Better Run

by Shel Stone

  What kind of person did that make her, being attracted to the guy that had promised to dispatch her—even as he didn’t have an immediate plan of how to do it. Should she be offended that he put so little thought into it? She kind of was. It was absolutely not okay with her that he treated it like some annoying task he had to do. If he was going to, she was not going to allow him to just put her out of her misery like some street dog. He was going to have to do it fully present, and fully knowing who she was and what he was taking away from her. It was going to have to cost him.

  Exactly how she would do that, she wasn’t sure. But Palmer wasn’t quite as cold as he made out to be. Something inside him retreated from her touch, and it wasn’t out of disgust. He feared the intimacy of it. Well, killing was the most intimate act there was and he was going to have to give her his all.

  Turning to look at him, her gaze followed along his nose, the soft lips and the curve of his chin. Again she could see the pulse at his neck, that one part that betrayed his icy exterior. Her eyes continued down. His nice chest and that trim waist. Hell, he had a nice waist. And his hips. There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t perfect—physically.

  With a sigh, she turned back to face ahead. Endless miles of road. Driving was utterly boring. Then again, she’d done the same route before, and had endured it fine. Leaning over, she turned the radio on, letting it scan for stations. It settled on some classic rock station that played music from the eighties. It would have to do.

  Then she dug out a chocolate bar from her bag and took a bite, letting it melt in her mouth. What went on in his mind when he sat there and stared at the road? He seemed so stoic. Although not always. “Where is your mother?”

  He threw her a look.

  “What? You’ve met mine.”

  “She’s dead,” he finally said, but didn’t elaborate. It told her a lot, though. Pieces slid into place. Like her, a dad probably hadn’t been in the picture, and his mother had died. His temper about the topic suggested old wounds, so probably quite young. “State care,” she said. He neither confirmed nor denied, but no one who hadn’t would simply omit denying if they hadn’t been raised in state care. That was tough. Her mother might have forgotten she was a mother half the time, but when she was actually sober, she’d tried her best.

  Turning back to him, she studied his face again, but he was just as stoic as before. He’d fought hard for what he had. Might not be a raging success in everyone’s book, but he was a long way from where he’d started. Legit simply wasn’t an option for people like them. They had no avenues into that kind of life. Neither of them were freakishly talented at something. Because only exceptionalism would lift people like them out of the quagmire. College admission departments didn’t throw open the doors for people like them.

  Her response had been to completely check out. Had chosen not to care about that stuff, about how other people saw her. Instead, she’d carved a very small life for herself where she’d intended to stay. Pay the rent, party with some friends, keep to what suited her. Palmer had had something to prove, had wanted to make the world take him seriously, probably through one of the only professions available.

  And then Sammie had come along and shot a couple of holes in him, according to Palmer, threatening the position he’d put everything into achieving. In fact, Sammie had fucked up her life too, and had paid for it with his own life.

  “it’s strange,” she said, “that both of our lives turned on a dime, through an event neither of us had any control over.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sammie and what he did.”

  Palmer returned to stoic silence.

  “Sometimes I wonder,” she continued. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re too happy, too content, the world simply decides it can’t be tolerated.”

  “Were you content then?”

  “Perfectly. I had my shitty little apartment, my shitty job, but no one told me what to do.”

  “Is that your definition of success?”

  “What’s your definition of success? Nice cars? Lavish parties? Because I’m not the one running down some girl across the country. If you were some sicko enjoying this, I’d probably get it, but you’re not. You don’t want to be here anymore than I do. You admitted this was something you had to do. Even said it wasn’t personal. Out of both of us, I end up doing what I want and you are forced to do things you don’t want. So is it worth it?”

  “Well, obviously it is.”

  “Right,” she said. “So where to from here? Where do you go now that you’re king of the hill?”

  “Being the king is pretty good.”

  “Throwing parties for creepy people.”

  “Like your friends,” he added, giving her a pointed look. “And that was very much a mistake. Believe me, punishment went down the line for drawing those two idiots in.”

  Nook noticed she wasn’t included as one of the idiots. What did that mean?

  “Like, I don’t get it. I don’t get how the world works. Essentially, we’re not that different. We both have apartments, cars, jobs, friends and parties. It is just the circumstances of those things that differ. Your stuff is prettier, but it’s the same stuff. A car is a car. I had to abandon mine at the Orlando Bus Station, by the way. Granted, your car performs better than mine, which was temperamental at best, but they essentially did the same thing. Our lives are the same, but perceived as so different.”

  “You want to have a discussion with me about capitalist structures?”

  Nook rolled her eyes.

  “It’s not our lives that are perceived as different—it’s us,” he said.

  “That’s totally harsh.”

  “Not arguing with you, but that’s how it is. You’re a stripper who lives in Liberty City, and I’m a successful businessman who lives in one of the glittering high-rises downtown.”

  “Doing something illegal.”

  “Did you know the Kennedys made their money running booze during prohibition? Anywhere you see money, someone has been doing something others can’t get away with. That, Nook, is how the world works. You can’t get anywhere by fighting the system. You just can’t.”

  “Some would say you are the one outside the system.”

  “No, I’m really not.”

  “And by the way, strippers are awesome people who get on with paying their bills and supporting their kids.”

  Palmer was silent for a moment. “My mother was a potter,” he finally said.

  “A potter?”

  “She made stuff with clay. A bit like you. She just shut out the outside world and built a little cocoon.” A small smile ghosted on his lips. He’d loved his mother—Nook could tell. “Until she got sick.” The smile faded and was replaced with that ever-present stoicism.

  Maybe he’d reacted so harshly before because he knew his mother would absolutely hate what he was doing with his life. Not something Nook felt the need to bring up. Obviously, he’d know that better than anyone.

  Her own mother was fairly proud of her, mostly because she had money most of the time. And Nook would always cave and give her ‘loans’.

  The landscape was changing, getting greener. Mile after mile they were getting closer to the tropical climate of Florida. An eventuality Nook didn’t want to think about. It scared her to think about it, so she simply refused to. It wasn’t something she had any control over. Obviously, she needed to spot opportunities to run, but she also knew that he expected her to. Emptying the clip had shown he was toying with her, curious to see what she’d do. When her opportunity came, it had to be something he didn’t expect.

  Chapter 24

  THEY PULLED INTO New Orleans close to midday and they were hungry. As much as he’d been trying to avoid big cities, he wanted to get home as soon as possible, so they pulled into a nondescript motel. He was getting sick of these shitty motels, but it was necessary, and they were happy to accept cash.

  “I’m hungry,” Nook said as they got into t
he room.

  “We’ll eat.”

  “I want a drink.”

  “Do you now?”

  “We’re in New Orleans. Let’s go to the French Quarter. We can eat and have a drink.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Come on,” she whined. “I've never seen it.”

  “You’re my hostage, remember,” he said tartly.

  “Yeah well, the condemned deserves a night out. We’re going to reach Miami tomorrow, along with whatever nefarious plans you have in mind.”

  It was an absolutely idiotic idea, but she did have a point. Still, the French Quarter was a terrible idea. Millions of tourists—although they would probably be invisible in the crowd. Then again, a crowd could be the distraction she’d be looking for.

  Part of him was curious. Part of him also felt the weight of her fate. “Fine, lunch in the French Quarter. Then we sleep for a few hours before hitting the road.” Truthfully, he could use a break from being in the car himself. He couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this.

  Clapping her hands lightly, she jumped, clearly excited.

  Something strange had developed between them. She wasn’t afraid of him like she had been—she cajoled and challenged him, and now he was taking her out for lunch at a fine French restaurant. What the hell was going on here? This wasn’t how he normally behaved. But his attitude to her had changed the moment she hadn’t been able to pull the trigger on him. She’d sacrificed herself for her principles, and that meant something to him. In his life, principles were a rare thing. Even some of Miami’s most respectable people would throw their spouses under the bus for their own survival when push came to shove.

  A heaviness pressed down on his thoughts, because he already knew that he wouldn’t be able to kill her—or let her be killed. It placed him in an impossible situation, because he needed her to be punished.

  Maybe that was why he’d just agreed to something really stupid—like taking her out to the French Quarter. He couldn’t simply release her, but maybe he wanted her to find a way free. Pointless as that would be, because he’d simply have to find her again.

  As he waited for her to get ready in the bathroom, he mentally searched for a way out of this. The expectation was that her punishment needed to be grave, but the harsh punishments that would be acceptable weren’t to his taste. Maybe non-fatal gunshots.

  She was right in the sense that he was forced to do something he didn’t want to do. His anger had driven him to find her, but it didn’t sustain him now. Now he simply wanted this over with, ideally with her alive at the end.

  A better resolution than shooting her, even if non-fatally, hadn’t come to him yet, but perhaps it would. Having an alternative body presented as her had some merit, but it would mean securing another body. Not impossible in a city like Miami. Enough money and a body would quite happily go missing before it was booked in with the coroner. Carlos would be quite happy to secure a body if asked, but Palmer wasn’t sure he wanted that on his conscience.

  Palmer sighed. The question he needed to answer was how far he’d be willing to go and how much risk he’d take to find an alternative solution.

  “I’m ready,” Nook said, emerging out of the bathroom, her clean hair in wild curls down her shoulders and freshly applied makeup. “I’ve never done outright tourist things.”

  Neither had Palmer, really. His travel had always been business. His life was mostly business. Only occasionally was it not, and fine restaurants was his thing.

  Getting up, he grabbed the keys and waited for her to leave the room ahead of him. Outside was bright sunshine, but for them it was well after bedtime. They’d just had their longest day, but they needed to eat, so off they were going.

  The motel manager called them a cab and their progress slowed down considerably the closer they got downtown. Nooks knee was bouncing and her eyes were bright. “Such nerves, Miss Alicia,” he said. “Why so tense? You wouldn’t be planning to run from me, would you?”

  “I might,” she said with a smile. Her honesty amused him and he smiled.

  “I’ll have to watch you like a hawk then.”

  She turned to look at him, but didn’t say anything. Arriving, they got out for the short walk down to the actual quarter. It might be lunchtime, but that didn’t seem to mean anything in the quarter. Music played, people milled. Some were drunk.

  “I need a drink,” Nook said. “You’ve had me locked up like a novice nun in a convent.”

  “That one,” he said, pointing them toward a French restaurant.

  “Do you always have to have your way?”

  “Yes,” he said with a snort.

  “So bossy. How in the world do any of your girlfriends tolerate you?”

  “They don’t,” he said as the young waiter with a ridiculously thin and curled mustache greeted them.

  “Love the mo,” Nook said and the waiter actually preened. Was she flirting with the guy?

  “What?” she said when she looked back at him. “Tickles, doesn’t it?” Her smile was playful, even lewd.

  The waiter blushed, probably as Nook had intended he do.

  “So, they don’t tolerate you, huh?” she said as the waiter left them.

  This was not a discussion Palmer wanted to have. In fact, women in his life went out as quickly as they came in. He didn’t invite them to stay. He knew what they saw when they looked at him.

  “All work and no play,” she continued.

  “Never said that.”

  The waiter returned. “Any drinks?”

  “Vodka lime,” Nook replied.

  “And do you have any ID with you today?” the man said brightly.

  “Sure do,” Nook said, rummaging through her bag. “Totally legal.”

  The man checked the ID and gave it back to her. “And what will you have, sir?”

  “A Stella Artois,” Palmer said. The waiter accepted his order without ID, and disappeared again.

  “So have you never had a proper girlfriend?” Nook continued.

  “Not having this discussion with you,” he replied.

  “Out of all those slinky creatures that waded around your party?”

  “Those were pros.”

  “I know they were pros. Kind of obvious. You really have issues with girls making a living, don’t you?”

  “No. Not at all. People do what they have to. Or what their ambition allows. Don’t misunderstand and think my disdain is exclusively for women. My disdain is very much evenly distributed.”

  “Must be fun, hating everyone around you.”

  “I don’t hate.” With the exception of her. She was the only one he’d hated, and those two pricks she’d turned up in his life with. But he couldn’t say he hated her now. Familiarity had not bred contempt in this case. So what had it bred? A grudging acceptability—maybe respect at a stretch.

  “Just an island all by yourself.”

  “Works for me.”

  “So is that part of your definition of success too?”

  No, it had just worked out that way. Other people were a weakness, a weakness that was already creeping into his life with her—the moment he’d decided he couldn’t kill her, a whole new set of weaknesses were required to make that happen. “People compromise you,” he admitted quietly.

  Nook just stared at him for a while without saying anything, interrupted by the waiter returning with their drinks.

  “Ready to order?” the man said after carefully placing their drinks down on paper coasters.

  “Boeuf à la bourguignonne,” Palmer said and the waiter nodded and turned to Nook. “And a carafe of the house red.”

  “Same. Except the carafe,” Nook said and smiled as he turned away to go relay their order to the kitchen. “Do you speak French?”

  “No,” Palmer answered.

  “Seemed like it.”

  “I just know what things are called.”

  “From the countless French restaurants you’ve been to?”

  “Y
es.”

  “So that’s your thing then?”

  “In terms of things, then yes. I like nice restaurants.”

  “So who do you take with you?”

  “Dates.”

  “Dates you pay for.”

  “It’s less messy that way.”

  “Right,” she said, taking a deep sip of her drink. “Have you been to France?”

  “No.”

  “So you love French food, but you’ve never been to France, despite the oodles of money you have?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I don’t get you. If I had enough money to fly to France, I’d be off. Probably wouldn’t even come back. Find some hot French dude.”

  Actually, that would work out nicely for both of them. Get her a fake passport and send her on a one-way ticket to France. “Careful what you wish for.”

  The food arrived, distracting from any further discussion on the topic.

  Chapter 25

  BEEF MELTED in Nook’s mouth. Flavor filled every part of her as her eyes swam shut. Rich and deep, butter and herbs and she didn’t know what else.

  “God, this is divine,” she said after the first mouthful. The mashed potatoes were creamy and rich too. It was like eating the richest chocolate cake ever, but savory.

  Forkful after forkful went into her mouth. How had she not known about this? Was this why people harped on about French food? Well, not anyone she knew, but on TV.

  The wine—alright, she didn’t love the wine, but even she could tell they kind of went together, flavor-wise. With wine glass in hand, she looked down at her plate. “Is there wine in this?”

  “There’s wine in most French cooking.”

  That explained why they went so well together.

  “Is everything alright?” the waiter asked, taking Nook by surprise.

  “It’s heavenly. Another of those vodka limes too.”

  The guy nodded and smiled, checking with Palmer before leaving again.

  “What else do you eat?” she asked Palmer.

  “Well, Italian, of course. Japanese. Thai. Good Middle Eastern. Can’t say no to that.”