Chance Taken

“I just want to talk to her,” Veronica says. “Is she here?”

I gotta hand it to her. Her voice is betraying no fear and she’s taking control of the situation like she’s not dressed like a sweet sixteen cake ornament and standing in one of the nastier places this world has to offer.

“Nah, haven’t seen Lacy in a while,” another guy says. He has his cap pulled so low over his face I can’t tell if he’s young or old. “And I doubt she’d talk to you if she were here. She’s not into girls. Men only.”

He cackles and the rest join him, the sound reminding me of nails scratching metal.

“What do you want with Lacy?” a voice asks from the darkness behind us. A harsh, deep voice that is unfortunately familiar to me.

“Who are you?” another, less familiar voice asks.

Veronica turns to face them, and I do the same since I have no other choice.

“You,” the deep-voiced guy hisses. It’s Gazz, the Riders’ president’s son. He’s supposed to be in jail and his father is supposed to be in a bad way because I shot him in the gut. There’s no way this can end well.

They both pull out their pistols in perfect sync like they practice the damn move. Veronica screams, the merry truckers stumble over each other and the table and chairs as they try to get away and I have no time to think. So I don’t even try to. Things are happening fast, and they should.

I grab Veronica’s arm and pull her after me, trying to shield her with my body as I reach for the camping light on the table, every stitch in my many half-healed cuts from the last time I had a run in with the Riders protesting. I throw the lamp at the two Riders then pull her after me into the darkness behind the truck.

“Run,” I tell her, and don’t let go of her arm.

She tries to, but she’s hyperventilating and stumbling along in her dainty shoes. At least she’s light as a feather and I have no trouble pulling her along.

Shots are ringing out as I zigzag amid the parked trucks, trying to keep us out of the line of sight of the shooters. She whimpers each time a shot rings out or hits metal but is otherwise keeping step with me the best she can.

We reach the truck where we spoke to the kid. Only open space separates us from her car now. The distance is only a few yards but seems like a mile or more.

“Now we really have to run,” I tell her and she nods, but as she tries, she’s stumbling worse than ever and the shots aren’t going as wide anymore.

I grab her around the waist, lifting her, a sharp, tugging pain exploding in my back. I ignore it as I sprint towards the car.

Thank god she left it unlocked with the keys inside. And thank god she’s been able to keep her head. She scrambles inside as soon as I set her down next to the car and moves aside so I can get behind the wheel.

I press the ignition and floor the gas before even closing the door behind me. I want to drive straight into the two idiot Riders still shooting at us, but that would be an even dumber mistake that coming here in the first place was.

So I make a hard right and a few moments later they’re lost in the darkness behind us. Another moment later we’re racing down the interstate as fast as this car of hers will go.

She’s still hyperventilating badly, wheezing on practically every breath.

I glance at her. “Just try to breathe normally.”

My eyes catch on the huge dark spot covering her shirt and most of her skirt. “Were you hit?”

She looks down at herself, groping at her stomach and lifting her shirt. Her milky stomach is red with blood too.

“No… no, I wasn’t,” then her eyes catch on my back. “You were.”

There’s almost as much feeling in her voice as the time she tried to calm Trixie down. I guess anything is possible with her.

“I wasn’t shot,” I tell her. “It’s probably just my stitches. I think they ripped open.”

Then I try to make the car go even faster.

“We need to get off the Interstate,” I tell her. “They’ll be coming after us.”

“My apartment,” she says. “It’s right above the office.”

Things are slowing down to their normal speed again despite how fast we’re going. Her breathing is returning to normal too.

“Thanks for saving me back there,” she says huskily.

“You’re welcome,” I say and neglect to tell her I’m the reason she was almost killed tonight. There’ll be time enough for explaining that later.

I could get used to her thanking me, looking at me with concern, and just generally speaking to me like I’m not the biggest piece of shit in the world, I really could. And that’s probably not the thing I should be focusing on right now, but this is Veronica after all. Nothing is what it’s supposed to be around her. And not entirely in a bad way.