She hesitates. “They offered me fifty bucks for information.”
My hands tighten on my rolled-up apron. If I need to go on the run again, I need all the money I can get. Gas money, convenience store food. Deposit at another crappy apartment.
Still, she protected me. That counts for something, doesn’t it? I don’t know anymore what true friendship would be. Maybe I never did. All I can hope for is the fleeting kindness of strangers. My fingers numb, I fumble for fifty dollars.
The slap of the cash on the scarred table surface is the only sound in the bar. She watches me, her eyes dark and mysterious. Did she really tell them I wasn’t here? Or maybe they’re already at my apartment. People will lie if I let them. Didn’t I learn that a long time ago?
Without another word, I’m gone.
Chapter Four
Things go from bad to worse when I twist the key to my car. Nothing happens. The engine doesn’t even turn over. I squeeze my hands on the old leather steering wheel like it can feel my tension.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Don’t bail on me now.”
I got the car down in Wyoming for five hundred dollars flat. That included the stolen plates. It’s done well for me, but I don’t have the money to get it fixed. I can’t afford to stick around, either.
Light flashes off metal from the truck parking lot, around the side of the Last Stop. Most of the diners who come through are truckers. Either that or they work in the logging station about a mile down the road. All of them look rough and dangerous. Maybe that was my mistake, ending up in a place without many women. I stand out even though I keep my head down.
I step out of the car and lift up the hood as if I know anything about cars. I could bake a pie or recite all twelve-thousand words in the Book of Job. That’s the skill set you get growing up in Harmony Hills. The first time I tried to use a microwave, I started a fire because I’d put tin foil inside.
The crunch of boots on the brittle ground makes me stiffen.
“What’s wrong, little girl?”
“Nothing.”
There must be some kind of sixth sense men have when a woman is desperate. They come out of the woodwork like they were just waiting for the signal. Another man approaches us, his gait unsteady enough to tell me he’s flat drunk. As he passes under the single parking lot lamp, I get a good look at his face. Jimmy John. Two names, just like that. He works at the logging station. The other man, I’m guessing he’s got a rig.
I get enough crude offers every night bussing tables to know what either of these men would want in exchange for a ride to my apartment. It’s easy to say no. I’ve had enough of men’s desire to last a lifetime. Less easy to make sure they respect my answer.
“Looks to me like you’ve got yourself in a bit of trouble,” says Jimmy John.
“My boyfriend’s on the way.” This is one of the few times in my life I wish I had a man around. A man like Luca Almanzar, who could pound any one of these men into the pavement. And how long would it have taken for him to turn his fists on me?
The first man steps back. That’s how things work around here. You don’t touch a woman unless you want a fight with her man. A woman alone is fair game. There’s a reason this place is called the Last Stop. We’re far from civilization now.
Jimmy John smiles, his gold tooth glinting in the moonlight. “Now, darling. I’ve seen you in here every night for two months. You ain’t never mentioned a boyfriend before. You wouldn’t be lying to Jimmy John, now would you?”
My voice only shakes a little on the lie. “Fine, you go ahead and wait around. See what happens when he gets here. But he’s got a temper. I should know.”
His eyes narrow. “All right. I’ll just be waiting over there. We’ll see who shows up, then, won’t we?”
Both men head over to the front of the building, gone dark now after 4 a.m. I don’t know whether Angelica’s inside, but if I looked for her, I’d prove there’s no boyfriend. And then we’d both be in trouble. Besides, I’ll have to pass them to get to the door.
Men with too much to drink, too much desire. I’ve learned not to provoke them.
I make a show of pulling out my phone, as if I’m checking for a call from my boyfriend. The truth is I ran out of minutes on my prepaid months ago. It hasn’t been a priority, not with the high gas bill keeping the apartment warm.
My apartment is within walking distance. Maybe I’d make it there before they catch me.
Maybe not.
Cold air whistles through the seams in my jacket. I bought this at a thrift shop in Oregon. It can’t do much against the frigid Alaska air. My options are running out fast, sand through my fingers. If these men don’t get me, the cold will. And Delilah is back at the apartment building, maybe in danger. My daughter. My little girl.