Chapter 13
NOAH
Hesitation lingers in every inch of her body as she picks up her backpack and slings it over her shoulder. She eyes me, the bed, Bullet, and then the bathroom—all in one quick succession.
I don’t understand it entirely, but then again, I haven’t had privacy in God knows how long.
“I think I actually will shower,” Rue says suddenly, and then darts for the bathroom. She shuts the door, and I hear the lock click.
She’s getting jumpy. But maybe she’s just tired.
I shove the bottle of antibiotics back in my bag and sift through the contents, seeing the medical supplies Netty tucked away. I’ll use them after I have my own shower. I zip my bag up, and then creep to the window, peering through the heavy black curtains.
The parking lot isn’t empty, but it’s not full either.
There are about ten vehicles parked along the row of motel rooms. Nothing looks out of place. No one is outside. She said the cameras were down.
Did she give them her name? How much cash did it take?
Why didn’t I ask her these details? Why didn’t I think of them in advance?
I chew the inside of my cheek and let the curtain fall back into place. I take in the room, which is pretty bare bones, but there is a TV. I grab the remote off the dresser beneath it and turn it on.
Some kid show pops up on the screen, and the volume is ten times louder than it should be. I wince, and then start flipping through the channels, searching for something—anything—that might give me an update on what’s going on.
But there’s nothing. Nada.
We can’t stay ahead if we don’t know what’s happening with the search.
Maybe it would benefit us to have burner phones… Just a way to access the internet, so that we can keep up with the search.
“But that would be a big risk,” I say to myself.
Bullet whines at me then, and I turn toward him, tilting my head. The white around his eyes and mouth is more pronounced under the shitty fluorescent lights in the room.
Maybe it was a bad idea to let her bring him along.
Well, there’s no ‘maybe’ about it. It was. I know it was. I did it so she has something to comfort her when I strand her at the border.
Or somewhere. Maricopa. That’s right.
My head feels so goddamn hazy right now. Did I not sleep enough? It’s not like I’m not used to running on shitty quality sleep. All sleep in prison is shitty.
The sound of the shower starting catches my attention, and for a moment, my mind flashes with a new idea. The kind that ends with me invading Rue’s shower space.
Bad idea right now, I remind myself for the hundredth time. I’ve had Rue. She tasted and felt like the best thing I’ve ever experienced.
And the more I allow myself to have her, the harder it’ll be to let her go.
So, I pace the fucking motel room instead, my bicep aching where the bullet went through my arm. It’s better than it was, and that counts for something. It’ll just keep healing—hopefully enough before I have to make that fucking hike to Mexico.
Unless I don’t go to Mexico.
My thoughts won’t stop racing.
My heart kicks up to join, my chest tightens, and the edge of my vision blurs.
“Hands up! Put your hands up!”
“Get on the ground!”
The marshals’ voices explode in my head, the fear of death exploding in my body like a grenade. Anyone who says they’re not afraid to die is full of shit.
Even if someone strings that rope themselves, the fear is still there. The pain is just louder.
I rub my eyes, pinching the upper bridge of my nose afterward. I squeeze it as hard as I can, until the sting flares through my face.
What life comes after this? After I drop Rue at the border and head into Mexico?
I can’t see that far.
Bullet whines again, and I plop down on the edge of the bed. He slowly makes his way to me and then curls up, resting his head on my forearm. I pet his head, focusing on the way his fur feels beneath my fingers, rather than the way the walls of the motel room feel like they’re closing in on me.
“We’re going to figure this out,” I say softly. “And you’re going to take care of her when I can’t.”
Like I’ve ever even taken care of her. What a fucking delusion.
A deep, sick feeling churns in my gut, and I squeeze my eyes shut again. All I ever wanted in my life was to be the good guy in a sea of really fucked up ones—just like my dad. Now, I don’t know what I am.
Which is why Rue needs to go and heal. And fucking forget me. It’s not like I was ever on track to be something great, anyway.
“And maybe I’ll go live in the jungle or something.”
As the words leave my lips in a mumble, the bathroom door swings open.
I whip my head in the direction of Rue, taking in the sight of her in fresh gray pajama pants and a loose white T-shirt.
Her wet hair is bleeding moisture onto her shoulders, turning the material see-through.
My jaw tenses, my body aching to feel her close again.
“I think I’m going to shower, too,” I clear my throat, pushing myself up to standing. I grab the duffle bag and carry it with me—like I’m not going to just put the same clothes right back on.
Rue nods, lingering in the small space between the bathroom and the bed.
“What?” I hesitate, my hand on the bathroom doorknob.
“Do you need help with that?” She points to the bandage on my arm. “It probably needs to be redressed, or whatever he told you to do with it.”
I glance down at it. “I can take care of it. Go get some sleep.”
She holds my gaze, her lips pursed and face unreadable. “Are you sure?”
“Yep.” I push the door and disappear in the bathroom. The scent of coconut and vanilla overwhelms me as I step inside, and I almost walk right back out.
Just get the shower over with.
I kick on the water, and then strip down, gritting through the pain in my arm and overall soreness. I’ve put my body through absolute fucking hell since I ran over a week ago. No amount of prison workouts could’ve prepared me for this.
I run my hand over my head before stepping in, feeling the length of my hair. It’s grown. It’s grown a lot in a week. I need to shave, too, but that’s for another time.
Before I step into the warm stream of water, I carefully remove the bandage around my arm.
It’s stitched closed, and honestly, it doesn’t look like a bullet wound.
It doesn’t really look like anything, honestly.
I brush my fingertips over the wound, the skin still sensitive and burned around the entry point.
It’ll probably scar.
I don’t care, though. Just as long as it can’t identify me. I step under the water and reach for the shitty motel soap, setting behind the soap that Rue left on the edge of the white plastic shower.
I don’t linger, even though the warm water massages my muscles. It feels like there’s an internal timer that runs in my head when it comes to showering now. I can’t take my time. I can never take my time.
Never again, probably.
Once I’m convinced I’m clean and I’ve washed the grime of the lake from my body, I shut off the water and step out. I grab a white towel and soak up as much moisture as I can from my skin.
“Fuck,” I mutter as the coarse material crosses a couple of open cuts on my abdomen. I don’t recall getting them, but I’m sure it was the debris in the dark waters I swam out of.
I should’ve never made it out. But I did.
I toss the towel aside and pull my clothes back on, actively avoiding the mirror. I don’t give a shit what I look like. It won’t change the way I feel about myself.
Which is just… numb.
Fucking survival warrants no emotion.
Dipping back into the bag, I pull out the fresh gauze. I wrap and tape the wound quickly, even though it doesn’t appear to be oozing any blood anymore. Still, the last thing I need to do is leave blood on the sheets.
I stuff everything back into the bag, including Rue’s soaps as well as the motel’s. We could have to leave quickly, and if we leave shit all spread out, it’ll make it more difficult to get the fuck out.
What would I do if cops just showed up out of nowhere? Would I surrender? Go back to prison? I shudder at the thought. At those goddamned concrete walls and razor-wired fences.
Nope. Not going back to the human zoo.
I kick off the lights and pull the bathroom door inward, stepping out into the small motel room.
I blink to adjust to the dim lights and tune into the heavy, steady breathing of Rue.
She’s curled on her side beneath the covers, facing me.
Bullet is tucked in the crook of her arm, his floppy ear resting against the tip of her nose.
The sight is as painful as it is adorable.
If I could go back in time, I’d have never let Matthew ruin your life.
But the past is the past. And now, all I can do is run from it.
I move silently across the room, setting my bag down next to her backpack. Part of me is terrified to crawl into bed next to her—or even just sleep in a bed in general.
It’s been over a decade since I slept on a mattress.
But I give in to the temptation, carefully pulling back the thin quilt and stiff sheets. I ease my body downward, my eyes fighting the urge to close before my head ever hits the pillow.
Holy fuck. This feels good.
Almost as good as Rue’s scent and warmth encapsulating my senses, and momentarily relieving the tightness in my body.