Free Princely Bastard by K. H. Alynn Page A

herself with the sheets. “What’s going on?”
    “You two are just about to show me the sights,” the man tells her, in a voice as friendly as it can be.
    This causes Aimee to become fully awake, and fully frightened. And so am I.
    “You gonna shoot us?” I ask.
    “If I were,” he replies, “I would’ve done it already. Get up, you two—we’re late, we’re late, for a very important date.”
    “Fuck you.”
    “Pardon, I didn’t quite hear you.”
    “You heard me. Fuck you. The only reason you’re not shooting us right now is because you don’t want to move the bodies. Actually, you can’t move them—especially mine.”
    “Move!”
    “No.”
    “You fuck!”
    As he says this, he flings the handle of his gun at my face, which I block before throwing a punch. Though it misses, and he grabs my nose and yanks me out of bed and onto the floor.
    “Some fighter you are,” he growls. “You wouldn’t last five minutes in the neighborhood I grew up.”
    “I did pretty good this morning,” I growl back.
    “Fuck up!” he howls, before slamming the heel of his shoe into my groin—causing me to gasp in pain and clutch what’s left of me. Then he adds, “I’ve had just about enough of you. You know, your mommy was a whole lot more cooperative.”
    “I was just talking to her!” I somehow blurt out.
    “I’m talking about your real one!”
    “Fuck you!”
    “Get up!”
    “Fuck you!”
    “If I have to,” he says as he starts pistol-whipping me, “I’ll cut you up into little pieces and carry them out one at a time.”
    Again and again, his gun flies into my head, and there’s not much I can do about it but cover my face with my hands. I’m finished.
    Suddenly, Aimee jumps on top of him—and tries to strangle him. But he easily breaks her grip and tosses her into a wall—and turns back to me.
    Without knowing how, I’ve gotten to my knees, and I try to grab the man just like I did this morning. However, he steps away prior to kicking me in the face. He kicks me so hard that my head flies back onto the carpeted floor.
    “You know what they say,” he utters—“‘fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’”
    He afterward again kicks my head, over and over—and I’m feeling the whole world slipping away. And this only stops when I hear a smashing sound, and when the man collapses on top of me.
    Right then, I wipe some blood from my eyes and see Aimee holding what’s left of a lamp. She’s also grinning a bit.
    WITH AIMEE MENDING my head as best she can, I quickly dress. I also stare at the unconscious man at my feet, and wonder if he really did kill my birth mother.
    She stares at him as well, and mutters, “Maybe we should . . .”
    “Should what?” I ask.
    “He’s just gonna come after us again.”
    “I’m not a killer—and neither are you!”
    “But—”
    “—But nothing!”
    “How’d he know we were here?”
    “It, it’s probably my fault.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “That call to my mom—they must’ve traced it. Come on—we’ve got to get out of here.”
    “And go where?”
    “San Pedro.”
    “What’s in San Pedro?”
    “You’ll find out. Let’s just go.”
    Hurriedly, I finish dressing, and so does she, and we head out the door.
    But abruptly she stops.
    “What?” I cry out, as she rushes to the Walgreens bag in the corner of the room.
    “Just leave it!” I yell.
    “We need it!” she yells back—and she grabs the bag and returns, and, after I grab her hand, we run off toward a bus stop about a quarter of a mile down the road.
    I’M TIRED. I’M so fucking tired. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired.
    All I want to do is collapse onto the side of the road and cease. And I only keep running because Aimee’s holding my hand.
    But even that’s not enough, and I start to slow, more and more.
    Then, from behind us, I hear sirens—police sirens, and I spin around and see three cop cars enter the motel. Though at least