2. Eva
The bus hums beneath me, the desert rolling by, and all I can think is that I’m running out of food, running out of money, and maybe running out of time.
Eight and a half hours in, and my body aches from sitting still, but my mind hasn’t stopped spinning since we left the bus station.
My knees are cramped. My back is stiff as hell against the thin seat cushion, and, considering my last meal was a fast-food cheeseburger yesterday, I am not having a good time right now.
Before we left, I was able to get a few snacks from the vending machine, but I’m down to one bag of chips and half a bottle of water now.
The last time the driver said anything to the few of us on this bus was several hours ago, when we stopped for a bathroom break at a rest stop somewhere in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere.
The only thing that has been good is that I have this feeling that I’ve finally bought myself time.
There’s no way Miguel can find me easily now with no tracker, no phone, and no technological tie to anything.
It’s not impossible, I know that. For him, nothing’s really impossible, but it’s harder, and at least that buys me time.
Hopefully, it’ll force the fucker to work for it a little more.
Without the immediate fear breathing down my neck, a new plan is developing.
I know nothing about Black Rock besides what I was able to get from some outdated brochure left on a display by a window at the station.
The dates in the brochure are from the early 2000s, though, so who knows how true it all is.
But, from what I found, it’s a small town with very little to do.
So, it’s basically perfect for someone to disappear and mind their business.
It’s also supposed to be a factory and development town, and I’ve been to a few of those.
Warehouses always have a foreman willing to pay cash for less.
The box of hair dye is still in my bag, and the plan is working in my head.
I can get a motel in the town, find a job, and spend a few weeks building up enough money to get a new car and get to Vegas.
It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks, and then I can follow through with my original plan and get to Benji. Having something new to fall back on helps calm my nerves a bit, at least.
But with calm nerves, my thoughts take new shapes, and I can’t help but notice how similar my current life situation is to who I was five years ago.
Five years ago, I was doing a similar thing—running away from a controlling, abusive environment with nothing but one bag and a few hundred dollars in savings from babysitting jobs.
I guess the difference is that I had far more hope in my heart that first time, and my goal wasn’t Vegas, it was Miami. A small town Florida girl raised in a near-cultish household, Miami was like Atlantis to me. I was convinced that I could go there and make it big with my singing.
God, I was so wrong. At first, Miami was everything I wanted. It was loud, bright, and alive. But then I started to realize that the world was filled with thousands of pretty girls with pretty voices trying to make it big. Just as the hopelessness started to set in, Cristian came into my life.
He was smooth, older, and intoxicating in the way dangerous things always are. He made me think I was something special, and I believed it. At first, it was a whirlwind. He was booking me small shows, spending more money than I’d ever seen, and wooing me in a way that I had never experienced.
But then his mask started slipping. It started slowly.
A little more controlling. A little less forgiving.
Then I moved in, and it was a speed run to disaster after that.
Suddenly, the charm was gone. His anger became sharp and heavy, and the first time his hand connected with my face, I realized I’d just traded one cage for another.
That was four years ago. I’m ashamed it took another year before I left. Well, ran. I slipped away in the night and started running. I haven’t stopped since.
Now, here I am, chewing my lip raw, wondering how much longer I can keep this up. Wondering if this is it. If I’m doomed to live like this forever.
At that moment, the intercom crackles overhead, and I’m pulled out of my thoughts. The driver’s dull voice breaks through the hum of the engine.
“Black Rock. Ten minutes.”
My forehead presses to the cool glass as the bus glides deeper into the afternoon, the desert finally giving up its endless stretch of emptiness. It’s been nothing but desert for a while now.
A few minutes later, I start to see the first signs of life. At first, it’s just a scatter of lights and reflection, but they multiply fast until the horizon is dotted with signs of life. Billboards flash by—pawn shop, tacos, a neon cross that makes my chest squeeze.
The closer we get, the clearer it becomes that this isn’t just some stop on the map.
A skyline rises—not massive, but enough to show the place has teeth.
A few glassy buildings reach higher than the rest, but most sit at that middle ground: three, maybe six stories.
Small-town bones with a city’s pulse layered over it.
There’s even a square with a fountain spraying arcs of water into the air, with the droplets glittering like diamonds in the sunlight.
Okay, so this place looks nothing like the brochure. This is not Vegas level, but Black Rock definitely is a little thriving city in the middle of the desert. My heartbeat picks up. This could be good or bad. Good for more opportunities for work, bad because cities are harder to disappear into.
The bus groans into the station, and the driver announces that we are to depart the bus. I stand up, throwing my tote over my shoulder and filing out, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. 4:35 PM.
My sneakers hit the pavement, and the air feels different—warmer, louder, alive. Despite the fact that it’s the middle of the day, the city is definitely alive with energy. Cars glide past. Music thumps from somewhere close. People walk in pairs, heads bent together, with laughter ringing out.
I step away from the bus and the small station behind me and pause at the curb, taking it all in. Then my eyes snag on the bright sign across the street. Rooms $50/night special!
Without a glance back at the bus, I jog across the street. The motel fits the side of town I’m in—run-down furniture, peeling walls, a stale smoke smell.
The man at the desk looks up when I walk in, but he seems like he couldn't care less.
“Looking for a room?”
I nod as I come to a stop in front of the desk. “Yeah, um, two nights, please.”
I don’t like prepaying for two days in the future. I think I’m good for a bit before I have to risk being found if I’m careful, but still, you never know. The worst thing is dropping money for a week-long stay and only being there a night or two.
I hand over the cash as he taps at the old computer.
A second later, he’s handing me a key ring and a small access card with the directions to use the key on my door and the access card to get in and out of the gate and to the pool.
But when I walk outside in the direction he told me, I pass the pool, and I don’t think I’ll be using that any time soon.
Several hours later, I’m coming out of the shower with wet hair and a slightly tingly scalp, considering I left the dye on for a bit too long without a phone for an alarm.
Glancing in the mirror, I try not to frown as I look at my hair.
The dye wasn’t great truthfully. My bleach-blonde hair became a dirty, muddy brown that wasn’t quite my old chestnut.
But, I guess maybe that’s better. Something entirely new.
I do look completely different. It’s not ideal and salon-perfect, but survival doesn’t have space for vanity, so I run the towel through my damp, now darker curls and move into the bedroom portion of the motel.
From the clock on the nightstand, I see that it’s a little after ten at night.
Perfect time to explore this town without being too conspicuous in the light.
So, I pull on my only other change of clothes, a short skirt and black crop top I’ve used to get myself more than one job and a free meal.
Sliding back into my black Vans, because I’m not carrying heels around with me on the run, I grab my wallet, new ID, and motel key before heading out, locking my door behind me.
I look around before I find a small stick, and I put it inconspicuously in front of my door.
Since I’m at the end of the row, no one should have to walk this way, so if I come back and the stick is disturbed, I know immediately not to go inside.
With that small assurance, I leave the motel property and begin walking aimlessly down the street.
I wander for maybe ten minutes before I finally come out of what I’m assuming was the seedier side of town and into what I can only gather is the edge of downtown based on the increase in people, businesses, and noise.
The whole block is busy with life, and it’s clear that this city has a bustling nightlife.
A group of girls stumbles out of a building to my left, giggling so loudly they pull my attention.
My eyes skim over the building they leave, and I realize it’s a bar and nightclub.
String lights drape over the awning, music blasts from the open door, and a chalkboard sign out front promises “$5 Cocktails.”
My lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile. A drink won’t solve shit, but it might make the edges blur. Plus, I’m a lightweight, so with cocktails that cheap, I’ll only waste twenty bucks before I’m wasted and can stumble back to my motel momentarily stress-free.
When the walk light changes, I cross with the crowd and head straight for the open door. The moment I enter, the heat of closely packed bodies slams into me. Music, voices, the sharp scent of tequila and beer fill my senses.
The place is packed, and from the looks of it, this is definitely not a typical club.
Everyone here looks like they’re dressed for some kind of motorcycle gang movie—men in torn denim with cut jackets, boots scuffing against the floor, women scattered in tight latex and leather.
But the one thing I notice immediately is that no one looks in my direction twice. So this place is immediately perfect.
I weave through the crowd until the bar top presses against my forearms. The bartender, a cute guy in his twenties with sleeves of ink running down his arms, slides by and catches my eye.
He leans over the bar and yells loud enough for me to hear, “What can I get you, pretty?”
“A tequila sunrise,” I shout back. I manage to stop myself from adding a shot of Patron. But I want to be able to walk myself back to my room. Thank you very much.
He nods once and moves away to mix the drink.
With no seats available and people pushing on either side of me, I plant my elbows, grounding myself. A couple of drinks. Then I’ll figure out what comes next in this town and how I can get in and out of here with the fewest attachments and distractions possible.
Shouldn’t be too hard.
End of preview. Continue reading Nanny for the Savage Bikers here.