Page 11 of Forbidden Eyes

"You went over the river, Arch." He backs off a step, hands held up in surrender before anything has even started.

"Aww shit, man. It wasn't ... I mean, we needed to 'cause the deal went south and …”

I keep waiting for an answer I'll like, knowing there isn't going be one, and eventually zone into thoughts of how much I need to do here rather than listen. I already know the facts. And those facts mean they didn't care, didn't worry enough about what might come for them if they pissed me off. And him still backing off from me as he speaks, his eyes fidgeting between me and the other three behind me, tells me everything I need to know.

The switchblade is out of my pocket, struck open, and thrown at his inside thigh before I think any more of it. He shouts for help, his hands clutching at the blood that starts pumping out from the embedded blade. A quick glance to see if the fucks behind me might try something, and I find their eyes wide at what's happening in front of them. Good. No threat to deal with.

"Don't cross the fucking river, Arch. No reason at all," I mutter, turning back to him. "You fucking hearing that?"

He nods and tries to step away from me as I advance on him, my hand reaching for my blade. I grab it and twist slowly, listening to the bellow of pain that comes out of him. It sends him to his knees, pressure from me helping to put him on the damn floor where he belongs. "My fucking rules. You want to live, do not cross the river." I lean in some more, pulling my gun out and shoving it at his head until he's flat on the floor so he gets my point, still ratcheting the blade around. "Are we clear?" He whimpers like the dog he is, unable to form words through the pain I'm causing. "Are we fucking clear?"

"YES! Fuck, man. Yes."

I pull the blade out as soon as he's said the word, content to let him rule his little roost for a while longer yet. As long as his team doesn't cross the river and cause me grief from the other side, he's a good runner. And that means more money for Cane. More importantly, more power.

More control.

"Good. You should keep some pressure on that," I mutter, washing down the blade with a bottle of water and nodding at his leg. He grabs at it some more, trying to stem the bleeding, so I turn to leave. "I'll let the other side know you've apologized, Arch. Don't fuck up again, yeah."

Because that might piss me off beyond sense.

And no one wants that.

Four

Terrance was a life saver.

After I spoke to him, I packed a rucksack with a few essentials and then raided the stash of cash I had tucked away. When I was little, playing in my mom’s wardrobe, I came across a plain black rucksack filled with a couple sets of clothes and some money. She told me off for being nosey, but also told me it’s important to always be prepared. I never gave much thought as to why she’d have that. It was just another one of those odd things about my family.

I never did pack a bag to have ready to pick up and go, but the idea of having money appealed to me. My allowance was obscene, especially considering I wasn’t given a chance to spend it on anything I wanted. When I started at Columbia, I got in the habit of withdrawing a few hundred here and there and keeping it at home.

That not-so-little stash is now a godsend. Especially as using my cards will give Uncle Nate a direct trail to me, just as booking a flight would.

Terrance picked me up in Brooklyn and stayed with me until I boarded the Greyhound at nearly three in the morning. An edge of excitement helped to keep my eyes open and alert, but that excitement was tinged with trepidation and worry as to what would happen at the end of all this.

I've never been anywhere alone. Torino has always been my walking, talking companion for reasons still unclear to me. For the first time in my life, I have this feeling like something is missing. This is the first time I’ve ever done anything on my own, and all the natural reactions to that are bubbling under my skin, even at this ridiculous hour.

The journey is so long with far too many scheduled stops, but I don’t have a choice. Twenty-four hours and I’ll be in Chicago. After each hour or so, I feel my eyes growing heavy and threatening to close, but then someone on the bus moves or makes a noise, and I’m on high alert, my eyes flashing around at my surroundings.

I counted six others as I walked onto the bus when we set out. We hit the road and travelled across state lines. With each state we’ve crossed, the number has increased, and my eyes have grown wary of each new passenger. I survey them, making up imaginary stories for each of them in my head, giving them epic motivations to be travelling across the country. Finding love, reconnecting with missing family, chasing dreams. The ordinary or mundane don’t have room in my sleep-starved brain, and the stories kept the guilt and paranoia at bay.

I can’t use my phone. It's been switched off since I got on the bus in case someone tracks it. I don’t want to see the messages of panic and worry from my parents or Torino either. By the time we transfer to the new bus in Indianapolis, I'm questioning the wisdom of my decision to take the bus. I want a shower, a bed and a decent meal. Plastic food from the roadside stops is anything but appetizing, and there are hours still to go.

When we finally pull up to Union Station, my heart jackhammers in my chest. What am I supposed to do now? It’s the middle of the night. Again.

I turn out of the station, cross over the river and all but stumble into the first hotel I see. After a late check-in, I fall into bed, and I’m out before I even bother to change my clothes.

* * *

My eyes unglue and my vision is flooded by an eerie light. It’s unfamiliar, and a bolt of adrenalin races through me for a second. Before I remember where I am and what I've done, I grab for my phone on the side, warring with myself and wondering if I should risk turning it on or even sending a message to put my mom’s mind at ease.

Am I being fair, running away like this? My father said that I acted like a child; that's the reason he treated me like one. Is this behaviour simply reinforcing his belief?

No.

I’m nineteen and free to travel on my own.

I don’t need their permission. I brush my mental argument away as I pull back the covers and dive for the bathroom.