Chapter 8
Eight
Anearby gas station with a public washroom allows me to clean up discreetly. The cuts on my wrists are deep in some spots, but mostly they feel worse than they are. Having nothing to wrap them with though, I have to leave them exposed and do my best to keep my shirt sleeves over them.
The teenage attendant at the pump points me in the direction of a nearby pawn shop, and five long city blocks later, I find myself outside Silver’s Pawn and Convenience. Five blocks have given me plenty of time to arrange things in my head. I have a plan.
Opening the door, I stride in and head straight for the counter where the clerk, an older silver-haired man, is leaning on his elbows staring at me.
“I’d like to see your guns, please.” My voice is low as I tap my nails on the countertop.
“Err, sure.” He hesitates, looking me over before motioning me to another counter with a built-in glass case. “We don’t have a huge selection, but everything works.”
“Looks like a great collection,” I say easily and point through the glass. “Give me that one there.”
“‘Course.” He reaches in and withdraws it from the case. “I’ll give you a deal, miss. Two hundred bucks if you have cash.” He winks at me.
“Look.” I level my eyes on him and draw up my sleeves, exposing the fresh wounds.
“I just escaped a kidnapping.” His eyes go wide.
“I can’t go to the cops yet. They still have my kid, and they’ll kill him if I do.
” My eyes well up on cue. “They’re gonna come for me again, and I just want to be able to stop them.
As soon as I get my kid, I promise I’ll call the cops, and I’ll hand this gun over. I swear it.”
“Miss,” he says softly. “Let me bandage you up real quick, all right?”
Nodding, he waves me behind the counter and sits me down in his chair as he disappears into the back room.
I jump to my feet and rifle behind the counter until I find a box of nine-millimeter bullets.
Grabbing it, I slide the cupboard closed and then tuck the box into the display in the middle of the floor and take my seat.
“Here we are.” He exhales and opens a red plastic first aid kit on the counter.
Carefully, he applies an ointment to my wrists and wraps them in a bandage that he tapes in place.
“All right, now look at me.” Our eyes meet.
“I’m not real comfortable giving a lady a gun without training. Do you understand me?”
“I know how to shoot. My dad was a cop; that’s why they’re after me.”
Inwardly, I roll my eyes at myself, but he nods in earnest and puts the gun in my hand. “Show me how it works then.”
I unload the clip, reload it, set and remove the safety, and do a stoppage drill.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Your daddy must be proud.” He claps me on the shoulder, and I wince. “Let me look at that too.”
“It’s just a bruise. I got pretty banged up trying to get away.”
“You promise me that you’re going to kill them all and save your boy, you hear me?” His eyes focus on mine, and I nod, letting tears fill my eyes again. “There is no room in this country for people like that. You need to set your boundaries.”
I nod, and he shakes his head. “Say it. Tell me that you are going to set your boundaries, woman. You don’t let anyone in your house you don’t trust, you don’t let your kid go anywhere unless you know who he’s with, and you don’t let any man lay his hands on you again.”
“I won’t.” A tear falls, and I can’t say it isn’t real.
“Good.” He turns away and fishes out a box of bullets.
He loads the clip deftly. “When you go out my doors, head up the block—that’s left.
There’s a diner not too far.” He pulls out a twenty and hands it to me.
“Get yourself something to eat and clear your head. If anything happens and you need help, you come right back here, all right?”
“Yes, sir.” I shake his hand and get to my feet.
No one will ever convince me that gun-loving old men aren’t the salt of the earth now. I tuck the gun into the back of my jeans and slide the cash into my pocket, stopping at the display in the center of the floor and carefully palming the extra bullets as I turn slightly back.
“You have a lot of nice things here.” I smile, letting my fingers trail over the grip of a letter opener inlaid with mother of pearl.
He winks, and I turn away, taking the extra box of bullets and heading out the door without looking back.
The diner is right where he said, so I step into a nearby alley and fish an old grocery bag out of the trash and wrap the box of bullets up.
Inside the diner, I set my bagged bullets down and slide them across the table as I crawl into a booth against the wall that faces the street.
The thought of food makes me feel ill, but I know I need to eat.
The waitress comes by, and I request a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal. Both come quickly, and I eat slowly, sipping at the black coffee and letting it burn all the way down.
“Excuse me?” I motion to the waitress, who saunters over cheerfully.
“Yes?”
“A shot of whiskey too please, short and neat.”
“We don’t serve alcohol here, miss.”
“Right.”
She walks away, and I let my head fall back against the seat. It’s not like I was going to drink it . . . I just wanted to smell it. Something is wrong with me, I decide. I’ve officially lost my fucking marbles. I want to smell it?
Jesus fucking Christ, Tripoli, get your shit together, you pathetic penis pirate.
The guy calls you a slut and threatens to fuck you like one, more or less does that, and you what?
Think he hangs the damned moon? Wherever the hell he is, he’s got my fucking number, and he knows it.
Talk about an easy mark. I need to get as far away from here as possible, as quickly as possible.
A rough throat clears, and I’d swear it had an accent.
Deflating, I let my eyes open to York sitting across from me. Appraising me, his brow furrows gently, and he leans back, his face smoothing out.
“I’m glad that you have no idea how to travel discreetly.” He tilts his head slightly to one side, and his eyes soften a fraction. “Are you all right?”
Other than a slight bruise on his cheekbone, he seems relatively unruffled. “I’ve been better.”
I watch with confused fascination as his hand reaches across the table for mine, but I pull away, letting my hands fall into my lap.
Raising an eyebrow, his gaze flicks up to mine. “How am I supposed to fall madly in love when you’re so standoffish?” He grins.
“So not the time for jokes.” I exhale and pick up my coffee.
The waitress stops off with a mug and a carafe, and once he nods, she pours him a coffee and continues down the row of booths.
“You’re alive.” He lifts the mug to his lips. “A win is a win, as they say.”
“As much to my surprise as yours, I’m sure.”
“Come now. I told you I don’t want you dead.”
“Not today,” I point out and take another drink. “How the hell did you find me?”
“As I said, you do not know how to travel discreetly.” He cocks a judgmental brow. “I saw them grab you and put you in the truck, so I stole a car. It didn’t take much to follow you after that. Diving onto a moving car tends to stick in people’s memory.” He sips his coffee.
It sounds so simple when he says it like that. I mean, it is simple, isn’t it? And if he can find me this easily, so can anyone else.
“A diner was on your list of likely stops?” I say critically.
“No, I was walking by and looked in the window.”
“How nice for you,” I simper and hunch over my coffee.
“It’s my fault,” he says plainly. “I should have woken you and gotten us out of there earlier.”
I stare at him, unable to comprehend this person admitting fault, this man admitting that he overlooked or underestimated something. I let it go, though, and take another mouthful of oatmeal.
“If you’ve found me, they will too.” I shift to the edge of the booth and signal the waitress for the bill. “They used you, you know? Waited to see which one of us you let live. Now they’re convinced I’ve turned.”
“You have.”
“I haven’t made a single fucking deal, especially not with you,” I hiss.
“You will.”
The waitress slips the bill between us, and I put the twenty on it, shaking my head in disbelief. Why fucking me? How’d I get so lucky?
“The hell I will.” I reach for my bag of bullets and wince. “I want to get out of Chicago, now.”
“Agreed, and as soon as you recognize that we’re all being used in this, it will get easier. You’re going to play your part, and I’m going to play mine.” He pulls me in close as he stands. “It’s up to you how difficult you make it all.”
I tear away from his grip and head out the door.