Page 2 of Rampage

"Congrats on making it." His attempt at humor falls flat, but I appreciate it. "You can stay here until morning. I'll wake you before the morning shift starts."

He hands me a clean dish towel for my bleeding hands and disappears, returning moments later with a sandwich and coffee.

I sink down on the broken-down couch and my reality hits me that I’m homeless and I have no clue what to do.

One thing is for sure, I’m better off being on the streets than being almost raped every single night by my foster father.

Sleep comes in fitful bursts, my body too wired up with adrenaline to truly rest. Every noise from the diner makes me jolt awake, convinced it's Frank somehow tracking me down. Around four a.m. I give up trying and instead pull out my phone to formulate a plan.

My savings amount to $387.42—pathetic—though Frank "borrowed" most of my paychecks. It won't get me far, maybe a week in a cheap motel if I'm careful. I need more work, fast.

The door creaks open and Jeremy appears with a fresh cup of coffee.

"Thought you might be awake," he says, handing me the steaming mug. "Lily, I've been thinking. My cousin runs a roadside diner about sixty miles north of here, near the Grim Sinners' territory. She might have work for you."

"Grim Sinners?" I ask, wrapping my fingers around the warm cup. "The motorcycle club?"

Jeremy nods. "They're not as bad as people say. Actually, they keep the area pretty safe. Nobody messes with businesses under their protection."

I consider this. Sixty miles isn't far enough if Frank really looks for me, but it's a start. And a job means survival.

"Your cousin wouldn't mind? Someone with no references, no permanent address?"

"Deb's good people. Been through some stuff herself." He scribbles on a napkin. "Here's her address. Tell her I sent you."

By five thirty a.m., I'm on the first bus out of town, my backpack clutched tight against my chest. The sky is just beginning to lighten as the bus pulls away from the station, and I don't look back.

Three hours and two bus transfers later, I step out onto unfamiliar ground. The air smells different here, of pine trees and gasoline. The diner sits just off the highway, a weathered building with a neon OPEN sign flickering in the window.

I hesitate at the entrance, suddenly aware of my disheveled appearance. My ankle throbs, and the scratches on my hands have crusted over. I probably look exactly like what I am, a runaway with nowhere to go.

The bell above the door jingles as I enter. The breakfast rush is in full swing, booths filled with truckers and locals. Behind the counter, a woman with faded red hair pulled into a messy bun barks orders to a frazzled-looking cook.

"Be right with you, honey," she calls when she spots me.

I slide onto a stool at the far end of the counter, away from the other customers. My stomach growls at the smell of bacon and coffee, but I resist ordering anything. Every dollar counts now.

The redhead—Deb, I assume—makes her way over, notepad in hand. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, take in my appearance without judgment.

"Just coffee, please," I say, digging in my pocket for a crumpled dollar bill.

Deb studies me for a moment longer than necessary, her eyes lingering on my swollen ankle and scraped hands. She pours the coffee without comment, then leans against the counter.

"You Jeremy's friend?" she asks quietly.

I nod, glancing around nervously. "He said you might have work."

"Did he now?" She slides the coffee toward me. "Food comes first. What'll you have?"

"I can't really?—"

"On the house," she interrupts. "Can't interview someone who's about to pass out from hunger."

Twenty minutes later, with a plate of eggs and toast settling in my stomach, I feel almost human again. Deb pulls up a stool across from me during a lull in customers.

"Jeremy called this morning," she says. "Didn't say much, just that you needed a fresh start."

I stare into my coffee cup. "My foster father… it wasn't safe anymore."

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