Audrey

You can only run so far from someone before you become tired and develop a debilitating stitch in your right side that forces you to give up and concede defeat, thus giving up all hope of receiving a medal at the finish line.

That's just not my style.

This is the fifth town I've moved to in the last six months and I'm fucking tired of it. Tired of the name changes, the wig changes. Tired of driving for hours when all I want to do is sleep and pretend I'm a normal goddamn twenty-four-year-old with normal twenty-four-year-old problems.

Like paying off student loans, maybe? (I never finished college.)

Like deciding on whether to wear a gold strapless dress or shorts and a crop top to the club, you know? (What is a club? Yeah. That bad.)

Instead, I'm at a 7-11 in a town that's smaller than the brown birthmark on my right ass cheek, buying tampons and Doritos for the road – and I'm currently wondering if the sleepy-looking guy at the till will press his panic button if I pull out my gun and point it at the only other customer in the next aisle.

It's just that that customer? The one in the black jeans and white T-shirt? The one with the broad shoulders and wild black hair? He looks like somebody I used to know.

He looks like the guy I'm running from.

And everything inside me is saying, "Leave it alone, Audrey. It's after midnight and you're not even sure this guy is him. Buy your Tampax and Doritos and get in your car. Get the hell out of Hurley, Population 4,000, and find someplace bigger to get lost in."

But my heart? It's doing gymnastics in my ribcage. It wants me to go over to that guy and pop him in the skull. It wants me to the end this.

It's been three years, for Pete's sake. Three years of running like a coward; three years of hiding like a scared, pathetic little animal.

I'm still debating on whether to commit murder or run, when he rounds the corner and I jump – so far back that I hit one of the shelves and a jar of marmalade falls to the ground with a crash.

And...it's not him.

He looks startled, blinking his brown – not blue – eyes at me repeatedly, carrying a basketful of junk food. His face is different – no tattoos, no hardness, no evil – and he's looking at me like I'm out of my ever-loving mind.

Probably because I've got a gun pointed at him.

***

"I'll need your name, ID and credit card," the woman says, eyes fixed on me expectantly. She sounds as chipper as she looks – all bright-eyed and silver-haired, dressed in a bright floral dress that's hidden by the counter separating us. "Address and phone number, too. Room Fifteen has a view of the lake and is extremely airy. You'll love it."

"I'm paying cash," I respond, and I watch the familiar creasing of her brow. Why is it that those three words always evoke the same suspicion, the same twisted facial expression?

She opens her mouth to tell me – most probably – no, but I persevere. I tell her, "I'll throw in an extra two-hundred for the five days."

Her mouth snaps shut. Wordlessly, she pushes the leather-bound registration book towards me and I scrawl my name down on an open page. Only my name.

Jamie Knight.

She takes the book back from me, and when she looks up at me, I know she knows I'm not Jamie Knight. I know she knows that I'm in some deep shit that has forced me to change my name and pretend to be someone else. I know she doesn't care, because I'm giving her an extra two-hundred.

I pay her and her eyes light up like Christmas. I pay her and she forgets about me.

After hauling my two suitcases from my car outside and up to Room Fifteen – because, of course, Fernwood Inn is too old-fashioned for elevators – all I want to do is take a shower to wash away the last few hours on the road.

Room Fifteen is a matchbox, but it's clean and that's all I care about. The bed is a single and it has been made up in an unflattering floral comforter that matches the drapes. I peek out the window and, sure enough, I have an awesome view of a murky expanse of water.

The next thing I do is make sure the door is locked.

The wig comes off first and I go through the usual routine of scratching the fuck out of my scalp because this wig is so shitty. It's long and mousy-brown and the bangs make me forgettable. My real hair is so dark it's coal and almost begging for a wash. After stripping out of my jeans and T-shirt, I jump into the shower, turning my face up against the hot jet of water.

And when I scrub away the sweat and dirt, I pretend that I can scrub away the past.

***

It takes a week of soul-searching in Room Fifteen for me to admit that I'm fucking tired of running. Tired of always looking over my shoulder like a goddamn pussycat afraid of its own shadow.

Turns out, Magda – the receptionist-slash-manager-slash-owner of the inn – has a sister who rents out apartments in town. She casually mentions it when I check out and before I know it, I'm meeting Marlene and signing a lease.

Jamie Knight has a home.

And this is why, I'm standing outside a club so late at night. I want to celebrate.

I have a home but no job. I have a pile of hard cash under my mattress that doesn't belong to me and a beaten-up car I keep just because it's so inconspicuous.

But for the first time in years, I feel free.

I read about Lights in the Hurley Herald.

The article was unflattering; something about a girl who overdosed in the club's bathroom and the family wanting the drug dealer's blood. But this is the closest club to my place and I wanted to walk.

I met Julian at a club. Nineteen-years-old and so fucking stupid, I was such easy pickings. All it took was a perfectly calculated devilish grin and I was sold. I didn't realize that "sold" meant just that: Sold.

It feels... I don't know how it feels, but once I'm inside, I'm looking over my shoulder every few minutes as if Julian will be there, eyes dead and mouth twisted into a scowl. The psychedelic lights and thumping electronic music add to my paranoia, and every man I bump into makes my heart rate kick up a couple beats.

I'm torturing myself. My moment of respite was just that: A moment. Fleeting. Brief.

"What can I getcha?"

I realize that I've found my way to the bar and that the bartender's attention is on me.

"Beer, please," I say softly, taking a seat on the only unoccupied bar stool.

She must be a pretty damn good lip-reader because she grabs a chilled bottle and thumps it in front of me, twisting the cap off with a bottle opener. I don't need to ask how much it is because the price is written on a chalkboard just to the left of her shoulder. Quaint.

This "club" feels more like a little tavern with a dance floor.

"You must be new in town," a voice breathes in my ear, and it takes everything in me not to punch him, or fall off my stool.

Taking a gulp of my beer, I turn to the speaker, who turns out to be shorter than I am but cute in an I-used-to-be-a-star-quarterback-but-now-I-teach-high-school-gym-class way. He even has the blue eyes and curly blonde hair to go with it.

"How can you tell?" I ask him.

He leans into my ear again. "Because I've fucked all the hot girls in town and I haven't fucked you."

"And you're not going to." I hop off the stool, all the while thinking, This was a bad idea.

There are too many people – too many men – and being in a place like this is taking me back to a time I'd love to forget.

A hand wraps around my wrist, yanking me in one direction. A scream dies in my throat.

"I'm just being friendly, Little Miss Tourist," Quarterback yells over the music. His eyes roam over my chest. "Why don't you be friendly, huh?"

"Get the fuck away from me!"

"All right, you stupid bitch," he snarls, shoving me away from him.

I stumble into someone but manage to keep myself from falling. Beer forgotten, I just want to get the hell out of there. Pushing myself through the sea of people, I manage to get out into the cold night air.

I gulp in a lungful, my back against the wall. Squeezing my eyes shut, I count to ten in my head, trying to get my pulse to slow down. This time, it barely works, but once I get as far away from this club as I possibly can, I know I'll be fine.

"Audrey, malishka, what do you think you're doing?"

"This was a mistake, Julian. I thought I could handle this. I can't."

"So you're packing? Going on a little holiday without me?"

"Julian, I'm leaving you."

He laughs. Laughs like it's the biggest joke ever. "You're delusional. Sit down, solnyshko. Sit down and let me tell you what will happen if you ever decide to do something so stupid."

I hear footsteps behind me; heavy footfalls that signal a man. In the silence of the street I've taken, the footsteps might as well be gunshots. I don't even think about it. I pick up my pace, until I'm running and my head starts pounding. Out of breath, I turn a corner, suddenly lost.

Panic makes my entire body freeze up.

"Hey, Little Miss Tourist." It's a man. No. It's the man. The one from the club. "You ready to play nice now?"

"What do you want?" I force myself to snap.

"I want an apology," he replies with a leer. "You weren't very nice to me."

"Just leave me alone, okay? I don't have time for this." I walk around him, giving him a wide berth.

Once he's behind me, I exhale loudly.

The blow to my head comes so sharply and suddenly, I instantly go down, scraping my skin against the cement.

"Stuffy bitch! Who the fuck do you think you are?"

He's grabbing at my T-shirt, trying to pull it up. Straddling me, he grinds himself against my groin and my stomach immediately turns.

I scream. I scream and scream and scream until he slaps me silent, forcing a hand over my mouth. In this moment, I don't feel brave. I don't feel strong. I don't feel anything.

Above him, dawn is approaching. The darkness is slowly melting into a peach-hued light and it's so beautiful. So untainted.

This is it, isn't it?

But it's not.

Quarterback is ripped off of me and flung against a wall. I scramble up onto my feet, gritting my teeth against the pain from such a rapid movement, watching in awe as another man starts to beat the shit out of the man who was just about to violate me.

The violence should scare me – or, at least, make me turn in the other direction in disgust – but it doesn't.

I hope he kills him.

The strange man isn't even looking my way. He's solely focused on destroying Quarterback's body.

Wrapping his hands around the other man's neck, he finally looks back at me. And with his eyes, he asks me a question: Do you want me to?

The truth? The truth is that I don't. I don't want another man's blood on my hands. And the stranger seems to know that, because he releases Quarterback, who collapses to the ground in a bloody heap.

Now, it's just me and the stranger.

And I know exactly what I want to do. What I have to do.