30. Charlotte

30

CHARLOTTE

A s Vegas fades into the distance behind us, the view turning to desert stretching out on either side, the cab winds its way through increasingly narrowing roads. A smaller town comes into view, and when I glance off to my left as we approach, I see what looks like a county fair at the edge of the town.

I lean forward, almost pressing my nose to the glass, taking it in as the cab gets closer. The fairgrounds look mostly deserted for now—it's probably not open for a few more hours, but I can see the rides covered in unlit orange bulbs, a huge haunted house, and stands being set up for games and food. I swear I can smell the scent of caramel apples, even though I know it's just my imagination.

"Look." I nudge Ivan, momentarily forgetting how upset I am with him. "It's a fair. For Halloween." I feel a flicker of excitement, that craving for normalcy following close on the heels of it. "Could we go to that, tonight, do you think? They wouldn't look for us somewhere like that."

"I wouldn't risk it." Ivan's jaw is tight, his face blank. "We'll just need to stay in the hotel until our meeting. No more risks. I was wrong to take the one today."

The finality in his voice stings. And with the panic of our flight still bubbling in my chest, the thought of being cooped up in an even smaller hotel room with him makes me feel like I want to fling myself from the cab. I feel like I need air, space, like I need to be outside, instead of locked up somewhere waiting for the people chasing us to catch up.

But the look on Ivan's face says that he's not going to hear any argument. I bite my lip, still watching the fair out of my window as we drive past it and into town, the cab finally stopping in front of a small motel not much different from the ones we stayed in on the way here.

Ivan passes more cash over to the driver, and gets out, grabbing the backpack. "Let's get settled in," he says, his voice tired and drained, and I think I can hear disappointment in it. It hadn't occurred to me that he might have been looking forward to the luxury of Vegas proper for a few days, but it's clear that he's missing the chance to enjoy some comfort.

The room is very much like the ones we stayed in the last several days. Simple, a bit dingy, devoid of personality or much in the way of comforts. I sit down on the edge of the bed, feeling the craving to go out to the fair sweep over me again, frustration at being once again confined in a room only adding to it.

In a matter of days, my whole life has been turned upside down. Is it so bad to want one normal thing?

I know I'm being a little unreasonable. But the reality is becoming too much, and I want to hide from it. Just for a little while.

Ivan goes outside to make a call to his contact. I pace the room, take another shower, change into fresh clothes. The minutes seem to tick by too slowly. And as it starts to get dark and Ivan disappears into the bathroom to shower, I remember seeing a payphone outside of the hotel. I can't actually recall ever having seen one before, but I have a basic idea of how they work, and Ivan left a handful of cash and change on the desk.

He's going to be pissed at me if I do this. I know it. But I'm so desperate for some small part of my old life. I miss my friends. I miss everything that I've lost, and right now, when I feel like I'm clinging to my sanity with my fingertips, there's only one person that I really want to talk to.

I sweep the change into my palm, stuffing it in the pocket of my jeans, and hurry outside.

I've always been good with numbers—phone numbers, license plates, that kind of thing. I know Jaz's number by heart, and I drop a couple of quarters into the payphone, dialing her number as my breath catches in my chest.

"Hello?" She sounds confused when she answers, and I don't blame her.

"Jaz." All of the air rushes out of me. "Jaz, it's Charlotte."

" Charlotte ? What the—where the fuck are you? We've been so worried. What happened? We called the police, but they said they were dealing with it, and they seemed to know something , but they wouldn't give us any answers, and?—"

"I'm okay," I interrupt her stream of consciousness, my chest aching. I can only imagine how worried she's been, and I hate that it's because of me. I hate that I've caused this.

Ivan caused this . The small voice that won't let me forget that he orchestrated the beginning of all of it echoes in my head, and I close my eyes briefly, shoving back the tangle of confused emotions that always arise whenever I think of it. "I'm okay," I repeat. "I can't tell you where I am. I can't really tell you much of anything, and I'm so sorry. I don't—I don't think I'll be coming back home. But I'm going to be okay. I know that doesn't make sense, but?—"

"It doesn't make sense!" Jaz cries. "That doesn't make sense at all, Charlotte. I saw Nate, by the way. Out at our brunch spot. He wouldn't talk to us. Just grinned like he knew something. You're not with?—"

"I'm not with him," I promise her.

"Is it that guy? The one who came up to us at lunch? Did you like—run off with him or something?"

"Not exactly." I blow out a sharp breath. I want desperately to tell her everything, to ease her worries as much as I can, and tell her why I probably won't ever talk to her again after this. But I don't know how. "I just—I can't tell you more, Jaz. I really can't. Just know that?—"

The receiver is abruptly yanked out of my hand, and slammed down on the hook before I even fully realize what's happening. I jump back, my heart racing all over again, and I see Ivan standing next to me, his face thunderous.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he growls, his voice a low, angry rumble. It's clear that he's doing everything in his power to stay quiet, so that no one hears us arguing. Because I can tell that's what this is about to be—an argument.

"I just—I needed—" The words break off. I know I don't really have any excuse for this. It was a stupid decision. And it might have put Jaz in danger, if there's any way to track the call I just made. I don't think there is—but I don't really know. And I did it anyway.

"You need to stay safe!" Ivan snaps. "All of this is to protect you , Charlotte! I could have disappeared so much faster than this alone. I could be long gone by now, but I've been keeping you safe, and now?—"

"If you wanted to protect me, you should have fucking stayed away from me from the start!"

The words hang between us, heavy and accusing. Ivan's face pales, and he swallows hard. "I know that," he says tightly. "Fuck, I know that, Charlotte. But I didn't. I can't take that back now?—"

"—and you wouldn't even if you could. I know the story, you've been telling me this whole fucking time." I glare at him, anger burning in my throat. "But that doesn't change what I've lost!"

"And you've been getting your revenge this entire time," Ivan snaps. "Teasing me. Using me for your protection and to get off when you want to, enjoying making me suffer to get back at me for what I did. And I haven't said shit, because I fucking deserve it. I know I do. But don't pretend that I haven't done anything to try to make up for?—"

"It doesn't matter!" I whirl away from him, bolting back towards the room, and he grabs my elbow, dragging me back. The push and pull yanks me off balance, up against his chest, and for one brief second Ivan's arms go around me, his warmth and scent surrounding me as I feel his hard chest pressing against mine.

"I've tried," Ivan says quietly, his gaze resting on mine, flicking down to my mouth, and then back up again. "But you're right. Maybe it doesn't matter."

He lets go of me, and I bolt for the room again. I hear him follow behind me, but I don't turn to look at him as he walks in, gripping the edge of the desk as I try to regain my composure. He stalks past me, into the bathroom, the only way to put any space between us.

Except I have a different solution.

It's going to piss him off. More than the phone call, probably. But right now, I care even less. I'm angry and exhausted and scared, and I'm past caring what happens. I can't stay in this room a second longer.

I grab the cash on the desk, shove it into my pocket, and bolt out of the room before Ivan can emerge from the bathroom, closing it as quietly as I can behind me. There are no cabs anywhere to be seen, so I start walking instead, towards the music of the fair in the distance.

The road is dusty, and the night is chilly, but I couldn't care less. I suck in big lungful's of the cold, dry air, feeling the open space around me with a relief that makes me almost want to cry. It feels good to be outside, to be walking, to be alone for the first time in days. My head starts to feel a bit less foggy, and I pick up the pace, heading to the bright lights and jingling music of the carnival.

The fairgrounds are alive with laughter and color as I walk in, an oasis in the quiet desert night surrounding it. It's as full now as it was empty earlier, crowds of families, teenagers, and couples of all ages milling through the space. I can smell fried food and sugar and the grease and oil from the rides, and I draw in a deep breath, feeling momentarily better.

I shouldn't be out here. I know that. But the thought of going back to the motel room, to the tension between Ivan and I, feels almost unbearable. I need space, and to clear my head, and this is the best way I can think of to get it right now—doing something that I want to do.

The noise of the carnival envelops me as I wander past games and food stands, the tension draining out of me bit by bit as I surround myself with sights and smells that make me smile. I watch as a couple of kids run past me, their harried mother just behind them, mouths sticky with cotton candy. A couple is laughing by the Ferris wheel, the girl leaning in as the man slides his arm around her waist and presses his lips to hers, and I feel an odd pang in my chest.

Feeling for the cash in my pocket, I lose myself to the fun of the carnival. I buy an Italian sausage and a lemonade, eating it as I browse through the games, finally settling on one that has me throwing darts at a series of balloons. I toss balls into a hoop, try to dunk a clown, and eat a funnel cake. I go to the haunted house, laughing as ‘ghosts' and ‘killers' jump out at me, the manufactured scares seeming trivial compared to what I've been dealing with for the last several days. It's kind of nice, actually, in comparison. Fun.

I let myself lose track of time, wandering through the attractions until I realize that the crowds are starting to thin out. I decide to take one last loop through the haunted house before it closes, and by the time I come out, the fairgrounds are all but empty.

I pause, feeling a bit of unease for the first time since I walked in. With the noise and color fading, I'm reminded that this was actually a bad idea. That I'm alone here, and I'm going to have to walk back to the motel in the dark.

It's fine, I tell myself as I start to walk towards the entrance, careful not to walk too quickly. The fairgrounds are basically deserted now, and some of the overhead lights begin to go out, casting it heavily in shadow. No one would think to look for me here, of all places. It'll be fine. But my heart beats a little faster, picking up until my pulse is fluttering in my throat, my mouth dry.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I think I see the figure of a man.

A prickling feeling runs down the back of my neck, and I spin sharply, my breath catching in my chest. I press a hand to my mouth as I take a step back, caught between fear and the memory of a fantasy that left me aching with arousal, fluttering through my veins along with the terror.

A man dressed in black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a hoodie is standing several feet from me, a skeleton mask that I recognize on his face.

I recognize it because it's the same one that Venom was wearing, when he sent me the photos of himself.

My pulse is racing for an entirely different reason, now. I step back a few more paces, and the man moves forward, closing in on me as I hear a dark chuckle that I swear echoes around me.

I know I'm imagining things. But I'm not imagining Ivan's voice when I hear it, clear as a bell in the cold night air.

" Run, little dove."