Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (25 page)

What was my life becoming, that I had to resort to such comparisons to make myself feel good? It wasn't even working. I'd only reminded myself just how terrible the people pursuing us were.

I was so deep in thought, I thought I imagined the arm that ringed around my waist. And then I tasted the salty, meaty dampness of a man's spongy flesh as a hand clapped over my mouth.

Oh God — someone from the IMA?

“Hey there,
mamacita
.”

I stiffened. No. It was that disgusting creep from the bus. The hand on my stomach snaked upward, towards my breasts, and I jerked forward with a yelp, causing my purse to smack against my side.

“I saw the way you were looking at me on the bus.” His voice was as slimy and disgusting as the walls of the toilet. “Maybe your boyfriend ain't man enough to show you a good time, is that it?”

My purse
.
The pepper-spray
.
The knife
.

His groping fingers left a snail-trail of dampness over my skin. I heard his breathing quicken. “You got yourself a pair of real nice titties. I'll give you a hundred bucks if you let me play with 'em while you suck me off.”

I grabbed the knife, and plunged it into his thigh. His grip on me tightened as he let loose a strangled scream, his dirty fingernails biting painfully into my skin. I twisted out of his grip and sprayed the pepper-spray into his eyes when he lowered his hand to the knife handle. He fell back into the Porta Potty. The door swung closed, muffling the resulting splash.

What did I just do?

I stared at my hand, speckled with a few drops of blood, and retched. Over and over, until I was coughing up green strands of bile. Then, shaking, I returned to the bus and waited for Michael, with an empty bladder, an empty stomach, and a heavy heart.

Michael:

Even after I'd bought $30 of crap from his piece-of-shit store, the owner still hemmed and hawed about letting me use his goddamn phone.

“It's a business call,” I said. “It's important.”

He folded his arms over his faded coveralls. “I'm afraid it's store policy.”

I could tell he liked the sound of how official “policy” sounded, though I doubted a hick like him could give me a definition if he tried. “Please.”

“
It isn't an out-of-state number, is it?”

“
No.” Not that he'd know shit from Shinola.

“
Well, all right,” he said at last. “Though generally the phone is for paying customers only.”

I eyed the paper bag he'd given me.
Just what the fuck does that make me then?
  I said nothing. He was letting me use the phone. For that, I was willing to ignore him and his bullshit.

Kent picked up after several rings. “It's me.” I eyed the owner, who gave no indication of budging an inch from his post.

“Can you talk?”

“
No.”

“
Where are you, old boy?”

“
So-Cal. Few miles north of Lancaster.”

“
So about eight hours away.”

I snorted. “More like twelve. We're on a bus.”

“You have her with you now?” he asked carefully.

Picking up on nuances was his specialty. I imagined they had entire seminars devoted to the subject at M16. “She can't go home, can't go back to school either. They left me at her house — they know where she lives.”

“Poor girl.”

A hint of accusation lay buried in those words. I could tell what he was thinking. This wasn't supposed to happen. She didn't belong in this world. But I'd dragged her back into it, kicking and screaming. I knew. I'd been thinking the same thing myself. All I said was, “Yeah.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“
Well, I can't take her with me. Not if I'm going to have to deal with those assholes. Can't take her back to Oregon, either. Doesn't sound like things are very stable at the homestead.”

I paused.

“Actually, I was thinking she might work for you. She has some valuable skill sets.” Kent coughed delicately, pointedly. I pretended not to notice. “Bilingual, some basic knowledge of computer programming — we could use her as a translator or a coder. Either. Both.”

“
Have you discussed this with her?”

“
No.” I knew she wouldn't like it.

“
Don't. She is too young, and far too impressionable. This line of work is not for her. She would hate it, and over time this would cause her to hate herself. Even if you don't put a gun in her hands, she will know that she is simply a means to that end.”

“
Fuck,” I said softly. He was right. On both counts. “Well, what do you suggest?”

“
I suggest you focus on arriving in San Francisco, safely and in one piece. I will ensure someone meets you at the location of your choosing. Let me know.” He ended the call.

I handed the phone back to the store owner. It was good advice. Sound. Not what I wanted to hear. Good advice seldom is. “Thanks,” I muttered.

“What are you, some kind of executive type?” He sounded hopeful now.
Trying to get out of your fucking rut?

“
No.” I exited the store. Goddamn rednecks.

The bus driver was pacing outside the bus, stretching his legs while he made a phone call. Sounded like a wife. He gave me a short nod. I returned it with perfunctory courtesy, staying under the radar as I took a stretch myself.

Most of the passengers hadn't returned. The ten minutes were close to expiring so I assumed they were in the later stages of binging or purging in accordance with their needs. A greasy suit appeared from the Porta Potties. I'd noticed him glaring at me earlier on. Not one of ours. Far too conspicuous.

Smelled like shit, too.

His eyes were red and he was clutching his leg. In his hand was a knife. That made me sit up and take notice. So did the bus driver. His face darkened. No civil nod for the suit. He said something, his other hand trailing to the walkie-talkie at his hip.

I watched the man say something else. The driver's forehead creased. He shook his head. The man tossed the knife into the grass and the driver picked up his walkie-talkie, speaking into it while the man presented him with some ID.

Well that wasn't good.

I looked closer. I recognized that tiny butter knife of a blade. Didn't Christina have a knife like that?

Oh, fuck. I ran onto the bus —

Thank you. Oh, thank fucking God.

She had her head leaned against the window. Her backpack was cradled in her arms, on her lap. There was a book beneath her folded hands, face-down. One of the ones I'd bought for her. Didn't look like she'd gotten very far. I watched her for a few seconds longer before rattling the plastic bag. “You all right?”

She peeled her face away from the window. Her cheek was red. I noticed her top was a little ripped, and there were similar marks on her breast.

I dropped into the seat beside her. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“
Nothing.”

“
Yeah? Then why does that guy look like he just got maced? That's your trick, isn't it?” At her pained expression I said, “Jesus, what did he do to you?” And then, “I'll fucking cut off his — ”

“
Don't.”

“
Don't?” I said. “He tried to assault you, and you expect me to just let him — ”

“
No.
I
took care of it. I stabbed him in the thigh with my knife. I think I nicked him in the, um, you know. In the balls.”

My own junk shriveled in sympathy. I crossed my legs. “Yeah?” She nodded. I felt a little impressed, in spite of myself. “And what did you do after you went knife-happy on his nutsack?”

“I sprayed him in the face with the pepper-spray. He lost his balance and there was a splash — I think he fell into the toilet.”

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

She jumped, startled.

“
Shit attracts shit,” I said, earning a shaky smile. “Good to know you can take care of yourself.”

“
Y-you're not mad?”

“
At you? Fuck me. No. Him, yes, I'd like to carve him up like a Thanksgiving turkey for what he did to you. But you? No.” I softened my tone. “You were amazing, darlin. You hungry?”

“
Let me have the first-aid stuff first,” she said. I watched her scrub her hands methodically with the rubbing alcohol. She dropped the used cotton-balls on the floor of the bus, and shoved everything back in the bag. “I can still feel his hands on me.”

Fucker. I repressed the urge to look at him, and pulled up her shirt. She flinched a little.
Can she still feel my hands?
“I'm sure he can still feel your knife in him,
bebe
.”

Christina looked up, and then away.  For a moment, I could almost taste her lips. She was so close. I patted her cheek, letting my fingers linger where I longed to put my mouth. It felt like there was a spring in me coiled up, and ready to burst.

Goddammit.

This was just like what I went through every night. What she went through every time she met my eyes. What I'd done to her. What I might continue to do if I couldn't keep my distance. She didn't fucking deserve that. She didn't fucking deserve
me
.

I was a monster — we both were.

I pulled away before I could do something stupid and gave her a bottle of soda and a bag of chips from the $30 phone call. She turned them over in her hands. “Fried onion puffs and pineapple soda? These don't look very healthy.” She bit down on that sexy lower lip. “I don't suppose you have any fruit juice?”

I rifled through the bag and tossed her a greenish package that had a cartoon apple with a bucktoothed smile on the front. “Apple Rings,” I said. “I'm sure there's some real apple buried somewhere real deep beneath all that sugar and ascorbic acid.”

“Contains no fruit,” she read from the label.

I laughed again as I tore open the bag of onion puffs and her expression softened just a shade as she gave me a shy smile that pulled all my internal strings taut. I wanted her to look at me like that all the time. “We should be in San Francisco in ten or twelve hours.”

“Then what?”

My mouth was full. I chewed and swallowed before saying, “Guess we'll find out when we get there.”

There was a long silence, and then I heard her say, hesitantly, “Michael?”

“
What?”

“
Thank you for being so…kind.” I felt those gorgeous lips of hers brush against my stubbled cheek. “It means a lot.”

“
Don't thank me for giving you what you deserve.” I could still remember how bright her eyes had looked filled with tears. How young it made her look. How that childish pettishness and pampered softness had made me want to tear her to pieces. How the power trip had gotten me halfway off.

Could that happen again?

“Don't,” I said, sharply, shrugging off her arm, and her kiss. I saw that hurt again, the widening of those eyes, and felt like I might fucking fly apart.

Christina:

The bus coursed down the oak-spattered Tejon Pass. I ended up eating a few of the Apple Rings after all because I was starving, and they alleviated the popping in my ears.

Most of the passengers on the bus were older, in their late sixties and seventies if I had to guess. There was a middle-aged woman with a baby that kept crying and two little boys who kept kicking the seats in front of them; two teenagers I suspected were boyfriend and girlfriend and who looked far too young to be traveling alone; a black man wearing headphones who spent most of the trip asleep (and since he was the one stuck in front of the monster twins, I didn't blame him).

The creepy man was gone. He'd gotten off at the last stop. Nobody seemed sad to see him gone. The girl teenager even clapped, though her boyfriend stopped her with a scowl.
Pig
, I thought.

I shoved the book in my backpack and adjusted the neck of my shirt. Michael had been asleep for the last hour or so. His breathing was slow and even. The rise and fall of his chest was as constant as a metronome.

Looking at his slack face made me want to sleep, too, but at least one of us had better stay awake and I'd slept more than my fair share.

God, I was so tired. I reached over and snatched an energy drink from his pack, wincing at the fizz that sputtered out when I popped the can. Liquid foamed out and I held it away from me, over the floor, so my clothes wouldn't get all sticky.

At the sound, Michael jolted awake. The sleep cleared from his eyes as he assumed a ready stance.

“
Sorry,” I said, holding up the can in what looked like an awkward toast, “It's just me.”

“
Don't do that.”