Bite the Bullet - Saints Row

2: Speak When Spoken To

Damn, he was fast.

"Hey, New Guy! Hold up a sec'!"

I chased him down in a seedy parking lot, my stamina waning into graceless panting by the time I'd caught up. He gave me his best deer-in-the-headlights impression and backed up into his car door, lowering his gaze and eyeing me anxiously. "Ya' can't...just...take off, like 'at, a'ight?" I restrained my sweaty hair, coughing through the burn, getting a lung-full of the open dumpster's fumes. "...Ya' need set up with some shit, first. Ya' got a phone? A uh, a burner? Somethin' only for this sorta' thing?"

I was talking with my hands again, but I cut myself short when I realized he still hadn't moved. He was fixated on that wide crack in the pavement as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Wondering what his deal was, I impatiently pressed: "...What'sa matter?"

Nothing, not even a nod, but I knew he wasn't deaf . The charades were beginning to irk me, and too overheated to interpret that shit, I aggressively dipped in closer. "Hey—I'm talkin' ta' you." My jagged tone got his attention, and raising my brows pointedly at him, I enunciated myself clearer. "C'mon, man, this shit ain't no joke. Nobody's gonna' respect you covered in your own fuckin' blood, a'ight? You're representin', now. Keep yourself looked after."

Something about seeing this guy bleeding twice in one week pressed a nerve, but once I heard how my own voice sounded in light of those events, I backed off and gave him some room. "...How's the uh—the leg doin' , too? Was pretty bad, y'know."

Swiping his wrist under his bloody nose, he shrugged, not really sure what to do with himself.

"...A'ight." I muttered. "And you're sure? If you're too banged up, you're only gonna' slow this whole thing down. Ya' need the urgent care?" He shook his head with some reinforced conviction, and I had to take his word for it, gesturing to the ride behind him. "...'Kay. Let's get this ball rollin', then. We got some shit ta' do; ya' ain't off the hook, yet."

I was stunned I hadn't truly put together what he stood in front of until that moment. Judging by the grill, it was a 1969 Bootlegger —a classic, and a good one. The original orange paint had worn down after many summers spent sleeping in a backyard somewhere, flaked, dented, and oxidized. From the outside, it looked like any old bygone muscle car, the doors full of dings, and the ashy rear tires dry-rotted and painfully bald. But, the rollbar hiding behind the scuffed glass suggested a glorious past.

"Damn—nice car." I blurted, absentmindedly; I didn't even realize I'd said it until the new guy raised his head, astonished. Rightfully. He was so damn quiet I could forget he was even standing there. "Uh," I abruptly clarified—I was really putting him through the mental gymnastics, today. "...I take it ol' Rusty runs, right?"

I challenged his pride, his stout, unexpected smirk translating to 'duh' as he swung open his unlocked door, inviting me to ride shotgun.

I recalled something or other about getting into cars with strangers as I shuffled around the back end to the passenger side. Opening the heavy, creaky door, I stepped over the rollbar padded in pool-noodle foam and duct tape, sinking into the comfortable, aged leather seat . It was warm, but not enough to grill my ass alive, the smell of rubber, metal, and faint gasoline deeply nostalgic. The AC obviously didn't work, and the AM 8-track radio was disconnected in favor of a CD player jury-rigged through the glovebox. Other than that, the kid kept it all factory.

"...Ya' carryin'?" I asked over a door slam. "Ya' got a gun? Anything?" He shook his head. "...OK, there's a uh, a gas station down the street, next to the Freckle Bitch's. Unless ya' wanna' swing by your place and take care of all that." I was referring to a particularly nasty knick on his eyebrow, bleeding like hell—courtesy of somebody's ring, probably. It was a marvel his half-a-dozen piercings hadn't shredded his face. "Just make it quick."