Page 63 of Ready Or Not

“Am I, though?” I stare at her.

“Yes.” Riley lifts a thin, dark eyebrow.

“What is that saying, keep your friends close but your enemies closer?” I motion at her. “You’re good at getting what you want. Why don’t you pretend to work with Manson to get what you want?”

Her dark eyes take me in. “You can’t manipulate me into saving your mom. You’re shit at it.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “I’m just saying. Manson seems like the kind of guy who can get you what you want. So why not at least pretend to like him?”

Riley watches me, taking everything in. I feel like she’s looking into my soul, and I hate it. But I don’t back down.

Finally, Riley smirks and motions at my French fries. “A potato died for you to eat that, so stop wasting food.”

I do, in fact, waste my food. I drop the rest of the soggy, gelatinous mess in the trash while staring at Riley, saying fuck you in the only way I can. Something about always being under the threat of death makes me reckless. And oddly, it feels freeing.

Riley’s eyes flash at my disobedience, and I think I see the tiniest hint of a smirk before she motions me outside. We get back on the bike and drive into the night. I’m not quite sure where we are, but we’re headed east. Which is the general direction of my mom’s nursing home.

But I don’t think Riley is headed there. She has no reason to. She doesn’t care that it’s my mom because she doesn’t really care about anything, and I have nothing to bargain with. I have nothing that Riley or Manson needs.

The bike rumbles underneath me, and I’m both exhausted and wired at the same time. My gut twists. There’s a huge chance my mom will die, and that reality sinks into me. I’m filled with mixed emotions. I flashback to my mom’s disinterested face when I told her about Papa. She shrugged me off and looked at me like I disappointed her. For the longest time, I felt bad and tried to make it up to her. Then, during my teen years, I hated her. That old anger fills me and rushes through my body.

Could I let my own mom die? I remember the times she bought me smooth peanut butter instead of crunchy after I almost puked from the texture. She never belittled me, just asked me what I wanted instead. When I told her I wanted to stop picking my fingers and face, she took me to get acrylics so it would be easier. She didn’t have a lot of money, but she always saved to make sure I could have a fresh set every few weeks.

I feel sick. How could I even consider letting this happen?

I stare at the land around us. We’re flying down a deserted highway. Most highways in this state are empty, especially atnight. We’ve been driving for a while, still heading east. I start to recognize the area, and as I do, nerves fill me.

Is Riley going to stop? Maybe she will. Maybe she wants to work with Manson like I suggested. My hands are slick with sweat, and I want to pick my nails.

We get close to the exit, and I hold my breath.

Riley flies past it.

No, no, no. My gut is in knots, and I need to throw up.

“Where are we going?” I try to shout the words, but they’re eaten by my helmet and the rumble of the bike.

Riley passes the next exit. One more, and we won’t have a place to turn around for miles.

Once again, someone is making decisions for my life, and I’m stuck and forced to be silent.

I shift, and as I do, my hand bumps the gun. I freeze.

Shoot her. The thought pops into my head.Bang, bang, bang,done.

I suck in a breath. I’ve never shot a gun before. It will most definitely be suicide.

Unreasonable anger bubbles in my gut as the last exit approaches. I will not be silent anymore.

I dart my hands to Riley’s waistband, using one to yank her shirt up and the other to grip the gun. It’s warm and rough against my hands. Riley slows, and I have to yank twice before I get it out.

“Turn around!” I scream, pressing the gun into her side.

Riley slows the bike even more.

“Go back!” I shove it into her more.

“Rachel,” she growls. We’re going slow now, and I can hear her over the bike. “You really want to do this?”