Shooter (Burnout) Read online

  Chapter 1

  She jerked awake as a hand squeezed her knee. A hand that was a little too friendly. She opened her eyes to see a pair of brown ones looking down on her. Brown eyes set into a round face topped by a receding hairline. The bus driver had a look that was a little too friendly, also. She immediately moved her knee away from his grip.

  "Well, hey there, darlin' " he said, amused. "This is your stop."

  She blinked and looked out the window that was covered with road dust. The bus was old and seats were starting to show their wear, but outside the window was a bright, sunny April morning. She gathered her duffel from the overhead compartment, having been unwilling to stow it underneath the bus. Everything she owned was in that bag and not having it within arm's reach was unthinkable. Several other passengers were getting up, gathering their own belongings and she was grateful when the handsy bus driver was forced to head back up to the front to begin letting people off.

  Compared to the interior of the bus, the crisp spring air was welcoming even if it was only in the 50's right now. The city was always at the mercy of the wind. It could turn a hot day bearable, a mild day chilly, and rip the breath from your lungs in winter, so said her guidebook. She pulled her hoodie a little tighter around her against the chill and headed toward Main Street. Her travel guide was stowed securely in her duffel and she was confident that she could navigate the streets now without it. She'd picked up the book on the shelf at the bookstore two days ago.

  The photo of the Black Hills National Forest on the cover had caught her eye and she thumbed through it, settling on Rapid City as the closest she could get and still feel anonymous. Rapid City boasted 67,000 people. Considerably smaller than Denver, which was more than ten times larger. But the bustling downtown area made her feel comfortable. Safe. She wanted to be around people, just not be overwhelmed by them.

  She slung the black bag over her shoulder and out of habit fingered the bills in her jeans pocket. The rest of her money was stored in several different locations both on her person and in her bag so if the bag was lost or stolen she wouldn't be completely broke. And if she had the unfortunate luck to be robbed on the bus, as she had four years ago, she had a chance of convincing him the fifty some odd dollars in her front pocket really was all she had. She was clearly traveling by bus, wearing cheap canvas shoes, and, as was her usual, a pair of nearly worn out jeans. So any potential mugger might actually believe her.

  She could afford better shoes and clothes, but she lived in perpetual fear of being broke again, as she had when she'd finally gotten off the bus in Dallas with only the clothes in her bag. Going to the police was certainly not an option so she'd avoided her mugger as best she could, darting into the bus station and locking herself in a bathroom stall for an entire night until she could be sure he would have moved on.

  Those had been terrifying days. Days when she hadn't yet gotten used to being on the road, without a past, totally cut off from everything and everyone. Earning money had seemed an impossible task. Those first few days were spent searching for employment by day and returning to the familiar bus station at night. Even though she wasn't a ticketed passenger, no one seemed to give her shit for sleeping in the terminal.

  She'd almost lost it and called her Mom and Dad, but that fifth day the clouds parted and she finally had a clear path again. She'd walked into a diner. Not shabby, but not trendy, either. She’d been worn out and hungry from eating out of the vending machine with the few coins she'd found in a jacket pocket in her duffel. The owner turned out to be an older, no nonsense woman, who took one look at her and had probably immediately decided she was a junkie. Sensing the interview was going badly, she'd gotten up to leave when the sleeve of her shirt had hiked up and the slightly purple, now yellowing bruise left by the mugger on the bus had become visible.

  The woman, Shirley, had snagged her wrist, gently but firmly and frowned down at marks. "He gonna come looking for you?" Shirley had asked quietly.

  For a moment, that horrible night, not the night of the mugging, but that other, more awful, more terrifying night, the night that had seemed to stretch out forever until she was convinced she was in Hell and that every moment was an eternity of pain and fear flashed in her mind and her breath caught.

  "He- I can't- I can't let him find me," she'd whispered.

  Shirley had nodded. "Well, as long as he don't show up here, talking sweet with flowers and sorries, and you decide to take him back leaving me high and dry."

  It had taken a moment to process Shirley's words and finally it clicked into place that Shirley thought she was running from an abusive man. Sensing an opportunity, but far too tired and hungry and scared to feel much guilt over it, she'd latched onto that story and held on tightly.

  "What's your name, hon?" Shirley had asked.

  "Elizabeth," she'd replied quickly and Shirley had pulled the sleeve back down, covering the bruises, patting her arm gently.

  It had been Shirley's idea to dole out cash for her wages under the table to keep her whereabouts a secret from the phantom lover with the bad temper. Since waitressing was mostly a cash business anyway, it wasn't much of a leap to keep all the money rather than just the tips, a secret. That arrangement had worked for six months until she decided it was time to move on. For safety's sake. For Shirley's sake. She had wandered into a convenience store, plucked a map of Arizona out of the rack, gave Shirley ample notice, and bought a bus ticket for Phoenix the same day.

  That story had worked with Shirley and so she kept using it. Through Phoenix, and then backtracking to Albuquerque. After that a blur of medium sized cities, sometimes two or three a year. Denver had been beautiful and she had been loathe to leave it, but it was time. Even if sometimes she got tired. Even if, every so often, she thought about what it would be like to just go home and let whatever happened, happen. But she might not be the only one to suffer if she pointed her feet toward home again.

  So she kept moving. Different cities, different states. Friendly, but not too friendly, which was important in earning tips. And she'd done a variety of jobs that paid in cash. Waitressing in small restaurants and diners was often the obvious choice, but sometimes it had been too difficult to find employment with someone willing to overlook her lack of a driver's license and social security card and she'd turned to bars and once in Utah had washed hair at a tiny salon.

  The salon work hadn't been as demanding as waiting tables, but the environment was a disastrous fit. Too many women asking too many questions, making it nearly impossible to be anonymous. Since then, she'd stuck to bars and diners, which normally had a pretty steady turnover rate for employees. No one thought twice about a girl who only worked for four, sometimes six months and then headed off to greener pastures.

  Nowhere longer than six months, that was the rule. It kept everyone safer. Made everything easier.

  She adjusted her bag and spied a metal newspaper dispenser on the corner. Depositing a few quarters and plucking out a paper, she found herself a chain coffee house, bought a latte with extra whipped cream, and settled down at a table by the window to look through the classifieds.

  By mid afternoon, the chill had subsided and it was now in the low 60's. She'd shed her jacket, stuffing it inside the duffel and smoothed out her hair while she was standing in front of Maria’s. It was a small little bar just off the main drag. Not shabby, not dirty, not too clean, though either, since from the few motorcycles parked in the lot she'd figured out it was rougher trade than a diner.

  She'd been to two diners and a restaurant already but none looked too promising. Most people who worked hard to build up their small businesses were not too keen on jeopardizing it by hiring an undocumented worker. One man was willing to hire her. Judging by the sheer
number of Hispanics working in the back he seemed no stranger to illegal labor, but she'd gotten a bad vibe from him. His eyes had continually made their way to her breasts during the interview and she could practically hear him asking himself how much she'd be willing to do to keep her existence in Rapid City under the radar.

  She'd politely told him she'd consider it but that the base wage was too low (lie) and quickly got out of there.

  Bars were interesting. Especially bars that catered to bikers, cowboys, and various and sundry blue collar type people. They sometimes had their fair share of skirting the law, either with fire codes, or liquor permits, and certainly a good portion of their clientele had been on the wrong side of the law on more than one occasion. They didn't ask too many questions if you made it clear you weren't keen on telling. And as long as you were friendly and worked your ass off, management was generally fine with their employees keeping to themselves in the personal details department. After all, you weren't really there to socialize anyway. You were there to work, and these people understood the value and necessity of work.

  She opened the door, stepped into the relative dark compared to the bright blue sky outside, and prayed silently that a woman had some position of power at a place named Maria’s. She had a momentary pang of longing for her well manicured college campus with it's brick facades and brilliant white columns, then she shook the memory away. That had been a lifetime ago. No. A dozen lifetimes ago, at least. She squared her shoulders and surged forward.

  When her eyes adjusted to the low light, she was satisfied with what she saw. The place was medium sized, bigger on the inside than the small entry way suggested. It was clean with tables and chairs that didn't show any obvious signs of wear and tear. The bar was a work of wooden art, gleaming and polished to within an inch of it’s life and made out of some kind of light, honey colored wood that made that part of the bar better lit. A mirror hung on the wall behind it, also helping with the lighting, it ran from the top of the waist high storage cabinets to the ceiling and was lined with glass shelving and sparkling liquor bottles. A jukebox sat in the corner, near the short hallway that led to the restrooms, according to the signs, and above that were framed insignias for every branch of the military.

  This bar clearly catered to biker and military types. Maybe or maybe not cowboys as well, but hearing Waylon on the jukebox, she figured it probably did, even if there weren't giant pairs of longhorns hanging on the walls like they were in Texas or Colorado bars.

  There were a few patrons that she supposed were more than likely regulars, nursing bottles at the bar. Booth and round tables further back were empty. There were four pool tables, but no one was playing. A tall, platinum blond looked up from washing glasses and narrowed her eyes.

  There was no mistaking the once over she was taking her time performing.

  After the diners had been a bust, she'd changed out of her chocolate brown knee length skirt and into a pair of low slung jeans. As a rule she didn't really enjoy calling attention to her body in any way if she could help it. Diners were more lax in their expectations, instead preferring sensible shoes and comfortable clothing and as such were the kinds of places she preferred to work.

  Bikers preferred women to look like women, with tighter clothes, higher heels and far more cleavage than she would be able to show. She did have the requisite jeans, but she drew the line at short skirts and high heels. She’d have preferred a looser fitting shirt, but personal preference had to be put on the back burner. Looking the part was far more important. She needed a steady course of income and a place to stay and preferred these be secured sooner rather than later.

  She'd swapped her canvas shoes for black boots with a rounded toe and only a slight, chunky heel, enough to be slightly feminine but wouldn't interfere with being on her feet for long stretches of time. They were the only boots she owned and though they were scuffed from years of wear, they were serious boots. They hadn't been cheap, and were made to last for far longer than she'd already had them.

  She'd put on her blue, fitted, long sleeve knit shirt, now a little warm for the pleasant afternoon. That was alright though. Perfect actually, for her purposes, as she tugged one of the cuffs down to her wrist. The blond didn't miss the movement with her shrewd eyes and the girl tried not to smile. She strode forward and dropped her duffel on the floor with a resounding thump. The patrons turned on their stools and imitated the blonde's perusal. The girl ignored them, keeping her eyes on her mark. The blond simply waited.

  "You're looking for a waitress," the girl said matter-of-factly.

  "That's about right," the blond finally said, shaking her shoulder length hair. Apparently she wasn't immediately turned off by the sight in front of her because she motioned to the girl's bag. "Grab your gear and let's talk in the office."

  The blond shouted for someone named Tommy, and within moments a tall, lanky middle aged man with a slight beard and big paunch came sauntering through the swinging doors. "Take over for a few, will ya?" the blond asked. "Got an interview."

  Tommy got in his once-over and then nodded to the blond.

  The office was small, but well maintained. No mountains of paperwork leaning precariously, no trash littered about. Only one desk and two chairs though, indicating that this woman was the person in charge unless she shared the desk with someone and the girl said a silent thank you.

  There were dozens of framed pictures on the wall of people, bikes, people on bikes, people standing next to bikes. And a large, flatly secured Harley Davidson flag mounted to the wall behind the desk.

  "What's your name?" the blond asked, taking a seat in the more expensive, more well padded chair.

  The young woman dropped her bag again and took the other chair. "Hayley," she announced.

  "I'm Maria. Where you from, Hayley?"

  "Hayley" took approximately 2.5 seconds to size up her mark. This office was no nonsense. Ordered, clean, and neat. The woman before her might like her hair silky and bleached and her nails long and manicured, but she was somewhere around forty or forty five and while she didn't exactly look like the rode-hard-and-put-away-wet-too-many-times type, she definitely wasn't going to be one for sob stories. She just wasn't the motherly type. Or at least not like "Hayley's" mother, at any rate.

  "Just got off the bus from Denver," Hayley replied.

  "Hmm. What'd you do in Denver?"

  "Just recently I was a waitress. In a diner downtown. I can give you the number. They'll give me a good reference. But you'd probably rather have the number of the Bar Kay, also in Denver. I went by Crystal there, though. That's my middle name. Hayley Crystal."

  "Hmm," Maria said again.

  Hayley squared her shoulders. "I don't have ID," Hayley admitted, better to just get that out of the way. "Left it in Denver."

  "Left it in Denver," Maria repeated. "Social security card?"

  "Left that, too."

  "Well, Hayley," the older woman said, emphasizing that she in no way believed that was the younger woman's Christian name. "What do you have?"

  "A good pair of boots for being on my feet all day and a really reliable alarm clock." An alarm clock known as insomnia.

  Maria considered this. "Just got off the bus. Means you don't have a vehicle."

  "No, Ma'am, but like I said, I've got a good pair of boots. And they were made for walking."

  Maria grinned in spite of herself. "And if I gave you a drug test?"

  "I could pass it right now. Or any time you feel like giving me one."

  Maria lifted an eyebrow. "Mind showing me your arms?"

  Hayley faltered. Or at least pretended to. Maria raised that eyebrow even higher. Finally, slowly, Hayley lifted her arms and yanked up her sleeves revealing deep bruises that were clearly a few days old and already fading. "I'm not a charity case," Hayley said indignantly. "I'll work."

  "Well, I don't hire slackers," Maria supplied. "Didn't hit you in the face, though," she observed. "Which means you can start tomorrow. I can on
ly put you on days for now," Maria informed Hayley. "Other girls got priority."

  Hayley nodded, "That's fine." And truly it was. Walking home in the dark wasn't high on her list of relished activities and she suspected that in Rapid City, like in most smaller towns, the buses stopped working after dark. If she worked nights, she’d have to take a cab home and that would take a chunk out of her nightly earnings.

  Hayley had watched her spending for years, carefully monitoring expenses, and choosing only the cheapest places to live that were still considered relatively safe. She had some savings, though not in any bank, of course. But money wouldn't last forever and the only way she could be absolutely assured to stay ahead of disaster was to keep working, even if it was days in a bar which would be slow as hell.

  "Days are pretty quiet," Maria told her. "Nights, when you get to 'em, can be rowdy."

  Hayley nodded sagely. "I can handle rowdy."

  Maria glanced down at the girl's arms. "I bet." She met Hayley's eyes again. "You keep your own bank and cash out at the end of your shift. If your receipts don't match your totals, you pay out of pocket. Happens three times and you're out, whether you paid me or not. If you work out on days, I'll switch you to some nights."