Ricky (die_young) wrote in horror_story, @ 2014-01-03 20:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | gabe, ricky |
WHO: Ricky and Gabe
WHAT: Ricky is pretty sure she's at least partly responsible for Avery's death, so she's making a run for it.
WHERE: Gabe's car, the road
WHEN: Early evening (while Gabe is with Koen) moving to late evening, the 5th of November
WARNINGS: Language. Lots of it
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I am so fucked.” Ricky paced back and forth across her small room, alternately tugging at her hair holding her arms tight across her chest. She’d messed up pretty bad before, but never anything on this scale. They’d found a body and while that wasn’t exactly a shocker around this place, though they were usually a lot better about covering their tracks when someone “disappeared”, the fact that it wasn’t a human was enough to peek anyone’s attention. Avery was dead. Avery wasn’t human. Avery was on the list of people she’d been steadily feeding out info about over the past month or so. She’d thought at the time that it was an easy way to make a quick buck. Some supernatural fanatic wanted to hear about that crap, of course she would spill. She never gave out client names, though she’d been more than tempted to give them Rob on more than one occasion, and she certainly never gave them the bosses names. But Avery? Oh she’d talked about Avery. And now he was dead. It couldn’t be a coincidence, and if it wasn’t that….then she was partially responsible. While she didn’t give a flying fuck about some dead succubus, she cared an awful lot about herself, and if the bosses found out she had anything to do with this, then things were bound to end badly for her. There was no help for it. She’d been here long enough as it was. The time had come to run. The moment the decision was made, she wasted no time. Throwing herself under her bed, she pulled up a loose floorboard and grabbed for the box underneath. Her rat hole fund. Every penny that she hadn’t needed to actively stay alive was stashed inside, and it was quite a heap nowadays. She’d been saving up to buy a bike, intending to hit the road as soon as she could afford it. But she supposed that little dream would just have to wait for a moment when she wasn’t involved in a murder. She shoved the cash into a beaten up old messenger bag, the only thing she’d ever kept from her old life. She’d had it on her shoulder when she’d run away, and she had it on her shoulder now. Rummaging through her drawers, she shoved clothes into it at random, not bothering to fold them or keep anything organized, until it bulged out. She reached underneath the bottom drawer and untaped the fake ID’s she had stashed there, shoving them in her back pocket. Glancing around the room, Ricky felt a pang of regret. She’d liked this job. She’d been more content here than she’d been anywhere else her entire life. It suited her. But she wasn’t one for sentimental moments. It was now or never. Ricky didn’t own her own car, but she didn’t see that as a particularly large problem. Out in the middle of nowhere like they were, the garage was always full of vehicles. Employees, clients, random people who got lost and were sucked in by the strangeness of the place...yeah there were always cars. Entering the garage, she let her eyes drift over the available selection, looking for a likely option. Something crappy, most likely. The kind of car where the driver would leave the keys under the visor. But then her eyes lighted on a beautiful, black body so shiny she could almost see her reflection in it from all the way across the garage. The door was locked, naturally, but that was hardly a road block before. Like this was her first stab at grand theft auto. Older cars were easier. Their windows weren’t sealed as well and this one? It wasn’t down enough for her to get so much as a finger through, but the thinnest little crack ran between the top of the glass and the door frame. It was enough. Dropping to one knee, she quickly unlaced her boot. Tying a slip knot on one end of the shoestring, she forced it through the tiny space and started fishing. She didn’t get it on the first try. Or the second. Not even the third. But on the fourth attempt, barely daring to breath, she managed to hook the string around the rounded top of the lock. Gently, she pulled, closing the slipknot around the post, and easing the lock open. Piece of cake. Hotwiring? Not so much. At least it was an older car. Older cars were so much easier. Whoever owned this thing wouldn’t thank her if they ever got their car back, but this was an emergency. Gripping the underside of the steering column, she pulled. This was always the worst part. Some times it came right off, sometimes you had to rip the damn thing. Whoever owned this car clearly took care of it because, for a long moment, nothing happened at all. Her fingers began to ache almost immediately. Putting a foot on the side of the console for added leverage, she pulled again, grunting with the effort. Finally, the covering came off, taking most of one of her nails with it and she emitted a stream of curses that would have done any sailor proud. Sucking her bloodied finger angrily, she leaned under the column and started fishing through the wires, stripping the ones she needed with one hand and twisting them together. It took a few tries, and she shocked the hell out of herself at least once, but finally the car started. She breathed a sigh of relief. Sitting up, getting comfortable, she gripped the wheel with a bit more relish than was appropriate for someone in the process of stealing a car to get away from a murder they might have had a hand in. Still, wasn’t every day she got to drive something as nice as this. With only a slight squealing of tires, she took off into the night towards freedom. |