves back at her. “He’s dumber than a box of rocks, but he’s sweet. And the kids love him. And he’d probably survive a nuclear blast with all the grease he’s been around his whole life.”
“You’ve lived quite the life, June.”
“I’m telling you all this because I want you to understand life doesn’t have to be over just because a man hit you. I know shit probably seems bleak right now, but sooner or later, everything’s got to work out.” She pushes her empty plate away from her. “It’s the law of physics or some shit. I don’t know. I didn’t pay attention in school.”
“I don’t know,” I breathe, finishing the last of my food. I look out the window beside us to see the sun slipping behind the trees north of us. It’ll be dark soon. “Sometimes, I wonder if it would be better to just stop running.”
“Give yourself up, you mean?”
I nod because I can’t say the words out loud.
I’ve been running for six. Fucking. Months. I’m no further away now than I was three months ago or even the month before that.
She shakes her head. “Nope. Fuck that. A man who hits you isn’t a man,” she waves her hand. “I’ve been trying to teach my daughter the same thing. She’s your age and well . . .” she shrugs. “No, that ain’t a man. A man is willing to die for you. Willing to break his back to keep his family safe. But . . . you’ve got to be willing to do the same for him. It’s how it works.”
“What about Robby?” I can’t help but smile when she does, looking back to see him whistling away at the kitchen stove, completely oblivious.
“Robby’s a good boy. He’d do whatever he had to do to protect our little slice of Wichita heaven.”
The door opens behind us, and the bell above chimes. For once, the sudden noise doesn’t cause me to nearly jump out of my skin.
“Thank you . . . for this,” I gesture to the table in front of us. “Can I at least leave you a tip?”
“No,” she rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the hint of a smile on her lips. “I’m just happy I didn’t have to throw it away. You know, Robby’s fuck-up, and all.”
“Right,” I chuckle, sliding from the booth. June moves to grab our plates, but something in me tells me I need to show her how much she saved me. Even if not for the food, but for the normal human conversation. It’s been a long freaking time.
Against everything in my head, screaming at the thought, I pull her into a hug.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and she tenses for a second before she finally concedes and hugs me back.
“Sweetheart,” she whispers in my ear, patting my back. “I hope whatever you’re running from, you kick it in the balls and get your life back.” She pulls back to look at me, and for a moment, something else flickers in her eyes. Something that has my heart beating a little faster and my skin growing clammy. “Trust your gut.”
Awareness trickles down my spine, and the distinct awareness of being watched slides over me. I look around the small diner, but there’s no one else here besides the people that were here when I arrived. Whoever came in a moment ago is nowhere to be found.
Something’s not right . . .
Slipping from the diner, I scurry back to my room, locking myself inside and pressing myself flat against the door behind me.
My heartbeat thuds painfully against the inside of my chest, sweat beading on the back of my neck.
They’re here. I don’t know how I know; I can just feel it.
“Fuck,” I grit, jumping towards my bag to start throwing my stuff in.
Only, I pause to check out the window and look around.
Nothing.
Am I being paranoid?
“Probably,” I answer the question out loud.
I’m exhausted. It’s been a week since I’ve had more than a couple hours of sleep wherever I can get it. I can’t keep doing this. This running. It’s been a month since the incident in Illinois and three since they almost caught me in Arizona. For all I know, he could have given up by now.
In the darkness of my bedroom, I can’t help but laugh.
Who am I kidding?
I’ve been running on borrowed time for almost a year.
I spend the entire next day looking for under-the-table job opportunities in my tiny little corner of Kansas. Short of blow jobs for truckers or selling coke for my neighbor three doors down, I’m well and truly fucked. Every place I visited wanted my social security number and real name.
How’s a fugitive supposed to feed herself in this country?
Now, I’m walking through the dark and desolate streets of Wichita at night to make my way back to my motel room on the outskirts of town. I’ve been walking all day, and I’m exhausted and hungry. Luckily, June stopped by my room this morning with a bagel and told me to come see her before I went to bed. I genuinely don’t know what I’d do without her. It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve spoken to someone who doesn’t want to kill me, and I’m eternally grateful for her feeding me. I can’t help but wonder what her life would have turned out had she had someone like herself as a young woman.
Everyone thinks innocence is lost when you become a woman.
They’re wrong.
It’s lost the first time you catch a glimpse of how the world really works. The first moment, you no longer feel like the center of your mother’s world. The moment the veil starts to lift and that crushing disappointment starts to wash in, replacing the whimsical wonder you’d once viewed in the world around you.
Like the little girl in front of me. Old enough to run and play on her own. Too young to do so without her mother. They just visited an old ice cream parlor for some late-night ice cream, and she runs to catch back up to her mother from petting a stray cat. Her mother is on her phone, not paying an ounce of attention in a world that would love to rip her daughter from her in the blink of an eye.
It happens to the best of us. We get comfortable in the mundane and forget that somewhere, someone is always watching, ready to take until there’s nothing left to give.
When she finally catches up, she grasps her mother’s hand tightly, and the mother jumps, surprised that her daughter wasn’t with her this whole time.
I can’t help but wonder if that’s what got me into the situation I’m in.
Comfort.
“Mommy!” the little girl squeals, laughing when the cat runs to catch up with them. I smile softly to myself, taking the next street and finally separating from them.
Unfortunately, I’m not paying attention until I’m alone on the street with a group of men on the sidewalk across from me.
Instantly, a chill slips down my spine when they stop talking, their eyes following me as I hug my jacket tighter around myself.
It’s wrong to assume. Maybe they’re nice men. Not all men are rapists, but . . . not all men aren’t , either.
—A fact that’s solidified for me as soon as one of them wolf-whistles.
The rest of the men snicker and a sinister silence sweeps through the air, the only sound my accelerating pulse in my ears.
“Hey, beautiful . . .” one calls, but I keep my head down and my gaze pinned on the sidewalk beneath me, hoping they think I can’t hear them and leave me be.
But who am I kidding? I’m never that lucky.
“Come on,” the man says, whistling again under his breath as his footsteps sound on the pavement behind me.
He’s crossing the road.
My heartbeat hammers in my chest, my throat running dry as the burn under my skin starts.
The hands. Him. The knife . . .
“Please leave me alone,” I manage to croak, but the man just laughs, joined in a chorus by the other men across the street.
“Oh, don’t be like that, darlin’. I just want to talk. You’re so pretty.”
I know that voice.
The man I didn’t stab in Arizona.
Fuck.
More snickers. More panicking as my mouth fills with saliva and my entire body feels like it’s been dipped in acid. My chest aches, my lungs seizing up as I hear him getting closer.
I start walking faster and he jogs to the sidewalk as a car comes down the road from the opposite direction. Part of me wants to lunge into the street and beg them for help. The other half is worried they’re just as bad as he is.
“Here . . .kitty, kitty, kitty . . .” He sniffs loudly and chuckles. “Mmm . . . you smell like the prettiest flowers.”
One . . . two . . . three . . .
Just as I’m about to run, I turn back to look over my shoulder and find him closer than I thought, and the panic that was inside me turns to full-blown terror.
“Just let me talk—” he’s cut off by the loud screech of tires on the pavement. Both of us pause just as the man’s hand lands on my shoulder, and I look back, wide-eyed and frozen in fear, as the car barrels directly toward us.
And . . . doesn’t stop.
I have only a second to react, falling to my ass on the sidewalk when the car plows right into the man, sending him flying.
Or I guess . . . through him, is more like it.
My assailant flies into the air, his body crumpling on the street a few feet away as the elegant black sports car comes to a stop right in front of me.
The door opens, and death stares back at me in the face of the most handsome man I’ve ever met.
Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, deep blue eyes.
It’s him.
“Get in.”