Blood to Dust

Are we starting with Seb?

Are we starting with Godfrey?

The possibility of hurting those two sends a hot rush down my back.

“Let’s go have drinks down the road,” I suggest as Nate pushes the squeaking door to our room open. We walk into a small, stuffy space, the scent of stale smoke rubbed into every sheet and piece of furniture. Cigarette holes in the comforter and yellow, indiscernible stains sprayed on the walls. I say a little prayer before walking into the bathroom, only to find a peeling tub. The vent is hanging out of the ceiling and the toilet is filthy with other people’s waste. Swiveling my head to Nate, I see him giving me a casual headshake.

“Can’t risk it. We gotta lay low. Godfrey’s got people everywhere, Cockburn. You know that as well as I do.”

“Stop calling me Cockburn.” I kick my ankle boots and collect my wild, wavy hair into a high ponytail. “I need a drink.”

“I’ll go get you something from the K-Mart downtown.” He walks to the window overlooking the street, peeking outside and searching for something Godfrey-related. Should I be as alarmed as he is? Somehow, I find it difficult to believe Godfrey is already on to us. He has no idea we’re in Los Angeles. Technically, there’s nothing for us to do here. Also, Archer had spent years and years in prison not too far away from me and none of his men ever got to me. Not even once.

But I know better than to think that it’s because he couldn’t have. He just wanted to keep me alive so he could kill me himself.

Maybe Nate is not only worried about Godfrey, but also about the Aryan Brotherhood. This guy is practically a dead man walking in the state of California. He has many reasons to watch his back.

All the same, I’m not going to sit and rot in this room until our IDs are ready. Going down the road for a few drinks is not going to kill me. The chances of being spotted and recognized are non-existant. It’s just an old, poor neighborhood in the middle of Los Angeles, where Godfrey has never set foot. Besides, Nate has had the outside world for a while now. I’ve spent over two weeks stuck in his basement, trying to dig my way out with nothing but broken nails.

“I’m going.”

He turns around and jerks me into his body by the arm, his face murderous. “Like hell you are. I’m gonna have a shower now. When I come out, you better still be here, and have pulled out a number for a good place that delivers greasy food.”

I open my mouth, about to sass, but he’s already shut the bathroom door behind him.

The faucet running on behind the door. I clutch my stress ball in a death grip. He thinks I need his permission to go to the bar? Well, he’s in for an unpleasant surprise.

I throw my backpack over my shoulder and charge out, storming past the reception area. I don’t stop until I reach a corner bar called Three Bullets, the one the receptionist recommended.

I push the door wide as I walk through and slide onto one of the barstools, adorned with clouds of foam growing from its torn black leather. Tapping the bar twice with my knuckles, I ask the bartender for whatever it is that’s on their all-you-can-drink menu.

Three Bullets.

Godfrey.

Camden.

Sebastian.

Nate would appreciate the irony. I need to stop thinking about what Nate likes and dislikes. Scanning the room while the old, bald barman hands me my glass of lukewarm beer, I decide that I like this place. It’s got this old-school, Barfly vibe. Either the blue-collar, bearded old men in here haven’t heard of the no-smoking law enforced in California, or they simply disobey it. A bunch of retired men are playing poker at a round table behind me while a few greased-up younger men just back from their manual labor jobs are seated at the bar, peering into their drinks in hopes of finding the answers to how they ended up here.

Cheap, broken décor. Everything is peeling, everything stinks and everything is dirty. Just like my soul.

I gulp my first drink in one go, studying my surroundings, and tap the rim of my glass, asking for more. A few of the men notice me. They look at me. They stare. And even though it makes me feel slightly uncomfortable, I’m not scared.

I’m way past scared. Everything I’ve been through sharpened me into someone who’s not easy to intimidate. A guy around my age, maybe slightly older, swivels the stool next to me, his ass landing on it. I focus on my drink, knowing that I’ll have to brush him off.

“Passing through?” he cuts straight to the chase. I offer him half a shrug and take a sip of beer. People are watching us intently. I’m the only woman in the bar, and I bet that other than an occasional visit from the receptionist at my motel, this place hasn’t seen a woman within its four walls for a lifetime.