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“It’s like I know how to touch it myself, Rabbit.” He gives his khaki work pants covered crotch a rough grip.
Not giggling is not possible.
Not encouraging his pigheaded bullshit is also not possible.
What can I say?
I like it.
I like that he’s undeniably gruff.
Almost unhealthily blunt.
Unapologetically comfortable with the man that he is.
And most importantly?
That he doesn’t ask me to be someone I’m not.
Other than a runner, of course.
But that’s not exactly something I can just give up or magically stop being, especially with my instincts raging war against one another. And it’s not an easy feat to get my brain to ceasefire. Both side’s sets of numbers hold merit.
Statistically speaking, flight – aka being on the constant move around the country – has led to me still being alive. Fleeing every time I swear I can feel that monster breathing in my direction has kept me from returning to his clutches, from needing to search my clothes for tracking devices, from having to worry if this bottle of water or that cup of tea has been laced with something to keep me sluggish and submissive and silent during the long days and even longer nights.
Flight works.
The question is for how much longer.
Is continuously hightailing it like I’m part of the Fast and Furious crew – damn Kipp for his obsession with those movies – really as sustainable as I make it out to be?
The data says no.
That each time I bolt, I significantly decrease my chance of living another year.
Six months.
Four days…
However, on the other side of the spreadsheet, staying put – or what the men who call me theirs refer to as fighting – has high value.
For one, I’m not alone anymore. And history has left behind many examples of how strength can be found in numbers. Right here, right now, Brad would not only be outmanned, he’d be outgunned and outwitted too.
This town isn’t one he owns.
These people don’t belong to him.
They belong to each other.
Their loyalty is to their small, close-knit population above everything else.
Kipp and Nolan are part of that population.
Community.
And since my stranded ass has been here, they’ve gone to extreme lengths to fuse me into their fold even if it isn’t always an entirely conscious effort.
Suzie insists on talking to me exclusively about quirks of dog breeds after I told her that Basenji’s don’t bark so much as make an air horn siren sound when alerting their owner to danger. I did leave out the deets about why I know that shit. Adding in my neighbor in Florida had a dog like that until it alerted me to Brad being outside my window too many nights didn’t seem like the best idea. She was so shook up by the bunny story, I couldn’t take away her reason for living by revealing what he did to Tonto.
