Chapter 37
NOAH
I can’t fucking sleep. We’re backward. We stay up at night and sleep during the day. I don’t like this routine, even if it’s what’s best for movement.
Still, the silence of Bill’s farmhouse is heavy, the mattress too soft, and the domestic illusion too potent. Beside me, Rue is breathing in a slow, steady rhythm, completely dead to the world. Bullet is curled at her feet, a motionless lump on the faded quilt.
For a few hours tonight, sitting on the porch, I let myself believe this could last. But the survival instincts I’ve honed over ten years in a cage don’t just turn off because I’m holding a beautiful woman.
We are sitting ducks. We need a way out, and walking isn’t going to cut it. I have to figure this out. Somehow.
I carefully slide out of bed, make my way to the living room, and flick the TV on. I scroll through some of the channels until I find the news. I stand there, reading the subtitles that play across the screen.
It takes about ten minutes for my blurry image to pop up on the screen.
The manhunt for Convicted Murderer Thomas Noah Peterson is moving beyond the small town of Moccasin Cove to hundreds of miles away.
I stare at the image of the gas station, the stolen car, and the clipped investigator saying, “There’s nothing we have for the public right now beyond being aware.”
Which means they’re keeping it close to the vest. Or they don’t fucking know.
“It could really go either way,” I mumble to myself, and then glance toward the door. Fuck it.
I turn off the TV and slip out through the back door.
The corrugated steel door of the equipment shed protests with a dull squeal as I shove it open with my hip.
I slip inside, immediately hit by the familiar, gritty scent of diesel fuel, dry dirt, and old hay.
I click the light on, the light sweeping across the massive green and yellow John Deere tractor sitting in the center of the dirt floor.
I don’t look at the rafters where Rue and I lost our minds two days ago. Instead, I walk past the rusted plowing attachments toward the back corner of the shed, searching for anything I might’ve missed.
And there it is.
Tucked away in the corner, there’s a thick, dust-caked canvas tarp that sits heaped over a distinct, two-wheeled silhouette.
Fuck yeah. I grab the edge of the heavy canvas and pull.
A cloud of dust blooms in the light beam, settling over the chrome and rusted steel of a relic.
It’s an old Harley-Davidson Knucklehead.
I run my good hand over the sweeping curve of the fuel tank, wiping away a decade of grime. The smell of old oil and stale gasoline wafts up from the engine block, and instantly, my chest tightens.
It smells like my dad. It smells like the life I left behind. And I don’t miss it, not really. But there’s still something to be said about freedom, which is something I do miss.
I stare at the Knucklehead, a mixture of emotions igniting beneath my ribcage. It’s a machine built for running, though I don’t know how long it’s been since it has.
But it could be our golden ticket out of here. Bill might never know it’s gone.
“Noah?” The soft, hesitant voice echoes through the cavernous barn. I turn to see Rue slipping through the crack in the doors. She’s wearing her clean black leggings and a matching T-shirt, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist against the chill.
“You shouldn't be out here alone,” I tell her, though there isn’t any real heat in my voice. Honestly, it’s nice to see her.
She walks toward me, her eyes wide and glassy. “You left the bed. I woke up, and you were gone.” She stops beside me, staring at the bike. “Wait… Does this run?”
“Doubtful,” I answer, running my thumb over the worn leather of the seat.
“But… I might be able to make it. There are no fancy computers, no fobs to track. It’s entirely mechanical.
It looks like it was once in running condition and then just parked, so there’s a solid chance I can get it to turn over.
Bill probably has the tools and fluids somewhere in this shop… maybe.”
Rue’s eyes widen slightly. “So… You know how to fix it then?”
“I practically grew up in a garage,” I mutter. “It’ll take me a few nights of tinkering, but yeah. Maybe.”
“That's...” She breathes out a sigh of relief, stepping closer to me. “That’s amazing, Noah. It could change everything.”
“Well, before you start counting on that, let’s see if the engine even has any compression first,” I say, stepping up to the side of the bike.
I grip the handlebars, throwing my right leg over the leather seat. I shift my weight, preparing to test the kickstart pedal. But the moment I apply pressure and bear down, a blinding, white-hot shard of agony shoots straight up my left arm from the bullet wound.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
A guttural groan rips from my throat. My left arm gives out completely, and the bike tilts dangerously to the side.
“Noah!”
Rue is there in a second. She steps directly into my space, planting her hands firmly on my waist and hip, using her own body weight to steady me and keep the heavy machine from tipping over and pinning my leg.
I grit my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut until the nausea and the black spots clear from my vision. I feel a pant slip from my mouth, as my forehead rests against the cold metal of the handlebars.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she chides, her hands still gripping my waist tightly. “I’ll try it.”
I open my eyes, looking down at her. Her face is upturned, her jade-green eyes fierce and entirely determined. She isn’t shrinking away. She isn’t flinching at me anymore. She is completely anchored to me.
“Okay,” I rasp, my heart kicking up a desperate rhythm. “Let’s let you try.”
She offers a small, relieved smile, her hands sliding gently from my waist as I carefully shift my weight back to stand the bike upright on its kickstand.
But as she steps back, her gaze sweeps over the motorcycle again, lingering on the small, narrow leather seat. Her smile falters, replaced by a devastating, quiet realization.
“Noah...” she begins, her voice trembling slightly. She reaches out, tracing the edge of the rear fender. “How are we supposed to take Bullet to Arizona on this?”
The question hangs in the dusty air.
I look at the narrow seat. Then, I look at Rue. My mind flashes to just an hour ago—Bullet standing at the bottom of the porch steps, his back legs trembling, entirely unable to muster the strength to climb.
He’s probably not going to.
But looking at Rue’s terrified, fragile expression, I can’t say it. I can’t strip away the one piece of comfort she has left in this nightmare.
I swallow the harsh, brutal truth.
“I’ll figure it out,” I lie smoothly, keeping my voice steady and completely reassuring. “I’ll find a milk crate in the barn or the house. We’ll rig it up and strap it to the back fender. He'll ride in style. And if that doesn’t work, he can go in a backpack.”
The tension bleeds out of her shoulders. She lets out a shaky breath, her smile returning, bright and deeply relieved. “Okay. Good.”
She turns back toward the workbench to start looking for tools, completely unaware that I am watching her with a sickening, heavy knot forming in my gut. I’m protecting her smile tonight, but I know a reckoning is coming for both of us before the week is out.
And I’m not sure what that looks like.