Page 10 of Red Rooster

She shook her head, firm. “What woulda happened if you hadn’t been here?”

“They wouldn’t have shown up at all.”

She tilted her head to a stubborn angle. “That poor girl needs someone looking out for her.”

So.

Here he sat, the sunrise molted beyond the fogged-up glass of a diner window on the way to Connecticut. He sipped his coffee slowly, enjoying the warmth of the mug against both his hands, watching the girl seated across from him.

Ashley had tucked her bright hair beneath one of Deshawn’s old winter stocking caps, but little pieces kept working their way free, bold as flame down her neck and shoulders. She wore dark smudges beneath both eyes, signs of exhaustion, but she shoveled pancakes into her mouth with almost frantic energy, hand unsteady on the fork.

“Not too fast, kid, or you’ll be sick,” he cautioned.

She grunted a response, but did slow the movement of her fork, actually swallowing before she brought the next bite to her lips.

Rooster let her eat – he knew well the look of someone who’d gone hungry for a long time – and planned a route in his head. They needed to get out of the state and lay low, probably for a long time. Ashley could work miracles, but Rooster knew it would take nothing short to clear him of multiple murder charges. He had no idea which branch of law enforcement those guys had answered to, but someone would want retribution.

Worse, someone would want the girl back. Their pursuit proved that she was valuable. Her little fire routine proved she was dangerous.

Rooster entertained ideas of dropping her off at a hospital, or a children’s home. Even a school. Putting some cash in her palm, spinning her around in the parking lot, and telling her to go find someone else to look after her until she was old enough to go be homeless on her own.

But she acted like she’d never tasted pancakes before.

And she was just a little thing.

And she’d touched him, and suddenly he was sitting in a booth and his hip wasn’t caught in a bind; blinding pain wasn’t shooting down his leg, and arm, and spine.

The waitress stopped by and topped up his coffee, asked if they needed anything else.

“Two breakfast plates to go,” he requested, because he didn’t know when they’d have another chance to stop for food.

When she was gone, the girl finally pushed her plate away, wiped her sticky mouth with the too-long sleeve of her borrowed sweatshirt, and met his gaze with a level one of her own.

“I’m sorry,” she said, solemnly.

“That’s alright.” He set his coffee down. Kept his voice low, so the old man two booths over couldn’t hear them. “Who were those guys?”

She took a big, shuddery breath. “They’re from the Institute, they…I’m sorry.” She blinked hard.

“What were they gonna do if they took you back there?”

“They…Dr. Fowler said…” Her narrow shoulders jerked up and down as she breathed. Color bloomed in her pale cheeks, and not in a good way. “It was time…I was ready…for breeding.”

Rooster’s breakfast turned to lead in his stomach. “Breeding?”

“I started bleeding, which means I’m a woman now, and they need more of us, and the best way is to…” She babbled, twisting her napkin between her hands until her knuckles turned white.

“Hey,” Rooster said, and she looked at him gratefully. “That’s not gonna happen, okay?” Inwardly, his heart pounded. Breeding? What in the ever-loving shit were those people doing over there? “We’ll figure something else out.”

“Thank you.” She blinked some more, but the tears were determined, and a few slipped down her cheeks. She brushed them away with her sleeve. “I know it’s my – my responsibility.” They sounded like repeated words, something an adult had told her that had never set right; a little line appeared between her brows as she frowned. “I was made for this, and I should be grateful for the chance to help, and–”

“Hey,” he said again, and this time, reached across the table to cover her little hand with his own.

She jumped at first, and then settled, her expression a miserable blend of guilt and exhaustion.

He decided on a different line of questioning. “Do you know how old you are?”

“Fifteen.”