Running Game(178)

We have to get out of here.

Out of this town, out of this goddamned state…

As I twisted the throttle and started down the road, the blast of a shotgun went off behind us. Frail bastard that he was, Roger must have managed to get up out of his goddamned chair.

“Hang on!”

I gunned it around the first turn and blasted down the nearly abandoned roadways. Angel’s arms tightened around my chest just enough to let me know she was there. I sure as hell wasn’t going to waste my time looking for police in this Podunk little town. I needed to get Angel somewhere safe, then we could figure out what happened back there.

The biting wind seemed to bring Angel back, miles ticking by as she pressed herself against my back, her strength ever so slowly returning.

That’s my girl…

I rode long and hard, putting as much distance behind us as I could. My destination was well in mind. Angel and I were leaving Alabama behind… tonight. But there was no way I could do that without giving Old Greg another chance to see his granddaughter, safe and sound.

“You came for me…” Angel whispered softly as we came to a stop outside the old Riverton Bar. Her legs shook lightly as she stepped off the bike, but she quickly gained her footing. She didn’t even need to lean on me that much.

Sure, the motorcycle had presented a logistical problem at first… but the wind had done wonders to snap her back out of that drug-fueled cloud.

“What the hell did they do to you, Angel?” I asked, looking her over. “Are you hurt? Did he harm you?”

“I think I’m okay now. Mom gave me some of my anxiety pills…” She sounded weak still, but at least she could hold a conversation. It was progress that I was willing to take. “She said she just wanted to calm me down. I didn’t really have any withdrawal symptoms before, but I guess my body forgot how to hold them like I used to…”

“And that sick fuck, Roger?”

“I think he was going to kill me,” she replied, her voice quiet and fearful.

“That will never happen,” I snarled. “There’s no statute of limitations on the things he’s done. Soon as we get back, you’re reporting that bastard. I don’t care what it costs, I don’t care how long it takes, we’re taking him down.”

Angel glanced up at me, strands of her hair falling in front of her eyes. I was afraid that she was going to resist me on this, but the night had sapped her strength. Instead, she surprised me: “Do you really mean that, Trent?”

My resolve hardened. Even if I hadn’t just walked in on a complete atrocity, the forlorn, hopeful look in her eyes only made me more infuriated. How can someone hurt somebody like this? “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my entire fucking life.”

Quietly, a small smile crossed her lips.

I took Angel by the hand and walked her away from the bike, my other arm around her shoulder. Her footing only slipped slightly twice as we crossed the gravel towards the front door of the old, decrepit saloon.

Old Greg was tending at the Riverton Bar when we stepped in from the darkness. Angel was still a bit shaky on her feet, and he faltered at the sight of her, instantly abandoning his patrons. A silence fell over everyone as they turned and recognized their usual, plucky bartender – trembling and clutching onto me in the doorway for support.

“Angel!” He held back tears, hobbling around to greet us. “You’re back!”

She looked at him strangely for a moment, then back to me. “Old Greg, I’m so sorry… I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. I just couldn’t look you in the eye.”

“You look like hell,” he muttered huffily.

“Thanks a ton,” Angel grumbled in return.

I glanced between them, confused and only growing angrier by the second… until I realized that the two of them were softly smiling.

“Tell me what those people did to you, girl.”

Angel looked away, unwilling to speak.

Old Greg peered at me curiously, instead.

“There was trouble,” I answered carefully.

“You saw what was happening to her,” he stated bitterly. Not as a question, but a recognition. I wasn’t sure if he really wanted to have this conversation, particularly in front of his patrons, but I nodded sternly.

“First time something out of the ordinary happens, I always write that up as a fluke,” Old Greg told me, “but when it happens again, there’s a pattern. You are no fluke. You’ve saved my Angel again.”

“If happens a third time, I definitely don’t want a shotgun involved.” I allowed the corner of my lip to curl up, watching his reaction harden with realization. “It was cute when she did it the first time, but I’m getting real sick of that.”