Run With Me
Authors: L. A. Shorter
Tags: #romantic mystery, #Romantic Thriller, #Romantic Suspense, #Mystery & Suspense, #crime, #thriller
L. A. Shorter
©2014 L. A. Shorter
(Free)
authors page here.
Chapter 1 - Kitty
Kitty
I can still hear the gunshot in
my head as I run.
I've never heard one before, not
from that close anyway. It's louder than you imagine.
But it's not the sound that's
sticking with me. It's the image of the bullet ripping through the
man's chest. It's the sound of his final, pleading words as he begs
for his life before having it taken away.
I can't shift his voice from my
mind. I can't shift the image from my eyes.
It's the blood, the sight of a
man dropping to the floor, red spurting in bursts from his chest.
That was the last I saw. Well, almost the last. I also had time to
see his expression – not the guy being shot, but the guy with the
gun. It was blank, almost disinterested. It was like it was nothing
to him, just another day at the office.
His name is Michael Carmine, and
he owns the bar I work in. I know he owns a lot more than that, and I
know that this really
is
just another day at the office.
Killing is part of his world, and that's why I have to run.
The night is cold, a sharp wind
slashing across my face as I fly down the street. I don't feel it
though. I don't feel anything except the thud of concrete against my
feet. Thank God I'm not wearing heels tonight.
I reach the corner and turn,
stopping and leaning back against the brick wall. I gather my breath
for a moment and try to steady my heart-rate, but it's no use. I
pause before glancing back around the corner from where I came,
whispering a quick prayer.
Please don't be following.
Please don't have seen me.
Then I peek past the edge of the
wall and set my eyes down the dark street, lit in patches by rusty
street lamps. I see two men walking, but they're coming from another
angle, stumbling under the weight of the alcohol poisoning their
blood.
I continue to stare, but see no
other movement. The street is quiet, no sign of anyone pursuing me,
no sound of footsteps or car tires screeching round the corner.
I let out a breath and turn my
head back, leaning up against the hard brick wall. Relief pours from
my body, the numbness that had engulfed me suddenly giving way. I can
feel my legs again, heavy and shaking, as I shiver in the cold night
air.
I am alone. No one has seen
me. No one has heard me.
2 Hours Earlier
I stare out over the bar,
brimming and bustling with drunks and lowlifes. This place isn't
fancy, it's not pretty. Half the people down here are involved in
crime on some level. Selling drugs on the street. Mugging old ladies.
Hell, there are probably a few murderers and rapists in front of me
right now for all I know.
So why do I work here?
Good question.
It's because I can't do much
else. I've lived in this world for a while now, and it's almost like
home to me. Not this bar in particular, but this world. My dad was –
is - a criminal himself. Stealing cars and selling them on for parts
was his trade before he got caught.
Dad raised me alone after my mom
died, and he stole those cars to give me the things he thought I
deserved. I guess he did it all with the best intentions, but those
intentions mean squat when the cops catch up with you and throw you
in jail...
A hand comes slapping down on my
wrist as I lay it on the bar, fingers gripping tightly round it. I
look up from serving a drink and see a bearded man, smiling at me,
half his teeth missing, the rest yellowed and rotting.
“
You wanna come home with me
later sweetheart,” he asks me drunkenly, his eyes dropping down to
my chest. His tongue dips from between his lips and snakes across
them as his eyes dangle on my cleavage.
Home with you? Do you even
have a home? You look like you live on the street.
I want to say that back to him
but don't. It doesn't matter who you are – girl, boy, whatever.
Round here you can get a bottle in the neck for speaking like that. I
learned long ago it wasn't wise to run my mouth. I've got the scars
to prove it.
I smile instead and gently pull
my hand away from his. His grip holds fast for a moment before
loosening. “I'm sorry,” I say, with feigned regret, “I have a
boyfriend.”
It's the easiest lie to tell,
and one that usually gets them to back off.
He carries on looking at me with
lustful eyes, his words bitter. “Of course you do,” he says,
“some college mommy's boy I bet.”
I keep smiling and nod.
“Something like that. Did you want a drink?”
He grunts and points at the
stacked bottles of Bud behind me, slapping a few beaten up dollar
bills on the bar. I hand him the drink and he turns away, mumbling
under his breath. I hardly hear him, his insults of 'whore' and
'bitch' like water off a duck's back to me. I've heard them all
before, and a lot worse. Why should the words of a drunken tramp have
any impact on me? There are few whose words do.
I turn back around and grab a
bottle of bud for myself, flicking the cap into a trash can under the
bar in front of me. I can see Scarlett serving drinks down the other
end of the bar as I take a swig and lean back, staring out over the
space in front of me.
It's underground, this bar, and
in a pretty rough part of LA, near South Central. I've been here less
than a month, after this other bar I was working at went bust. It
wasn't my first choice, but sometimes you don't have a choice. Right
now, I've gotta get work where I can find it, and this place was
looking, so.
I shoot the free beer down my
neck every so often between serving drinks. Scarlett's doing the
same, laughing and flirting with the customers as they line up in
front of her. I can tell she's more than a barmaid. These guys are
asking to take her home, and I know she'll do it for a price. She'd
never call herself a hooker, but that's just what she is.
The night drags on, the bar
thinning. I sink a couple more beers and get a few tips, as well as a
few more invitations. I guess they don't know that I'm not like
Scarlett, and I draw the line at serving drinks and nothing else.
I can still see the toothless
tramp, lingering in the corner, his eyes set on me. His stare is
unnerving, it makes me feel uncomfortable. I know, just from looking
at him, that he's the sort with little to lose, the sort who will rob
an old lady in the middle of the street for drug money, or stab
someone for giving them a funny look. That's why, whatever anyone
says to me, I try to be polite back to them. You never know when
someone's gonna turn just because you said the wrong thing, or looked
at them the wrong way.
I begin tidying the bar up as
the night winds down, washing the counter and stacking up any empty
glasses left on tables. I try not to look at the man as he stumbles
out towards the exit and up the stairs, but I know he's still looking
at me. Scarlett sees it too, and advises me to take the back exit
when I leave. The same thought crossed my mind.
I wait a little while before
leaving, wrapping my coat around me before stepping up the stairs at
the back and out into a quiet alley.
But it's not quiet. There are
voices down the end and round the corner. I stop for a moment and
listen, feeling myself drawn to the sound.
The voice I hear belongs to
Michael Carmine, the man who owns the bar. I met him once, when I
first started, but never since then. He carries a distinctive tone,
his voice deep and slightly gruff. But it's the way he speaks that's
more memorable – slow, measured, every word weighty and important.
I creep down the alley towards
the source of the sound. It's around the corner, where there's a
concealed space at the back of the bar, usually used for parking
cars. I can hear Carmine's voice rumbling out of him, threatening
someone.
Then I hear another man, his
voice more manic, more desperate. He sounds like he's pleading, his
words shaking. I creep as close as possible, unable to stop from
peeking round the corner. I see Carmine, two men to his sides. I
recognize one of them, but can't place his name. I've seen him before
in the bar – not to socialize, but to go straight to the office at
the back. He's Carmine's 'hand', someone who does his dirty work, so
he can keep his own palms clean.
My eyes glide up to the man
ahead of them. He's standing with his hands up in front of him, his
back against a car. Carmine speaks slowly and the man drops to his
knees, clasping his hands together in prayer, his eyes erratic and
wild with fear.
He begs as Carmine lifts his
hand out to his side, his eyes still staring straight at the man on
the ground. His 'hand' casually pulls a gun from his waist and places
it into Carmine's palm.
Then he slowly, menacingly,
swings his arm around, pointing it directly at the man on his knees
in front of him. I make a move to turn and step away but am frozen on
the spot, my eyes wide and white in the shadows around the corner
away from them.
Then, before I know it, a heavy
sound shatters the night air as Carmine pulls back on the trigger. I
look on as the bullet rips into the man's chest, driving straight
into his heart. Carmine holds his pose, his outstretched arm still
directed in front of him as blood spurts to the tarmac, mixing with
the black dirt and grime.
My feet unlock from the earth as
I step back, trying not to make a sound. I pace quietly and quickly,
before turning and moving towards the other end of the alley and the
opening to the street beyond. My hands and legs shake as I move, my
head daring to twist backwards to check behind me. I see no one
appear in my wake, quickly looking forwards once more as I crash into
a trash can at the end of the alley.
I trip and fall, the clanging of
metal rushing up the alley and into the parking lot beyond. Before a
moment passes I'm back on my feet, and running now, running as fast
as I can. The road ahead is long, a narrow street, dark and
dangerous. I sprint, my lungs gasping, my body numbing, too scared to
look behind.
I expect to hear another
gunshot, this time followed by searing pain. I expect to feel the
bullet force me forward to the ground, to feel blood building in my
mouth, to see it reddening the earth beneath me.