The hum of the highway was Remy Henderson's current lullaby, a far sight better than the clatter of plates she'd traded it for a month ago. Her beat-up SUV, affectionately named Betsy, rattled a little, a familiar symphony of loose parts that Remy mostly ignored. Inside, Betsy was a testament to Remy's unique aesthetic: a lava lamp glowing faintly on the dashboard (powered by a precarious USB setup), a dream catcher made of tangled yarn and bottle caps swinging from the rearview mirror, and the backseat a vibrant ecosystem of mismatched blankets, half-eaten snack bags, and various souvenirs from her month-long westward pilgrimage across the US.
Remy, twenty-two and fiercely determined, sang along, off-key and with gusto, to a particularly dramatic 90s power ballad. Her butt-length blonde hair, normally a wavy cascade, was currently battling a static charge from her seatbelt, giving her an unintended halo. Her blue eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, held a quiet, defiant urgency. Every mile was precious. Every weird roadside attraction was a triumph. She was living. Really living. Because, as far as she knew, her time was running out.
"Almost there, Betsy," she murmured, giving the dashboard a hopeful pat. Her stomach growled, a mournful echo of her rapidly dwindling funds. She glanced at the gas gauge, then at her phone, which stubbornly displayed her bank balance as a number suspiciously close to zero. "Okay, we need gas. And, like, a single, solitary protein bar. Or maybe a highly fortified gummy bear." The debate was serious, requiring deep thought and possibly a pro-con list in her head.
A glimmer of neon promised salvation. A gas station, lit like a beacon in the dark, appeared on the horizon. "Jackpot!" she cheered, veering a little too enthusiastically into the lot. It was well past midnight in Cincinnati, Ohio, and the place was deserted save for a lone, bored-looking attendant inside.
Meanwhile, in a universe utterly divorced from gummy bear debates, Theodore "Theo" Moretti was having a very bad night. The squeal of tires was still ringing in his ears, mixed with the fading pops of gunfire. Adrenaline, a familiar friend, coursed through his veins, but it was now tainted by pain. Blood seeped through the expensive fabric of his shirt. His meticulously planned escape had gone sideways, badly. He was exposed, injured, and his enemies were too close for comfort.
He spotted the beat-up SUV – an unlikely, almost laughable, speck of opportunity in the vast darkness. Desperation clawed at him. It was a long shot, but he was out of options. With a grunt of effort, he pried open the back door, slid inside, and collapsed amongst a bewildering collection of what felt like fuzzy blankets and possibly a miniature Eiffel Tower. The last thing he registered before darkness claimed him was the faint, off-key strains of a female voice singing about holding onto a feeling.
Remy, oblivious, was already wrestling with the pump. "Seriously? Ten dollars minimum in this economy?" she muttered to the machine, as if it would argue back. "This is financial discrimination." Her internal debate on snack choice raged. Taquito versus super-sized candy bar. The decision was monumental. She paid, filled her tank and grabbed her essentials (a bag of chips and a questionable hot dog roller creation – compromise!), and ambled back to Betsy.
She slid into the driver's seat, ripped open the chip bag, and hummed along to the radio. With a final glance at her phone's almost-empty battery, she pulled out of the gas station, heading west once more.
The vast, dark highway stretched before her, a canvas for her final, glorious adventure. She didn't notice the slight shift in weight in the backseat, hidden amongst her chaotic collection of living.
Hours later, the sun was just beginning to paint the sky in shades of bruised peach and tired orange. Remy had driven straight through the night, crossing from Ohio into Indiana, then Illinois. Her singing had dwindled to a contented mumble. She pulled off at a rest stop, needing to stretch her legs and perhaps acquire a lukewarm coffee.
"Alright, Betsy, break time," she announced, swinging open her door. A sudden pang of hunger for something she'd packed earlier hit her. "Oh! My emergency jerky stash! It's buried in the back, I think."
She swung open the back door of the SUV, rummaging through a mountain of clothes and bags. Her fingers brushed against something... solid. And warm. Too warm. And then, it shifted.
A low groan rumbled from beneath a pile of mismatched blankets. Remy froze, hand hovering over a particularly lumpy form. Her eyes widened, processing the impossible.
"Are you a werewolf?!" she shrieked, backing away so fast she tripped over her own feet, landing in a heap outside the SUV. She scrambled up, grabbing the nearest heavy object – a half-eaten, stale hot dog roller. "Stay back, whatever you are! I have food, and I'm not afraid to use it!"
The lump shifted again, and a very large, very muscular man began to slowly disentangle himself from her junk. He was dressed in expensive clothes, now torn and blood-stained, and his dark eyes, even in their disoriented state, held a fierce, smoldering intensity. A heavy Italian accent flavored his pained groan.
Theo hauled himself upright, bracing against the seat, his dark grey eyes narrowing as they took in the wild-haired blonde with a stale hot dog. He assessed the situation rapidly, his head throbbing. He was in a rundown SUV, somewhere utterly unfamiliar, with a screaming lunatic. This was the plan B?
"What the... what the hell are you doing in my car?!" Remy demanded, waving the hot dog like a medieval weapon. "Did you just... hatch? Oh my god, did I accidentally steal a hobo?!"
Theo glared, pushing a hand to his temple. "Silence, donna," he rasped, his voice rough. He looked at her, then at the desolate rest stop, then back at her wide, panicked blue eyes. She clearly had no idea who he was. Good. He then produced a thick wad of crisp $100 bills from his inner jacket pocket, along with several expensive-looking credit cards.
"I need a ride. Across the country. You drive. I pay for everything." His gaze was unyielding, even as a fresh wave of pain washed over him, a bullet had grazed across his ribs.
Remy blinked, her weaponized hot dog lowering slightly. Her eyes, which had been fixed on his terrifyingly intense stare, darted to the stack of hundreds, then the glint of the credit cards. Her mind, ever pragmatic and facing a rapidly depleting bank account, began to whir through the absurdity of it all.
"Fine," she sighed, a sarcastic edge in her voice, because that was her default setting. "But if you try to eat my brains, I get to keep your fancy watch."