Chapter 34
RUE
There are two bathrooms in this disgusting house. Thankfully, the guest bathroom is probably the cleanest spot in the house.
It smells like some sort of cleaner and stale potpourri, completely untouched by whatever bachelor filth Bill has going on in the kitchen and the master suite.
I lock the door behind me and lean my forehead against the cool, faux-wood paneling, letting out a breath that rattles all the way down to my ribs.
We are hiding in a stranger’s house. The entire state of Texas is looking for us, and we are quite literally playing house.
We’re insane. We’re absolutely insane.
I peel myself away from the door and catch sight of my reflection in the vanity mirror. I look like a ghost. There are dark, bruised bags under my eyes, a nasty scrape along my temple from the crash, and my hair is a tangled, matted bird’s nest of alfalfa, sweat, and dirt.
I don’t even look like me. When was the last time I even ate?
My hands shake as I strip off my jeans and shirt. They’re soiled, stained with bar ditch mud and the grime of the RV’s underbelly. I leave them in a pathetic heap on the linoleum floor and step into the shower, turning the water on as hot as I can stand.
The moment the spray hits my shoulders, a choked sob rips out of my throat.
It stings. The hot water bites into the cuts on my shins, the bruises on my ribs, and the scrape on my head. But underneath the pain is a blinding, overwhelming relief.
I grab a generic bar of Ivory soap from the wire rack and scrub until my skin is raw. I watch the water swirl down the drain, taking with it the dirt of the desert, the smell of the diesel fumes, and the physical remnants of everything Noah and I did in the rafters of that barn.
I stand under the spray until the water runs lukewarm, my muscles turning to absolute jelly.
Holy shit. This feels good.
When I finally step out, I dry off with a slightly stiff towel from the rack and dig through my backpack. I pull on a pair of clean black leggings and an oversized, faded band tee. It’s not much, but putting on clean clothes makes me feel a fraction more human.
Just a fraction, though.
I crack the bathroom door open. The house is still deadly quiet.
Bullet is waiting for me in the hallway, his tail giving a soft thump against the floorboards.
His black-and-brown nose is working overtime, twitching frantically as he sniffs the bottom of the doorframe.
He’s definitely catching the lingering scent of Buster, the massive farm dog who lives here, but instead of acting afraid, he just seems incredibly curious.
“Come on, buddy,” I sigh.
He trots after me, his nose practically glued to the worn carpet as we move toward the spare bedroom at the end of the hall. The room is small, dominated by a full-sized bed covered in a faded quilt. It smells like dust and a space that hasn’t been slept in for years.
I drop my backpack on a wooden chair in the corner and unzip the main compartment. Bullet immediately perks up, his ears flopping forward as he abandons his investigation of the baseboards. I pull out the small, crumpled plastic bag of dog food Noah managed to save from the Pathfinder wreckage.
“You must be starving,” I murmur.
I don’t have a bowl, so I grab a dusty hunting magazine off the nightstand, tear off the thick back cover, and pour a generous mound of kibble onto the glossy paper.
Bullet doesn’t care about the presentation.
He dives in immediately, his tail wagging so hard his entire back half wiggles with pure, unadulterated joy.
The loud, happy sound of him crunching on the food brings a tiny, genuine smile to my face.
In the middle of this absolute nightmare, he is just thrilled to have a meal and a dry place to explore.
While he eats, I turn my attention to the bed. I desperately want to collapse onto it, but the thought of sleeping on sheets that have been gathering dust for God knows how long makes my skin crawl.
I pull the quilt back and strip the fitted and flat sheets off the mattress, balling them up into my arms.
“Stay,” I tell Bullet, who is now happily licking the magazine cover clean.
I creep down the hallway, listening for Noah.
I hear the quiet rustle of him moving around in the kitchen—probably still taking inventory of the pantry like he said he would.
I find the small laundry closet just off the living room, toss the sheets inside the washing machine, and pour in a capful of cheap detergent.
I press start. The machine groans to life, the steady, rhythmic swoosh of the water filling the basin sounding incredibly loud, but somehow… domestic.
And fuck, it’s grounding.
I find a fresh set of sheets in the hall closet—they smell like old cotton and mothballs, but they’re clean. I carry them back to the spare bedroom, shoo Bullet to the corner of the mattress, and remake the bed.
By the time I pull the heavy quilt back over the pillows, I have nothing left in my tank. The adrenaline that has been keeping me upright for the last twenty-four hours completely flatlines.
I crawl under the covers, curling my body into a tight ball. The mattress sags in the middle, but right now, it feels like a five-star luxury resort. I close my eyes, my brain immediately trying to conjure the terrifying image of the news anchor and Noah’s mugshot.
I forcefully push it away. Not right now.
The door hinges creak.
I open my eyes just a fraction. Noah fills the doorway, a dark silhouette against the dim light of the hallway. He has his duffle bag in his good hand, and he’s wearing a fresh gray T-shirt and jeans. The bandage wrapped around his left bicep is stark white and pristine.
He stands there for a long moment, just watching me.
“Did you find a first-aid kit?” I murmur, my voice thick with exhaustion.
“Yeah,” he says softly, stepping into the room and gently pushing the door shut until it clicks. The room plunges into near-total darkness, save for the sliver of light bleeding through the gaps in the blinds. “I got it cleaned up. Took the pills, too. I have no idea if I’ve been staying on track.”
He moves to the edge of the bed and sets the duffel bag on the floor. I hear the rustle of denim as he kicks off his boots, followed by the slide of his jeans pooling at his feet.
The mattress dips heavily under his weight as he climbs in beside me.
And the wall between us is obliterated now. He reaches out in the dark, his solid, warm arm wrapping around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest.
I let out a shaky exhale, entirely melting into him.
His body heat surrounds me, chasing away the lingering chill of the house. He buries his face in my damp hair, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm that instantly syncs with my own.
“You did well today, baby,” he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against my skin.
A lump forms in my throat. I reach down, my fingers finding his hand where it rests against my stomach, and I lace my fingers through his.
There are a million things we need to figure out. We have practically no money, no car, and no solid plan for how to cross a border that is heavily guarded—that I know of. But as Noah’s breathing evens out into a deep, peaceful sleep behind me, the terror finally recedes.
For the first time since the crack of the gunshot echoed across Moccasin Lake, my mind goes completely dark, and I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Finally.