Chelsea Shore brushed her long blond hair back from her face, locked her car door, and then closed it solidly. She checked the door and took hold of her red roller luggage handle. Then she said goodbye to her Shelby Mustang. She doubted she would ever see it again, though the ache of fully admitting this was too great to accept. She could have sold it, she supposed, but there was the matter of time and the dire awareness that it wasn't her friend.
It was nine o'clock at night in Houston, Texas. Tomas would be in the middle of his shift, and if any god was looking out for her, he would be on a call as well. She had four hours, hopefully, before he would realize that she was gone. Perhaps another two hours before he acted on that knowledge, deciding that she wasn't out at a bar or with a girlfriend. Six hours max, then, and that was if everything was going her way. So far, in her short life of twenty-four years, nothing had fully gone her way, so she estimated half of that: three hours.
Airports and trains were out; too many cameras and security checks. The bus might be a good choice, but she didn't really know where to go. Besides, all of these options Tomas would cover. How many buses could be leaving at this time of night? Maybe two? It wouldn't be difficult to track her. No, she couldn't take options like that for at least two or three days. The red Mustang with vanity plates Chelsea1 was too easy to track as well. So, she had to walk away from the single possession she was able to salvage from her other life, and the sooner, the better.
She walked two blocks and waited for the 108 bus heading north. The bus arrived in ten minutes. She boarded, buying a day pass, and sat down. This was the extent of her planning. Once she was in North Houston, around the Pinemont area, she would take the first bus that went into the heart of the area from the freeway. From there? She didn't know. She didn't have a false ID to get a room with. She didn't have friends in that area, which is why she chose North Houston. She didn't have answers. Chelsea reasoned that this could be to her advantage however—if she didn't know where she was going, then how could Tomas second guess her?
The bus ran up the highway, and she got off in the North Houston area, and found the 79 waiting. She jumped aboard, asked the driver if his route went into the Pinemont area, and he nodded his head. She rode the bus for ten stops and got off.
Pinemont was not a night life haven, and most of it was residential areas, with main drags of business areas cutting through. Suburbia.
Choosing a street at random she walked down the sidewalk, keeping an eye out for some place she could crash for the night, or at the very least, hide. An all-night cafe or diner would be ideal. She had money enough that she would be able to purchase the needed amount of food and drinks to be left alone all night. She could break out her laptop, surf the web, look busy, and become invisible. The thought of hiding in a shadowy area didn't really appeal to her. She was very conscious of the fact that she was young, blond, and good-looking. Her breasts were too large to hide from interested eyes, and her ass too appealing. On a Wednesday night, she didn't expect to have to deal with too many cowboys, but there were homeless people and drug addicts to consider; people who didn't care what day it was—they were out on the street, looking.
Several blocks later she was into a residential area, and was deciding whether or not to turn around and find a main drag again, when she spotted a bar called the Log Cabin set back from the road. There were several cars and many bikes parked around the lot and on the side of the building. Chelsea could hear music and the murmur of voices. The bar would be open until at least two in the morning, and she could probably find out from someone inside where a diner was. Tired, and feeling the fatigue of the hunted, she walked to the bar and went inside.
Once inside she figured out what the place was almost instantly: it was a club house for a biker group. From the patches on the backs of several of the riders, she discovered the name of the club was the White Wolves, but she didn’t know anything about them. Again, she reasoned this was a good thing. The less familiar her surroundings, the better.
Tomas was a Narcotics Detective for the downtown police department. He often talked about how foolish drug dealers and addicts were when they were trying to hide. They always went to ground in an area they knew. They stayed in touch with friends and relatives. They used credit cards, hid in hotels, or rented some dive of a place, thinking that no one would look for them there.
"It's so easy to find these shit heads," he told her with a grin.
So, the less she knew about where she was, the better. The White Wolves were, therefore, perfect.
The Log Cabin wasn't large, and it was fairly full of people. Most of the crowd was male, but there were enough women there to let her know that it wasn't a gay club and that she wasn't out of place. In her blue jeans, black knee-high boots, and light leather jacket, she fit in well enough. Making her way to the end of the bar, she took an available stool and ordered a long neck Bud when the bartender came over to her. He nodded, gave her tits a smile, and fetched her drink. The only thing out of place was her roller luggage bag, but it was small enough to slip beside her on the floor; not much more than a carry-on, really.
The beer tasted good and she took a greedy drink, then causally looked around to see if she caused any stirring or interest. Most of the patrons didn't seem to care about her much, though a few of the men were giving her ass and figure a prospective look. This was good. Let them look. She was a single woman in a biker bar, so it would be normal for her to be scoped out, and also normal that she would be looking for company. That idea was not appealing at the moment, but it would be bad to act any other way.
She was just finishing her beer when she noticed a tall, dark-haired man walking toward her from the pool table area. He was dressed in blue jeans, black boots, a black Harley eagle shirt, and a leather vest. His hair was a mane of locks and curls coming down to his shoulders. His body was nearly a perfect V, emptying down into long legs. He would probably offer to buy her next round, and she would accept. After a bit of flirting she would try to find out if there was a diner or cafe some place close.
Just play it cool and act normal.