Not much had happened yet other than getting acquainted with the responsibilities of the new patch, but it sure felt like this week had fourteen days in it.
“You’ll get the best of both at Lucky Lopez. See you then,” Jasper said, but he looked like he had more to say.
“What? More advice? I don’t turn down free advice, Jasper.”
He chuckled. “Smart. Never leave home without a weapon on your hip. Invest in a good holster and always be prepared to kill someone at a moment’s notice. It’ll happen more often than not now that you’re in charge.”
Now that you’re in charge. The more I heard those five words, the more they felt like a curse. But they weren’t. They were the truth and now that I was in charge, I’d do what was necessary to keep my MC protected.
Chapter Six
Savannah
Two days. Two entire days without a fucking hit. Fucking Roadkill. The shakes and sweats had already kicked in. And the pain. God, the pain.
Fucking withdrawal symptoms were the worst, which was the only reason I stayed. I’d even tried to be compliant to these assholes, but here I was, sick with nausea, shaking like a fucking leaf in a hurricane, and sweating like a pig in the desert sun.
The only fucking thing worse than being stuck in this shithole motel with filthy men ramming their cocks into me? Being here without any chemical assistance.
My crime? Making Roadkill come too quickly when he burst into my room, which he made clear was his room. Was it my fault he lubed me up and fucked my ass like he was man enough for the task? All I did was lay there, exactly as he had demanded in slurred words from too much H and too much booze. When he was high enough, Roadkill preferred a limp, lifeless fuck, and I gave him just that. But it turned him on a little too much, leaving me stuck here without a mental vacation.
The only good thing about two days with no drugs, if there was anything good about this sober fucked up state, was that my mind was actually getting clearer.
Wednesday nights were usually busy early, but by eight-thirty, all the sad fucks had to go home to kids that hated them and wives that refused to blow them, leaving me staring into the abyss until the early hours of Thursday morning. This could be my chance to get out of here.
Freedom.
What the fuck did that even mean anymore? This wasn’t like before when I dreamed of living a life away from Ronan and The Crusaders. This was different, this was real and true freedom. I could go anywhere and be anyone I wanted, live anywhere other than this stank ass motel room that smelled like cigarettes, sex and dope. But the more I thought about freedom from this place and from this life, the more I wanted it.
And this was my chance to have it.
I scrubbed my face with cold water until my hands were steady enough to light a cigarette on the first attempt. I took several deep breaths to scan my surroundings.
“I can do this.” I said it out loud to give me courage, because I wasn’t actually sure if I could. Yet I had enough time to get far enough away that the Black Jacks wouldn’t be able to find me.
I opened the front door as quietly as I could, knowing the other girls wouldn’t hesitate to drop the dime on me if it meant Roadkill or one of the others would give them another hit of their preferred poison or a moment of kindness. I looked left and then right and then left again, before my gaze swept over the parking lot. The same six vehicles that had been parked there all week were still there. No motorcycles in sight.
This is it.
I ran to the bathroom and looked out the window to the dumpster on the right and the highway to the left. It was all clear. This was my moment.
The Black Jacks kept me barefoot except for a pair of backless heels, so I grabbed the athletic socks I stashed under the bed after one of the johns left them behind and slipped them on. Sneakers would have been ideal, but freedom always came at a cost. Sore feet would be the price I’d pay for liberation. In normal times, my curves would never fit through that tiny window, but since most of my hips and breasts had melted away on my drug diet for the past few months, it was easy to slip through the narrow opening with room to spare.
It was only a five foot drop, but it felt like twenty with the way my heart thundered against my chest and my hands grew slick from anxiety and withdrawal. My feet hit the ground and I let out a sigh of relief. Almost there. I turned toward the dumpster and then the freeway, except I didn’t see the freeway, just a black mass of nothingness. Shit.