The Runaways

Chapter 4

Hailey

I woke up to the world in watercolor—a concrete city canvas melting under a ninety-degree sun.

Everything within thirty feet of me was too black or too blurry to recognize. I blinked again—my eyes still hazy from the side effects of whatever I’d been slipped in the station.

My arms and legs tingled to life like discombobulated clusters of pins and needles, and my skin radiated sticky warmth, not from the heat, but from someone else’s body against mine. When the curve of Caleb’s neck came into focus, I did what any intelligent kidnapping victim would do—bit him.

        “Jesus, Hailey!”

He tasted like salt and sandalwood. Vampires probably got more gratification out of biting boys than I did.

Caleb tripped over his sneakers but kept walking towards a run down bus station about a block from where we were. Anderson women didn't go to run down stations, and if I had anything to do with it, he’d be a seventeen-year-old Van Gogh before he could whisk me out of Washington.

I bit him again, hard enough for his skin to spit blood all over his white collar. He reached over his shoulder and sent his palm crashing into my face. I’d never been attacked like that.

Most sane people know you’re not supposed to hit a girl—especially yours truly. But this idiot wasn’t like most people and obviously not too strong in the common sense department. He shook me off of his shoulders and sat me down against a rusted metal fence paralleling the sidewalk.

        “Screw you," I said, thrilled to be able to form words again. 

His stonewall stare wavered a little while I indulged in my restored talents. Plenty of curse words came rolling off of my tongue and hung in the air like four-letter flies.

I’d bet my trust fund on the fact that this guy was a softy. If I wore him down enough, I could probably talk him out of a kidnapping as easy as picking a lock. Getting into people’s heads couldn't be all that different.

       “Screaming at me isn’t going to fix anything, Hailey.”

He was asking for a five-star, so I gave him one—slapped him right across the face. His jaw dropped at having been a two-time victim of my newfound violence. Watching Fight Club on repeat all those years hadn’t gone to waste after all. I tried my luck a third time, and he stopped me.

        “You finished?”

His clamped his teeth together so tight even his spit couldn’t get through.

        “For the time being," I said.

 I would’ve been more resistant if I’d had more energy to resist with. But despite my attempts to look tough, my body sunk backwards against the gate.

        “Chill out for a minute. I'll knock you out myself if you do anything like that again,” he said.

        "So you're the wife-beating type? You don't look it."

 I thought that was funny. He didn’t seem to share my sense of humor.

        “I don’t have time for this. We’ve got somewhere to be in an hour, and if you keep talking I’m—“

        “Aren’t you supposed to keep your master plan a secret from the kidnapee?”

        “Hailey.”

        “Where’s your getaway car? Your goons? Weapons? Ransom note?”

He cracked his knuckles one at a time like he wanted to strangle or punch me but couldn't decide.