Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
My mind tries to be practical. If his car was there, he was close to Goldenbell. If Goldenbell has him, then he is leverage. If he hired Maddox Security to save me, maybe he tried to do the right thing and got punished for it. Or maybe he hired them for a selfish reason and now someone wants to shut him up.
I hate that my brain goes to the worst-case scenario first. I hate that it is usually correct.
Ozzy takes a turn, and the gas gauge catches my eye. It’s sitting on empty. “We need to stop.”
I keep my voice calm. “Okay.”
Ozzy pulls into a gas station off the highway, the kind with two faded flags and a convenience store that smells like hot dogs no one should eat. The lot is mostly empty. A pickup truck on the far side. A sedan at the pump. The fluorescent lights make everything look sickly.
Ozzy parks by a pump but does not get out right away. He scans. Left. Right. Mirrors. Then he looks at me. “Stay close.”
I nod, but my skin prickles anyway.
Ozzy steps out and starts pumping gas. He keeps his shoulders angled so he can see both the road and the store. His whole body is alert.
I force myself to move like a normal person. I open the passenger door and step out, the cold air snapping at my face. The smell of gasoline hits my nose. It mixes with old asphalt and burnt coffee. My bladder chooses now to remind me I am human. I hug my hoodie tighter. “I’m going to use the restroom.”
Ozzy’s head snaps toward me. “I’ll go with you.”
My cheeks heat. “I can go by myself.”
His eyes narrow like he hates that sentence.
I try to soften it. “You’ll be right there. I’ll be quick.”
Ozzy hesitates, then nods once. “Door stays in sight. If anything feels off, you yell.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
I walk toward the convenience store, sneakers grinding against the loose gravel parking lot. Each step sends up small, dry whispers of sound that seem louder than they should in the flat afternoon quiet. The building itself looks tired.
The glass door is a mess of overlapping fingerprints and smudged handprints, as though dozens of people have pressed against it in a hurry and never quite made it all the way through. When I push it open, a small brass bell above the frame jangles once, sharp and cheerful, the sound clashing with everything else around me.
A wave of warm, stagnant air rolls out to meet me, carrying the mingled scents of day-old coffee, sugary glaze from yesterday’s donuts, industrial floor cleaner, and something faintly sour underneath it all. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sickly yellow pallor over the narrow aisles.
Behind the counter, a clerk in a faded polo shirt sits slouched on a tall stool, thumb scrolling endlessly across the screen of his phone. He doesn’t lift his eyes when I enter. His face stays blank, lit only by the cold blue glow from below. I keep my head down, hood pulled low, shoulders hunched just enough to make myself smaller, less worth noticing. My pulse is already climbing, thudding against the base of my throat in a rhythm that feels too loud, too fast.
I tell myself it’s only nerves. Just the ordinary static of being out in the open again.
Everything feels edged with threat after you’ve been taken once. Every shadow holds a shape that might move. Every stranger’s glance feels like reconnaissance.
The hallway is too narrow, the walls too close. My elbows nearly brush both sides as I move. The silence presses in, broken only by the low electrical hum and the distant clink of the clerk setting his phone down.
My heart is hammering now, hard enough that I can feel it in my fingertips, in the roof of my mouth. I force one slow breath through my nose, then another.
It’s just a bathroom. Just a door. Just a minute to splash water on my face and pull myself together.
I reach out, palm flat against the cool metal, and push the door open.
The light flickers. The mirror is spotted. The lock on the stall looks flimsy. I pee as fast as my body will allow, washing my hands like that will wash off the feeling crawling over my skin. I stare at my reflection and my own eyes look too big.
I whisper to myself, “You are fine.” I leave the restroom and step into the hallway.
Something shifts. Not a sound exactly. More like the air changes. I freeze.
A man stands near the end of the hallway. He is not the clerk. He is not in a uniform. He wears a dark hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low.
My stomach drops. I know that shape. My body recognizes him before my brain catches up. The same build. The same stance. The same calm menace. The same kind of nothing in the face when someone has already decided you are an object.