Run With Me
L. A. Shorter
©2014 L. A. Shorter
RUN WITH ME
One Witness. One Hunter. One Enemy
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, events, and incidents that occur are entirely a result of the author's imagination and any resemblance to real people, events, and places is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2014 L.A.Shorter
All right reserved.
First edition: August 2014
No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.
Other Books by the Author:
The River Runs Dry
Logan Brothers Books Series:
Exposure (Kyle and Alice)
Crash (Crash and Elle)
Twin Passions (Gemma, Zack, and Cade)
Addicted to you (Jude, Amy)
Other Works by the Author:
Only For You (Book 1) (Free)
Fight For You (Book 2)
Kill For You (Book 3)
Always For You (Books 1-3)
To look at all of the books in more details, check out the authors page here.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - Kitty
Chapter 2 - Kitty
Chapter 3 - Colt
Chapter 4 - Kitty
Chapter 5 - Colt
Chapter 6 - Kitty
Chapter 7 - Colt
Chapter 8 - Kitty
Chapter 9 - Colt
Chapter 10 - Kitty
Chapter 11 - Colt
Chapter 12 - Kitty
Chapter 13 - Colt
Chapter 14 - Kitty
Chapter 15 - Colt
Chapter 16 - Kitty
Chapter 17 - Colt
Chapter 18 - Kitty
Chapter 19 - Colt
Chapter 20 - Kitty
Chapter 21 - Colt
Chapter 22 - Kitty
Chapter 23 - Colt
Chapter 24 - Kitty
Chapter 25 - Colt
Chapter 26 - Kitty
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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 th
inning. 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.
But I don't hear anything. I don't feel anything.
I run and run, reaching a corner and turning. I keep running, turning another corner, and another, before finally stopping. Then I listen and regain my breath, my mind rushing, my heart pumping.
There is no one following me. It's quiet, and I'm alone.
Chapter 2 - Kitty
Kitty
I wake up in my bed, images still flashing through my mind. They've found their way into my dreams, waking me up early. I check my phone and it's only 8 am, the light beginning to trickle in through my curtains. The rush of morning traffic is starting to sound outside my window, the roar of trains passing by, carrying early morning commuters to their jobs.
My head is still spinning as I sit up and reach for the glass of water on my bedside table. It's a force of habit - placing a full glass of cool water beside me when I go to bed. I sip down the liquid and refresh my throat, my aching head quickly beginning to settle.
I walk out and into the living room, where a bundle lies across my sofa, smothered in a light duvet. It's my friend, Tara. She's staying with me while she looks for a more permanent place to live, but I like having her around. We were good friends in high school, until she moved off to college and I stayed behind. She's finished now, though, and struggling with debt just like half the graduates out there.
I look at her breathing lightly and wonder whether I'd like to be in her shoes. She's got a degree now, lots of opportunity ahead of her. But here she is, crashing on my sofa, eating noodles every day to save money. I don't know how long it will last, and neither does she. It's the risk that all college students take: spend a fortune on education, no guarantee of a high paying job at the end of it.
Tara asked me last week whether there was any work available at my bar. I told her 'no'. I'd tell her the same even if they were desperate for staff. This girl couldn't handle it down there. Not many of my old friends could.
She stirs and twists, this look of concern on her face, like she's having a bad dream. Can't be as bad as mine. I lived a nightmare last night.
I put it to the back of my head and pour myself another glass of water from the attached kitchen. More of a kitchenette, really. My place isn't big, but it's home. I've been here a few years now, and feel settled. It's my own little space in this sprawling city, somewhere I feel comfortable and safe.
I sink the water as cracked words sound from behind me. It's Tara, waking from her dream, her words carrying the short space to my ears.
“What time did you get in last night?” she asks. I turn to see her rubbing her eyes and yawning.
“Normal time, about 2,” I respond, now pouring two glasses of orange juice from the fridge. My eyes fall over the empty space inside, only the odd jar and old box of takeaway sitting on the shelves.
“What are you doing up this early?” she questions again, looking at her phone to catch the time.
I walk over to her with the two glasses of juice and set one into her hand. She thanks me and takes a long gulp.
“Couldn't sleep that well,” I say.
I'm not willing to go into any detail on what I saw. I want to put it out of my mind right away.
We chat for a little while about normal things. We do it most mornings, me telling her about work, her telling me about her latest failed job interview. I've been getting the feeling recently that she's becoming desperate. She's always apologizing for not getting work and for mooching off me so much. I tell her to forget about it, that I'm happy for her to stay with me for as long as she wants, but it's obvious she's not happy with herself for it. She's a proud girl, Tara.
It turns 9 when we decide to go for a walk together. It's warm outside, the morning bright and breezy. We head for a nearby park and stroll around the large pond in the middle, watching as families emerge with their dogs and start feeding the ducks. There are college students littering the lawns as well, books in hand and thinking caps o
n. You hear a mixture of random babbling and more in-depth discussion on topics like politics and philosophy. Frankly I'm surprised that any of these students are up by this time. I thought it was mandated that all students lie in until midday at least.
I watch as Tara's eyes scan over the groups sprawled across the green grass. “Do you miss it,” I ask. “You know, being at college?”
She nods immediately. “Hell yeah. They say college is the best time of your life so it's only down hill from here. It's not as easy as I thought it would be, that's for sure.”
“You mean finding a job?”
“Finding a job, yeah....just moving on, you know. You're in a safe little bubble in college. It's easy. The real world is a minefield compared to it.”
“You'll be fine honey. One of these jobs will stick and then everything will be great.”
She nods and it's obvious she's losing faith. But she never pushes it or moans too much, and I know just why. It's because she looks at me and sees something worse. I'm kind of a good person to live with in that sense. Someone who puts her shitty situation in perspective. And she hasn't even seen where I work, she hasn't seen the sort of people I rub shoulders with night after night. That's a whole different level of perspective right there.
We spend the rest of the morning in the sunshine, and have lunch in the park. Tara's got this odd sense of humor that I always find amusing. We play a game where we 'people watch' and guess what their lives are like.
“He's a doctor,” she says, “definitely a doctor.”
“Why?” I ask, laughing lightly.
“You can tell, look at him. He's clearly tired, either after a long shift...or maybe he's on call and can only catch naps here and there. He's got a booky way to him, you know, like he looks clever, and he's about the right age. And it's Friday babe, any other person would be at work right now.”
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