I twist around to take her in, her puffy eyes and shaking shoulders. She holds a hand up, her palm out when I try to approach. “No.”

“I’m sorry I made you cry, darlin’. I really am, but shit, woman, I want you so fuckin’ bad, and the thought you could get hurt because you’re too fuckin’ proud, stubborn, or both to accept help irritates the fuck outta me. Let me help you,” I plead.

Her arm slowly drops, leaving her hand hanging at her side, the other still covering her mouth. She sniffs hard, sucking in all the snot her crying’s caused. And yet she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve seen.

“Come here,” I say, opening my arms.

Ryan pushes off the spot, but instead of coming in for a hug, she runs away from me. I chase after her, dodging the end of the sofa to follow her up the hall. She’s not avoiding this. I won’t let her go all bat-shit crazy on my ass and barricade herself in the bathroom or the like.

She bolts into the bedroom we were in before, the one I assume she shares with Gunter, and tries to swing the door shut behind her. I deflect it with the heel of my hand, sending it careening the other way until it bounces off the wall. The noise is a distraction, making me turn my head for the briefest of seconds to make sure the fucking thing isn’t about to swing back at me.

It’s the split-second she needs.

Satisfied the door’s not about to knock me the fuck out, I look back at her and find the business end of a gun pointed at my head. “What the fuck?”

“I’m not going to ask you again. Get out.” Her hands shake, and I’m more worried she’s going to shoot me by accident than on purpose.

“Lower the gun and I’ll leave.”

“Leave, and I’ll lower the gun,” she counters.

“Fuck, woman. You’re goin’ to shoot me before I have a chance to get out the front door the way you’re shakin’.”

Ryan bends at the knees to scoop my blood-stained clothes in one hand, the other keeping the gun on me. “Isn’t that generally the idea when you point a gun at someone? You’re going to shoot them?” She tosses the clothes in my direction.

I catch them, bundling them in my arm. “Shit, Ryan,” I hiss under my breath, backing away. “I’m going. I’m gone.”

I walk backwards until my spine finds the doorframe, and then sidestep to carry on up the hallway. Ain’t no way I’m giving a distressed woman my back when she’s pointing a handgun at me. I reach the living room and lift my free hand in surrender. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” she hollers. “Get the fuck out before I’ve got a mess to explain to Gunter.”

“Fine,” I snap, shaking my head. “I’m out, Ryan. I tried to help, even when it meant fuckin’ up my own reason for being here, but you threw that shit in my face. So I’m out. Completely out.”

Her chin quivers, visible from even this distance before she starts crying all over again. I take a step sideways and then finally turn around to head out the front door and leave her to her crazy self. She’s most likely watching me from a fucking window while I put my helmet on, feeling proud that she managed to stand up to me. Shit, she might be hurt that I actually did it—I left. But as much as I told her I’m out, she doesn’t know that much about me still, and one fact she’d know if she bothered to get close is that I never quit. And I most certainly never walk away from a person in need.

I might have told her I’m through with this, but that was only to try and make sure she didn’t follow. If I’m going to take what I know and rip this crew to shreds to find the answers for her as well as deliver to King and the Saints, I need Ryan out of the way. I need her safe—well, as safe as she can be. And as much as it makes me sick to think it, right now, the safest place is with Gunter.

ECHOES

Ryan

He closes the door so damn softly behind him I have to strain my ears to make out the sound. Somehow, I manage to get the safety back on the gun, dropping the Desert Eagle to the ground where I stand. I look down at the quivering hands that hang loosely by my sides. I threatened to kill him. What the fuck was I thinking? I have no qualms about threatening somebody’s life like that, but his? What are you doing, Ryan?

Why do I care so much if he lives or dies? The asshole lied to me about who he was, and why he was here. He’s using us, getting close for some fucking scheme to take over Eddie’s crew, and I couldn’t give a single shit about it.

Because you don’t give a shit that he lied.

I don’t. As much as I delve inside and try to dredge up some semblance of anger toward him, there’s none. I didn’t kick him out because he used me, or because he lied . . . I kicked him out because I’m hurt and confused.

I wanted to run away with him when I thought he was an opportunist named Bronson. I still want to run away with him even though I know he’s a con-man named Bronx. Why did I tell him to leave? He knows people who can help. I should accept the offer. I’d be a fucking idiot not to. But he’s also right in that my damn pride’s getting in the way. I don’t want his help because he angered me by being right; he pointed out a sad truth to me—that I’m a silly little girl playing with men who’ll hurt me just as easily as they’d turn their head to sneeze.

I’ve been going about this all wrong. I’ve been so blinded by my goal that I didn’t realize the road I was taking to reach it was eroded and dangerous. You’re a fucking idiot, Ryan. And right now, I feel deserving of whatever shit is heading my way because of it.

Pulling in a few deep breaths, I steady my racing heart and bend down to retrieve the gun. I don’t even know if it’s loaded—I just knew Gunter kept it tucked between the mattress and the end board of the bed in case of an intruder. Squeezing the release, I drop the magazine into my hand and suck in a sharp breath as I empty the contents. Seven bullets stare back at me, accusing, and reminding me all over again how dangerous and stupid what I did was. I could have killed him. What would I have done then?

Slotting the mag back in, I place the heavy handgun back in its spot and hotfoot it up the hallway to where I left my bag behind the sofa. Pulling my phone out, I type out a quick message to Gunter, asking what’s happening. I didn’t take note of the time when he left, so I have no idea how long they’ve been gone. What have probably been mere minutes feel like days, the weight of the unknown a heavy load to bear. How long does it take to find out? Having never been in this situation before, I’m in over my head when it comes to knowing what to expect. And yet, Bronx was so damn calm. He said he’s dealt with it before. What is it he usually does? Because it’s obviously a whole lot more real than what Gunter, Tommy, and I have been playing at.

I stand for what seems like hours, phone in my hand, willing a reply, but nothing comes. The plastic cover bites into my palm, I’m gripping it so damn hard. With a heavy sigh, I throw it on the sofa and head into the kitchen to get something to eat. All I end up doing is staring into the fridge for what also feels like forever before moving on to do the same with the cupboard. Time for a smoke instead.

The night air is warm and humid, clinging to my skin like a second layer as I step out the back door. My hands still tremble as I light the stick, taking a long drag and staring out at our ghostly gray back fence while I exhale. It’s empty out here, quiet, and solitary. It’s exactly how I like it. My parents’ murder may have confused me, left me hollow and searching for an answer, but the events of that night also taught me one valuable lesson that has helped me throughout the tough times over and over—all I need is myself to get by. Although a twisting in my gut tells me that isn’t quite true any more.