GASOLINE | S.W.

Chapter 3

As soon as Macon got to her apartment, she started packing. She cursed herself for not bringing a weapon with her to the bar. She usually didn't because the men at the bar were intimidated by her.

The woman hastily shoved clothes, weapons, and other supplies into her duffel bag. Nikolai licked his paws as he watched the woman, his tail swishing. Macon zipped up her duffel and picked her cat up, running for the door.

She knew that those men were going to keep looking for her. Nobody corners someone in the bathroom and chases them down an alley just to not look for them. She needed to skip town, and that was exactly what she was doing.

Macon made sure it looked like no one had been there before running outside to her bike. She put her duffel into her trunk compartment before putting her cat into his ride along crate. It had a soft bed in it and was mesh so he could see outside.

Throwing her leg over her bike, Macon lifted the kick stand and started the engine. She put on her helmet and revved the engine before peeling out of the garage. Macon didn't know where she was going, but she was getting far away from that place.

Macon rode for days, occasionally stopping to relieve herself, let Nikolai stretch his legs, and to eat. She stayed at cheap motels, but that was only to sleep. Other than that, she was on the road.

When she finally decided to stop, she was in Boulder, Colorado. It was pretty late at night and checked into the first cheap motel that she could find.

The next morning, she cut her hair until it was just above her shoulders and pierced her nose. It was a septum piercing and Macon knew it would take a while to heal but, she needed to look different. She thought she did pretty good.

Macon expected to stay for only a few days and then keep moving, but she ended up staying for a few weeks. It was actually kind of nice, not almost getting killed everyday.

She hustled for money at the different bars around town, moved around in motels so she didn't seem like she was staying that long, and that was mainly it. She was keeping a low profile.

Russian words. The surge of electricity. Screams. Silence.

Two people faced each other in the fighting ring. The first person was a young man, no older than twenty-two. He stood tall at six feet, his built big, but slender.

He had long dreadlocks that were pulled back in a low ponytail, chiseled features that made the light catch his golden skin. He wore a deep blue tank top and matching stealth pants.

His deep, brown eyes watched his opponent closely.

The person across from him was a teenage girl, barely seventeen years old. She stood at 5'4", her built small, but muscular. Her black hair, so black it was almost blue, was braided down her back, several tendrils falling beside her face.

Her eyebrow twitched and she licked her lips, her grey eyes trained on the male in front of her. She wore the same uniform he did.

"Again, soldiers." A man in a military uniform said in Russian, his accent thick.

The girl never took her eyes off the other soldier as they both got into their fighting stances. They eyed each other before the man jumped forward, kicking at her. She easily blocked it with her left forearm and delivered a punch his throat with her right hand.

He stumbled back, holding his neck as he coughed. The girl charged forward, swinging a left hook to the side of his face. She went for a right hook, but he caught her arm and head butted her.