🕯Hello Lovie🕯

-'ow in the bloody fuckin' 'ell did she clock that car? i didn't even see it-

-just pull over, mate, it's over, let me have the girl and you'll just get done for the car. just pull over-

-kortac in our backyard and we didn't even bloody know it. fuck's sake. we've got to put a stop to it before makarov does a forcible takeover of wales or some shite-

you don't know the third 'voice' in your head; it's a woman, someone kyle knows and trusts, it would seem. this is a dramatic escalation, even more than murdering hans in cold blood- he's brought in reinforcements, invoking the names 'kortac' and 'makarov' to get some serious assistance.

-a little further, little further, just around the bend-

"deploy stinger." kyle says into the radio.

"stinger! stinger! stinger! up ahead!" you bark at d, who spots the black diamond shapes of spikes spread across the road and opts to veer off onto the grass. two people standing by another unmarked car jump back in surprise at the maneuver, and you watch them rush to recall the stinger and scurry back into their vehicle as d streaks by them. kyle's vehicle swings a wide left to follow d's example and avoid getting their tires punctured, keeping up the pressure on your car.

"good catch, bird." d laughs triumphantly, patting your thigh just a little too hard.

"he's got 'round the stinger, is carrying on at eight zero speed." kyle reports into the radio, annoyance clear in his voice.

"fam, how in the bloody hell did he even spot that?" the driver next to him asks, her brows creased in bewilderment.

"powers is career criminal, nova. this is just another sunday drive to a man like him." kyle sniffs, clenching his teeth in frustration. "we have to get him stopped before he gets to the village up ahead. god knows the damage he could cause there."

"we have to get to a residential area. they'll back off there. might get us enough distance to escape- maybe find someplace to park and hide." you blurt, and d whistles, a long high note of appreciation.

"and 'ere i thought you were a good girl." he chuckles as he shifts gears. "startin' t'see you aren't the type t'fuss about bein' in a stolen car."

"i don't give a fuck about the car so long as it helps us get away." you snap, turning in your seat to look through the stack of luggage- two cars trail behind you, blue and red lights flashing, but no sirens. a flex of authority without attracting extra attention.

"oh yeah?" d asks, smile audible.

wonder if she'd let me fuck 'er bent over the bonnet when this is oll over.

"oh my god, d. flirt later." you throw him an unamused look, and he just grins at you in return as you twist back around in your seat.

i'll definitely be 'avin' that later.

there's no time to pay him any mind, not when both pursuit cars are gaining on you. your heart is in your throat as d swerves hard, turning left onto a side road and scraping across the front of kyle's car. the seatbelt bites into your chest and belly as you slide in your seat. metal sliding across metal screeches in your ear for the briefest moment, and you can see yourself through kyle's eyes- eyes wide, face the epitome of panic and shock at the impact.

i'm sorry babes, i'm sorry, rescue is coming, hold on.

"need them alive, nova." kyle hisses at his driver."can't interrogate a dead man."

"not my bloody fault, gaz!" she snaps back, pretty face pulled into a scowl. "he hit me, the bloody maniac."

big d hoots in delight, slapping the steering wheel with his palm and laughing his ass off as he takes a sudden hard right that once again has you listing in your seat as he narrowly misses the other pursuit vehicle. all you can do is grip the door and brace yourself against the dash and your weight is thrown around against your will, holding on for dear life.

a small sign indicating that you're driving into a little village whizzes by you, moving far too fast to read. it's still very early morning, just a little past six, and your anxiety amps up at the thought of other people even bearing witness to this chaos. even though it's too early to worry about kids in the road, you can't help but be anxious about some early bird pensioner taking a stroll or taking their dog for a walk in this beautiful lavender and pink sunrise. the situation is bad enough, but you'll be devastated if someone's nan dies because of you.

"they'll back off soon." big d observes, hazel eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "they can't want a stolen car that bad."

it takes all of your willpower not to mention it isn't the car they care about. it's just pretext for the stop, but not the real reason- or even the fake one kyle fed to his compatriots.

-a basement somewhere in york, with a lawn chair set in a shallow children's pool. a black leather bag full of tools and medical instruments sat on a small table. a car battery sits nearby, and kyle is already fantasizing about hooking big d up to it by his balls-

"oh shit." the words bubble out of you as you stare in your side mirror, stomach lurching as you realize what kyle has planned.

"don't get your knickers in a twist, i didn't even 'it that lamp post." d remarks, far more cheery than is appropriate for the situation.

"no, i- the man. the one i'm running from. it's him in the car." you admit, pretending it's a sudden realization. d cocks an eyebrow and glances your way as he silently decides he's raising his price when you escape. fair enough, you suppose.

"y'sure?" he asks, suddenly serious.

"yeah." you nod, swallowing hard, still staring at the mirror. "yeah, that's him riding passenger."

were you not so actively terrified right now, you'd probably be sobbing. as it is, you're too deeply in the throes of your flight response, adrenaline rerouted to set your knee bouncing at 1000 bpm as big d takes another hard left, narrowly missing plowing into a hedgerow.

"bloody 'ell, woman." he mutters, shaking his head as he suddenly cuts into a park, squeezing his little car between a gap in the steel bollards and darting between the trees. the pursuit vehicles screech to a stop- one even slamming into the bollard, hood and bumper crinkling around it upon impact. a manic, wild laugh bubbles out of you- but it isn't joy. not yet. you're not going to allow yourself to celebrate until kyle's string of curses fades away into nothing, until you're truly far enough away to have lost them for good.

you know he isn't going to give up that easily, though. one car might be out of commission, but it isn't kyle's- and he's directing nova to cut you off using a side road, his finger jamming onto the gps screen as he points out their new route. it's easier to concentrate with your eyes closed, commingling gaz's view of the map and d's view of the road ahead.

"take a left here, down the dirt path, then turn right down the straightaway that connects to it." you instruct, eyes screwed shut. the dirt road isn't on kyle's gps for some reason- probably some unofficial path made by and for locals. a small mercy you hope to take full advantage of as you run for your life. d's view leaves the road and swings over to you, eyes scrunched, body language tight.

"y'know this place?"

"let's say yes. just hurry and take that left- they're going to try to circle and flank us, and i want to be in the exact wrong spot for him to do that." you tell him, eyes still closed as if in prayer.

weird bird.

if he has any hesitation about listening he doesn't show it, taking the left and barreling onto the straightaway. up ahead is a little house with a shed, separated from the main part of town, with a nice little garden and a big hedge alongside. as if reading your mind for once, d slows down to a more sensible speed, following the hedge until the road isn't visible anymore. he glances at his side view and smirks- no tire tracks through the grass. perfect.

"bloody 'ell, bird." d almost sounds out of breath as he puts the car into park and scans out the windows- but there's no one lurking nearby that he can see. the only person around is asleep in the nearby house- a widower, dreaming of his late wife making him coffee in the morning, relishing in how beautiful she looks in the golden sunlight. you, however, are relishing in how kyle's thoughts are growing fainter and more frustrated by the second, and you don't even try to hide your triumphant smile.

bloody fucking bollocking hell, where did they bloody go? they should've been there, the road should've dumped them in front of us-

you exhale slowly, breath shaky with nerves, and relief rolls through you like a wave. all that fear and anxiety is still rattling around inside of you, twitching to get out with nowhere to go. you're safe now, kyle's thoughts almost entirely gone from your mind as he heads the entirely wrong direction, but it's hard to say if he'll loop back or not.

"i say we wait 'ere for ten minutes or so, then 'ead out." d says after a pause. "let 'em put a bit more distance between us, but if we stay 'ere too long they might decide to 'ead back and retrace their steps."

"that's as good a plan as any, i suppose." you admit, trying hard to regulate your breathing. the adrenaline in your veins is still flowing, and it's hard to come down from it. "but wherever you were planning on going, i don't think we should go there directly."

"and why's that?" d asks, brow cocked and eyes narrowed. you don't have an answer that isn't insane sounding, so you do what you do best- hedge around the truth.

"kyle's connected. he could be waiting for us there. i don't think going back to london's a good idea, either, but- we should switch it up. head somewhere else for a while." it's vague, too vague for someone like big d to take seriously, but it's all you have short of trying to convince a very pragmatic man that telepathy is real.

kyle? the big bad killer of the austrian is some little git named kyle? bloody 'ell.

"bein' paranoid, bird." d assures you, patting your big, soft thigh. "there's no way 'e'll find us where we're goin'- not unless 'e's some sort of mind reader."

the laugh that claws it's way out of you is visceral and ugly, repressed tears springing to your eyes as you're swept up in a wave of emotions that adrenaline has pushed aside during your escape. you look wild like this, teeth on full display, tears streaming down your cheeks as you half-sob and half-howl with laughter, rocking back and forth in your seat. d slowly removes his hand from your leg, and for the first time since he was a child, big david powers is startled and unnerved. after a moment of watching you shake and cry and cackle, he pretends to need to piss just so he can get out of the car and let you have your sobbing, laughing, hysterical meltdown in peace.

~

exactly twelve minutes later, d gets you both back on the road. to your dismay, he's still silently planning to head further north to his great-aunt jane and her dahlias. nothing you could say would change his mind, and you suppose you understand that- after all, why on earth should he believe his plan has been compromised? he has no real reason to think he's been targeted long before he stole the car, no reason to suppose his phone was tapped before he left london, no reason to trust any explanation you might have for knowing that both of those things very much did happen.

your best bet, unfortunately, is to convince d to stop somewhere and steal the car while he's getting a cuppa or paying for petrol. it feels awful to even consider abandoning him, especially since he got you out of that close-call not even an hour earlier. stabbing him in the back after he's stuck his neck out for you makes you feel disgusting, like your insides are covered in mold and rotting away.

"we'll go t'leeds, nick a new car there b'fore we continue on. this one's too 'ot t'keep drivin' much further. imagine every bobby from 'ere to newcastle is lookin' f'it." d says, breaking the silence that's probably only tense on your end. he's still not sure what to do about this turn of events, and feeling a bit more than mildly embarrassed at witnessing a normally very put together you having a wild, sobbing breakdown.

"can we stay in leeds for a while? before we move on?" you ask, voice croaky from your hysterical crying fit. your face still feels tight from the crying, and you instinctually wipe at the dried tears crusting your cheek.

"why? wot you scared of?"

"he killed the austrian. he'll kill you if he gets the chance. if we ditch the car i'm sure he'll find it and assume we kept it moving- and i don't want to be wherever it is he goes looking for us." you tell him seriously. it's hard to shake the mental image kyle had of torturing d, and it makes you ill to think you somehow put this man in harm's way simply by asking for his help.

"and wot will 'e do with ya if 'e catches ya?" d asks, an uncharacteristic concern coloring his question.

"i-" you have to think about that. what is kyle going to do with you? he's obsessed, sure, but you're pretty sure he also half-believes you're a potential spy or asset for kortac. torture isn't out of the realm of possibility, and neither is death if you can't convince him that you're innocent of espionage. your pause drags on before you hang your head and admit the terrible truth.

"i don't know. nothing good."

d doesn't say anything to that. instead, he keeps driving, his mind churning.

somethin' else is goin' on 'ere. the fuck'd she get me into? definitely chargin' 'er double. triple, maybe, dependin' on 'ow much of a 'assle this detour in leeds is. bloody 'ell i could use a cuppa, my arse is draggin'. should get a 'otel room, nap, and see if she'll let me fuck 'er f'oll the trouble she's causin' me. tits for tat, so t'speak. he smirks at his own silent joke and you roll your eyes, opting to stare out the window.

the way he's hoping to badger you into giving him pussy makes the self-disgust you feel about your plan to abandon him dissolve like a sugar cube in a cup of tea. he's planning on stealing a new car anyways, right? so he can steal one for his way home. you'll leave whatever personal items he packed for his trip in the hotel room and just take off on your own. that should mitigate whatever pain in the ass you cause by leaving without him, surely.

as he pulls off onto the m1, your mind is made up- you're going it alone from here on out. d did what he said he'd do and got you out of london without getting caught by kyle, so his obligation to you is over. it's better off that you go on your own and prevent more people from being pulled into this bullshit. maybe you'll head southwest, dropping down to liverpool to catch a ferry to belfast. you can find some poker games as you make your way south and easily win enough money to get a ticket out of dublin airport to god-knows-where. you'll iron out the details later- right now, the important thing is to strike out on your own and get the fuck out of britain.

d flips on his turn signal, taking the exit into leeds, and the steady clicka clicka clicka keeps pace with your heartbeat as you watch the sun slowly climb into the sky behind the usual cloud cover, the violet-pink of the sunrise melting away into the usual comforting grey.

broad shoulders heaving. a thick arm coiling back: a leather-clad elbow lancing back with a heavy jerk. the rasping, gritty grunt when he lets it go—

but it's all static, whitenoise, to the breath he takes before he swings. steady and measured. a slow, nasally inhale; a pause; then:

a heavy exhale on rumbling growl. a snarl curling up the thick of his throat.

he has time to calm himself before each swing. if you weren't so numb, so paralysed with disbelief and fear you might have missed it. the sound slipping beneath your blood-curdling scream. your cries for help.

the sound of your soles slapping against wet pavement as you fled.

but inside your head, there's a stalemate. a ceasefire. an anticipatory silence tucked inside the trembling palm of a bated breath as you wait for the other side to make their move, to shatter the fragile peace with the echo of gunfire—

his grunt sounds like a misfire, and then:

stillness.

the fists stop. you don't think the man is breathing anymore—on't think he can breathe through whatever is left of his face, his nose—and the stranger, your saviour, seems to come to the same conclusion because he peels back from with grunt, kneeling back on his haunches.

he sucks his teeth as he stares down at the mess he made, and you wonder what he's thinking. if losing control like this is normal for him, or if this is—is an episode, is an accident, is being consumed by anger until all that's left in its wake is soot and ash. but he's moving before you can even think about asking if the man is okay, if you can even will yourself to care enough because you still feel the cold metal of his knife against your throat, the pinch of his fingers as he pushed them into the soft skin of your cheek, vile breath spilling between clenched teeth; shut the fuck up you stupid fucking bitch—

you make a noise, then, and in some deep, trembling recess, the realisation that this is just the second sound you've since you clocked out for the night. the first—a gasp when you felt the searing kiss of cold metal, a damp, rough hand on your forearm, and a body that didn't belong to any you've known before blunting into your back. if you make a sound, i'll fucking kill you, bitch—

it's fragile. just a cracked, raw whimper. a noise you've never made before, one you didn't think you'd ever be capable of making, and all at once you want to swallow it back down—

but he cocks his head the moment he catches it.

he lumbers up to a knee. braces a thick forearm against it as his hand pushes into the man's sternum. a grunt, and he's up. stands tall. heaving. head bowed as he stares down at the man between his feet for a second, and from this angle, you'd almost mistake him for a man in a solemn prayer. head bent over a pew. hands clasped—

but the illusion is shattered when his arms fall to sides, and blood begins to drip from the tips of his fingers and onto the pavement.

he shakes his head, then, and you want to ask him what he's thinking about, why he'd go so far for someone he doesn't even know, a stranger—

but the fog clears, and everything that happened slams into you, a freight train splitting through your head. it rips another noise from deep in your chest—a clawing, keening whine. words surge like vomit up your throat. all of them indistinguishable, incomprehensible, but a thread forms, knits them together:

who are you comes first, fractured and scattered in the pale spill of moonlight. a whisper through the gaps in your teeth. you don't think he hears it. or if he does, he doesn't acknowledge it. he swings around, shoulders heaving.

swathed in shadows, you'll swear, years later, that you saw the devil that night. and—in the tangled mess of compounded memories, one knotted, frayed, with fear—that he cocked his head as he stared at you through the man's eyes and said, see? you come to me famished and here i bring for you—a feast.

so eat.

but what he really said is this: shush, you're alright, sweetheart.

and what he doesn't say is i'm here to save you.

because, standing there with a man's blood soaking his fingers, knuckles torn after being cut, sliced open on jagged teeth and broken bone, the drip, drip of it hitting the pavement as he just stared down at you, heaving—filled with an unslakeable energy he'll carve you open with later on, the same thick thigh he'd thrown over the man's torso splitting between your legs like a saw, prying you open as he takes his fill—the echo of it splattering into the cobblestone speaks louder than anything he could even think of saying.

he's your saviour, but he isn't here to save you.

there's still that disconnect. that misfire. crossed wires. you think about running but all you manage, all you can muster is a weak twitch of your leg when he bends down on one knee, and nothing more. paralysed again as easy, darlin' slips out between his teeth, and he reaches for you. there's no gasp. no whimper. just hands, warmer, rougher than the other man's against your skin as he slips his fingers over your nape, thumb brushing the smeared kiss the blade gave you with a low, rumbling grunt. a growl. he never should've touched you, is what he says, and he says it like it's supposed to make sense.

it doesn't.

he'll bundle you up in his leather jacket. it'll smell like old tobacco and cheap whiskey. you'll pull it a little tighter around yourself, stealing into the lingering warmth as he guides you to a truck parked a haphazardly in the mouth of the alleyway. it'll still be running. keys still in the ignition. door open. you'll say thank you, John because that'll be what he tells you to say—jus' say thank you—when you tell him you want to go home.

he'll lift his bloodstained hands and touch your cheek, tilting your head up to let him get a good look at you under the harsh, interior light. make sure you're really okay, is what he'll say, apropos of nothing.

you'll pretend you can't feel the sticky ooze of rotting blood congealing on your skin, and focus on swallowing down the words, the vomit, that bubble in the back of your throat as his eyes devour you whole, his rugged face consumed by a dark look edged in the cold glint of something too primal, too predatory, for you to understand. you'll stare at the smear of salt in his beard and when he tells you his age, you won't even flinch. you'll nod. accepting. pliant. you won't know where it comes from—this meekness, this sudden paralysis. self-preservation takes the shape of a prey animal dooming itself for consumption by pretending that the stalking predator hunting it down can't see it if it doesn't move—

he'll reward you for it, though. wrap your submission tight around the thick of his waist as he gives you his approval in each heavy, rocking slide of rough hips; cradle it in his palm as he grips your throat in his hand and drips his pleasure into your sticky, gasping mouth, smearing his satisfaction across your lips—good girl, he'll praise; such a good girl, mm, takin' it all for me, every fuckin' inch—

every goddamn drop.

he'll tuck his palms against the backs of your thighs when he's finished, tilting them back towards your chest, hips propped up on a pillow because it's better this way, this way it'll take—

but before that, when he buckles you in, his hand will linger over your chest. the heat of his palm will bleed through your pretty new blouse as he makes another quiet inhale. unlike before, you won't want to ask what he's thinking because you'll already know. you'll know.

he will let out a shuddering breath, his clenching tight, before he leans back in his seat, determined now, in that seething, quietly furious way of his, as if rage was soddered in his veins.

he'll say let's get you home, mm? and you'll nod, a quiet okay, John, slipping out as he puts the truck in reverse.

so veiny

You’re warm, too warm. The walk has left your skin tacky with sweat, the rum, tequila, and beer in your stomach coming up and sweating through your pores, clothes sticking wherever they touch. The desire to strip down and crawl between those expensive sheets is so enormous. 

The dim, more irritating responsible side of you suggests water first. Which is how you end up down to your shorts in the kitchen, barefoot on the tile, chugging water straight from the pitcher like a child, two hands and leaking from the corners of your mouth. It dribbles down your chin and soaks the front of your shirt, reminding you that you’re still half-dressed. You peel that off, too.

When you’ve had your fill, you leave it out on the counter to refill in the morning, and stumble for the bedroom. Patches of moonlight come through the tall windows in big, silver rectangles, bright enough to pick your way. The house is familiar enough by now that you don’t bother reaching for a switch.

Then, a floorboard creaks behind you.

You turn your fuzzy head. For a second, nothing makes much sense. The hallway has been bisected behind you somehow, several of those squares of light suddenly gone, erased by something your addled brain can’t account for. The gears turn and catch, and you realize that a closet door has opened, and, obviously, you hear yourself mumble, tongue thick and stupid, it couldn’t have been open before. You would’ve smacked right into it.

Then something moves in that blackness, a great shadow taking shape, and it lurches toward you.

- has to be more. nobody goes through life without a trace like that. we must have missed something. was she using a false name when we met her? no, that's can't be right, we found her jury summons. her name was on it, so why can't we find any other bloody record of her?

maybe she is a spy, his own mind counters. you have to talk to her again, it's the only way we'll know for sure.

carefully, you creep closer to the window, careful to stay behind the sheer curtains as you watch kyle pout at your building, brows creased as your building's on-duty security guard spots him and starts to make his way out the front door towards him.

a fantasy plays out in your mind- a sharpened screwdriver jammed into a soft neck- and your breath catches in your chest- but releases in a bursting sigh as kyle simply slips into his car and pulls away, leaving the guard out on the sidewalk, shouting a useless "oi!" and taking note of the license number as kyle speeds off, his thoughts growing fainter and fainter.

well that's bloody suspicious. better let the lads know to keep an eye out, the security guard thinks to himself as he chucks a message to his work group chat and slips back inside.

on one hand, you're annoyed it took this long for him to notice kyle's constant lurking, but on the other- better late than never. he'll be on the alert now, and seems determined to let everyone know to keep an eye out for the black car and the man inside of it. in hindsight, you should've said something to him a week ago- made up some story about a stalker ex who's too tight with the police for you to file a report- but what's done is done. you can't change the past, all you can do is be grateful kyle got caught and hope big d doesn't leave you hanging as you wait for your new life to begin far, far away from here.

the next day is unnervingly silent. your neighbors all seem to be at work, and there's no kyle anywhere around you- which only makes you more nervous. it's hard to say if the run-in with the security guard actually scared him off, but out of an abundance of caution you still don't dare go outside for fear he'll show up and catch you unaware. instead, you spend the day checking and re-checking your bags, jumpy and paranoid, nervous enough to venture near the windows to peek outside again, wondering if you're going to see kyle out there wearing a tinfoil hat or something. (that wouldn't actually work, would it? no way. right?)

for the whole day your attention is torn between keeping an 'ear' out for kyle and obsessively checking your phone, willing yourself not to pester big d for an update. if he's just scammed you out of three grand you'll be fucking livid. you're determined that if he's tricked you, you'll do something drastic and petty- like maybe reaching out and give his crazy ex his new address. fair's fair, after all.

when the phone finally rings on day three you nearly jump out of your skin at the sound of it.

"pack your shit. be ready for pickup at 3am, sharpish. leave y'phone and take a piss before you go- once we 'it the road, we ain't stoppin' f'nothin'. 'eard?"

"heard." you echo, breathless and almost delirious with joy. it's happening. it's actually happening. you're going to leave this place, and kyle is nowhere around. maybe he got deployed again- god, wouldn't that just be the best luck possible? a real, actual clean break this time? it makes you giddy just to think about it.

"don't be late." the line disconnects, and the ecstatic giggle fit that follows lasts for a good half hour before you get to work packing and re-packing your bags for the final time.

at 2:55am, you open your soon-to-be-abandoned laptop, log into spotify, and in a petty act of defiance, delete your entire account before grabbing your bags and heading out of your apartment for the very last time.

"good evenin', miss." the security guard says when you step into the lobby. his name tag gleams in the bright lights of the entryway, but the name 'rob' is still clearly visible under the shine. he's the same one who caught kyle creeping around the other day, and you can't help but feel a little bit of fondness towards him for that- even if he is just a wannabe cop.

"good evening." you respond politely as he eyes your bags.

"off on a vacation?"

"mhm." you nod noncommittally, giving him a tired looking smile. "these early flights always get to me. i just hope i don't wander to the wrong gate. again."

he chuckles and nods.

"i hope you're able to get some rest on the plane. have a nice time, miss." he says with a small wave.

"thank you, take care." you say as you breeze past him towards the front door, pushing it with a little more gusto than is strictly necessary. so sue you, but tired as you are, you're still excited to leave.

the early morning air is cool on your face, feeling crisper and fresher than it has in months. this is it. you're finally going to do it, you're finally going to escape this nightmare and leave it all behind. wherever d's contact takes you, you'll be able to start your new life. just the idea that one day you'll wake up without worrying about where kyle fucking garrick is lurking is an exciting one, and it makes you smile broadly as you stand under the glow of the street light, watching a white car pull up to the curb.

the body behind the drivers seat is cloaked in shadow, only visible when they lean over to open the passenger side door, dome light illuminating a familiar face.

"wh- d?"

"get in." he instructs, and you scramble to throw your bags in the backseat. d watches with a smirk as you play luggage tetris, shoving at your bags to squeeze them in as tightly as you can before you finally slide into the passenger's seat.

"i thought you were gonna find someone else to take me." you tell him as you shove the seat belt into the buckle, one hand holding back the plush jut of your hip to make the connection easier. fucking compacts.

"fewer people know about this, the easier it is t'keep a secret, innit?" he flashes you a crooked grin. "b'sides, gives me a chance t'say my goodbyes."

can't scarper off with the rest of my money if i know where you are.

"uh huh. you just want to know where the rest of your money is gonna be."

"mm. that too." he says, entirely unrepentant as he pulls away from the curb.

"please tell me you're not actually taking me to hull." you tell him as he merges into traffic. you watch the light posts slide by your window as he chuckles.

"i don't know that the likes o'you deserves much better than 'ull, considerin' 'ow much o'my money you've run off with these past few years." the lights on the dash illuminate his face, throwing shadows and highlighting the pock marks on his cheeks and the wrinkles of his scrunched nose. in another life, one where you don't know about his clown fetish, overdue child support, or his gambling habits, you can almost see yourself finding him attractive.

"you scrunch your nose when you're bluffing." you offer, and he throws you a sideways glance with one thick eyebrow cocked. "just so you know."

he shakes his head, lips curled in a begrudging smirk.

"noted."

~

as the stream of oncoming headlights starts to peter out, the lanes of the road slim from three to two, and eventually, just one. he won't say as much out loud, but big d's taking you out to tollerton, where his seventy seven year old great-aunt jane lives. his plan at the moment is to threaten to double what you owe him unless you agree to be her housemate-slash-caregiver - although he doesn't plan on telling you any of that until he finally cuts the car's engine in front of the little red-brick house with dahlia's lining the garden.

as it is, you can't even bring yourself to be annoyed about it. all his memories of her are sweet; flour dusted on her apron as she patiently taught him to bake pies as a child, being whisked away by her for a 'surprise holiday' up north whenever his mum went to jail for extended periods, and how the only present he could ever reliably count on for his birthday was from great-aunt jane. if d thought that your need to run could be somehow manipulated into a better living situation for the only blood relative to ever give a damn about him, well. you can't say you blame him for trying.

"are we there yet?" you ask, just to be annoying.

"are we stopped?" he counters.

"no."

"then there you 'ave it." he tells you, all too pleased with himself.

"it's been three hours- oh, god. wait. you're not actually taking me to hull, are you?" you glance faux-nervously out the window just to make him laugh. "i was kidding, d. come on, now. you wouldn't do that to me, surely?"

he chuckles, low and long, throwing you a smirking sideways glance.

"fucks sake, i don't 'ate you, bird. not like that."

"so where are you taking me?" you ask, just to see what he says.

"it's a surprise, innit?"

gonna miss 'er at the tables. olways been a sucker for a pretty face that don't take my shit. maybe this'll get me up north more often, see 'er, see aunt jane. could be nice.

"a good surprise, i hope."

"just wait an' see. 'nother hour or so left, i reckon."

the soft morning light is just starting to leak into the world, sky a muted violet through the black silhouettes of the passing trees. there's a beautiful stillness to the world at this time of the morning, and you find yourself grateful that d hasn't turned on the radio. it's just you and him, hurtling through this sleeping world in silence, rocketing at an obnoxious speed on the back roads headed north.

d yawns, loud and long, breaking the reverie as he silently debates how much shit you'd give him for breaking his 'no stops' rule and swinging by someplace for a cuppa.

too much, he decides with a fondness you don't know what to do with. you debate asking for a tea break or a stretch of your legs just to give him a reason to stop when there's a sudden flash of a memory- but it isn't yours or d's. your heart pounds in your chest and starts climbing it's way up into your throat with acid claws as it gets brighter, louder, and clearer.

camera footage being played back over and over- in front of a restaurant, a hotel, a laundromat, an electronics shop. your face, being zoomed in on as you enter and exit the illegal poker game being held there. screenshots are taken of everyone who leaves and enters and hour before and after you, photos compiled into folders. one face stands out as someone who's always there when you are, always arriving before you and leaving after you- a tall man, with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, thick brows and hazel eyes resting on a face that's currently sitting in the driver's seat of your car. a quick search through multiple databases fetches a name: david "big d" powers.

"oh my god." the realization feels like a punch to the gut, and for a beat you can't say or do anything, mind and body completely frozen in fear and despair.

google map searches for travel routes that avoid the tolls. cctv footage of big d stealing the car you're sat in, camera zoomed in on the license. secretly recorded phone calls playing over and over again, as if the listener is looking for something.

"comin' up t'see ya in a few days, auntie jane. bringin' a friend with. you'll like 'er. just needs t'clear the london smog from 'er lungs." d's voice rumbles.

"i'll make up the guest bed. 'ow long will you be stayin' david? the gutters need cleaned and i don't trust m'self on the ladder anymore..." an older woman says into the receiver.

"you just make your list o'chores and i'll 'andle it oll."

"such a good lad. dunno wot i'd do without ya."

"olright there, bird?" concern spikes in big d's mind- he's never heard you like this. normally you're very put together, poker face firmly affixed at all times. this little slip has his full attention.

just a little further... a little more... come on, arsehole...

oh fuck, that's kyle. those are kyle's thoughts. how the fuck did he find you? where is he? oh, shit, you're so fucked. oh, god.

"pack your shit. be ready for pickup at 3am, sharpish. leave y'phone and take a piss before you go- once we 'it the road, we ain't stoppin' f'nothin'. 'eard?" d's voice sounds grainy on the recording, and kyle has to play it back a few times, eyes closed in concentration.

"d. d we have to turn around." panic nearly chokes you, but you force the words through your dry throat, smacking at d's shoulder to emphasize your seriousness.

"don' tell me you're gettin' cold feet oll of a s-"

"no, we're gonna be ambushed, you have to turn around. right fucking now." he throws you an incredulous look, the furrow of his brow and crinkle of his nose illuminated by the soft orange light of the dash-

he nods his head somewhere behind you and you turn, seeing john stalking close, having seen the asshole who’s back to bother you.

“i mean,” said bother starts, so utterly submerged in his wrong assumption. “it’s sweet that you’re spending time with him and everything but don’t you wanna hang out with someone from your generation? what, was mommy too busy for your step-dad?” he laughs at his own joke. at least he’s entertaining himself, you suppose.

john finally gets close, his arm curling over your hip to splay his palm on your stomach. you uncross your arms, hand finding his to hook your fingers.

“what’s goin’ on here?” john asks and impatience coats his words.

the man turns to you, eyebrow cocked like you’re about to take him up on his offer, like the fact that you’ve yet to reject him means that you’re considering him as an option but that’s not the dilemma that you’re going through right now. because explaining to the asshole that john is certainly not your dad would be easier, but a sudden fever has taken root in the pit of your stomach. it’s slowly steeping, making its way to your core, lighting you up.

“sweetheart?” john asks again, this time softly.

you gulp down the spit that pooled underneath your tongue and turn just enough to catch john’s eyes.

“he wants me to ditch you for him, dad,” you say, pursing your lips in your fake distress. john’s reaction isn’t obvious, but you feel his palm spasm on your stomach, as well as the way his chest rattles in his next breath.

his gaze darkens and he pokes at the inside of his cheek with his tongue, making it jut out—and oh he looks so delicious like this when his desires slam into him unexpectedly—before he pulls you behind him to tower over the man propositioning you with a boring time.

“i told you to beat it, didn’t i, son?” john’s voice is deep, intimidating. the man buckles at hearing john like he’s just realizing how much dangerous the man before him is.

“i just—”

“stop bothering my little bird and leave.” john isn’t yelling but his command is resolute; it’s unthinkable for anyone to disobey him. the man looks at you then back at john before turning around and running away to disappear amidst the throngs of people.

you smother a giggle behind your palm and turn to thank john but john’s leaning far too close, his breath hitting the bows of your lips.

“john?”

he tuts. “s’not what you called me, sweet’art.”

your eyes widen, the hunger coming back angrier. you part your lips, trying to—

what? deny him, deny yourself, what it is that’s bubbling in your core? john’s looking at you with a question, his need palpable, hot to the touch, and its balm is simple. all you need to do is be good.

“…dad?” you try, voice a fragile hum. your body locks, cunt dampening, making your panties stick to your skin uncomfortably.

“there she is,” john coos, and he sounds so, so proud before he cups your jaw with his big, warm hands. “now why won’t you be a good girl and show your ol’ man a good time, huh?”

“okay,” you puff out, docile.