of it. Like I can stumble out of the door with blood all over my shirt.
I glance down at my torso and fight my gag reflex, sniffing and forcing my eyes back up to the road.
A bookstore and a barber shop appear, the candy-stripe pole so freaking small-town. A smile tugs at the left side of my mouth when I glance across the road and spot the movie theater.
OPEN ON WEEKENDS.
I bet they play old-school movies and the seats are hard vinyl with cracks down the middle. The kind that spring back when you stand up to leave.
The yearning in my chest continues to bloom, especially when I spot Duke’s Bar and Grill. The lights are on inside, turning the large front window into a TV screen. It’s busy with patrons, and I spot two waitresses delivering food with smiles on their faces. The short blonde one’s cute. I only see the side of her face, but her sunshine smile makes me think the restaurant is warm and inviting.
I want to go in there, to slide into a booth and surround myself with what looks like a comfortable small-town vibe. It’s a weird contrast to the bar next door. I should probably go in there. It’d be easy to blend into the wall, the dim lighting and loud music cloaking me.
Clearing my throat, I continue driving by, wondering where I can park or if I should even stop.
I need to stop.
My body’s telling me to take a break.
But I can’t leave this car looking like a shot-up criminal.
Which you are.
I scowl as I pass the gas station, a mechanic and a lawyer’s office. Then I’m out the end of Main Street. The highway to Oklahoma City is probably up ahead, but I’m not ready to get back on it.
Instead, I turn left at the stop sign and weave my way through the back streets of Buckland Springs. The residential houses are simple box designs, divided by straight driveways and trimmed lawns. This town isn’t a fancy one. It’s no doubt filled with uncomplicated farming families. I can picture farmer’s markets on Saturday mornings, and a Fourth of July parade down Main Street with fireworks when the sky turns dark. They probably picnic together after church, and everyone knows everyone else by name.
The street I’m on dribbles to an end, quickly turning into forest, the road narrowing and becoming loose gravel. I pull the car right and bump along a dirt track, steering the car farther and farther into the thick undergrowth. Shrubs scrape the side of the Audi, thin, low-lying branches tapping the window by my head. I keep going until I’m sure the car is hidden from the road, then veer right into a thick clump of trees and squeeze the car in behind a cluster of pines.
Cutting the engine, I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead and try to ignore the fact that I’m still shaking. I need to get myself cleaned up, and then maybe I can walk back into town and buy myself a drink.
The sun is setting, stealing the natural light. It doesn’t bother me too much. Darkness is a runaway’s best friend most of the time.
Gently pulling off my shirt, I throw the bloodstained cotton into the back and take another look at the haphazard bandage covering the wound. The gauze had trouble sticking, so in the end I wound a long bandage around my entire middle to hold the other two in place. Put pressure on the wound, isn’t that what they always say?
Well, I’ve definitely done that. The bandage is digging in and uncomfortable, but I don’t want to mess with it.
There’s a bright red patch that’s soaked through both the gauze and the strapping, but I think the blood has clotted. My stomach convulses, the red making me see things I don’t want to remember. I gently tap the bandage to feel if it’s dry. My finger doesn’t come away wet, so I figure it’ll have to do. I don’t want the bleeding to start all over again if I pull it off and try to put a fresh one on.
With a hiss, I lean forward and check my back. That seems dry as well.
Grabbing Johnny’s leather jacket off the passenger seat, I zip it up, hoping no one will notice that I’ve got nothing on underneath. He’ll be pissed that I took off with it still in the car. This is his favorite jacket. Black leather that’s