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Chapter Two


Avery was sitting on the end of the bed, staring at the local news channel. They were covering the shooting at the 7-Eleven. She held the remote in her hand, her wrist limp, scared to death. The sweatshirt she’d stolen, now stained by slushie, hung around her, way too huge for her small frame. Marty was in the shower, steam poured from the open bathroom door.

“Detectives are on the scene of this fatal robbery in Cincinnati tonight, trying to piece together the details of what they’re saying is only the latest in a string of robberies thought to have been committed by the same Bonnie-and-Clyde duo they’ve been chasing around the state for some time. The couple, thought to be in their late-twenties or early-thirties have yet to be identified, but have stolen thousands of dollars in money and merchandise from various convenience stores across the state…”

Avery frowned at the blonde bimbo in her New 12 windbreaker as she clutched the little microphone, the backdrop of the 7-Eleven glowing across the street from her. It was swarmed with flashing blue police cruisers and that stupid tour bus sitting by the gas pump.

“Witness testimonies and surveillance footage are being processed by the police department and further information about the gunman and his accessory will be broadcast as soon as possible,” the blonde continued, “Back to you, Jim.”

They switched from the location view to the in-studio and Avery muted the television.

Avery looked down at her knees. She knew they were going to have a pretty good shot of herself. When she’d slipped in the slushie, she’d been staring right up at the video camera’s black dome on the ceiling. There was no way they didn’t have a perfect picture of her face. She clutched the remote tight, flexing her muscles around it.

In the bathroom, Marty turned off the shower.

She hated him at the moment. Hated that he’d not only had a gun but fired it and killed two people. That had never been part of their plans. They weren’t murderers, they were just thieves. They’d actually said that once, way back when they first started, when Avery had shoplifted a pack of condoms and a couple of those convenience store brownies because they were flat broke. They’d agreed that taking what they needed was okay, but they’d never kill for it, and eventually, they’d said, when they became rich somehow, probably from a stolen lotto scratcher they’d joked, that they’d go back and pay back all the convenience stores they’d stolen from. She’d kept a list of stores in a little notepad in her purse. She’d believed that they’d one day make it right. But there’s no way to give blood back to a dead man.

Marty came out, a towel around his waist, rubbing a washcloth over his hair.

Avery looked up.

“We’ll dye your hair,” he said, seeing the anxious look in her eyes. She’d already told him about staring up at the security camera when she’d fallen down. He threw the washcloth to the floor in the corner. He grabbed a fresh shirt out of a duffel bag on the bed. “We’ll dye it brown and cut it off.”

She ran a hand over her long blonde braid, which hung over her shoulder.

“If we knock off a couple more stores, we can save money and move to Canada,” he added.

“It’s cold in Canada,” Avery said.

“It’s cold in prison, too,” Marty said.

“We wouldn’t have this problem if you hadn’t shot the clerk,” she said pointedly. “Which you swore we’d never do.” She shook her head.

“Babe, it was a good thing I had that gun or else we’d definitely be on the way to prison,” he said. “C’mon now, you don’t even know for sure that camera you saw was working, if it was a decoy dome, you don’t know. And just ‘cos they see your face doesn’t mean they’ll find you. You’re a plain girl. We change your hair up a little bit, nobody will ever know it was you --”

Avery turned away, looking at the TV. The news was now covering some concert from earlier that evening, showing footage from the stage, panning the audience as elated twenty-thirty-and-forty somethings screamed like lovesick teenagers.

“Hey wait a second.” Marty came over and grabbed the remote from her hand.

She kicked him, “Give it back, fucker, I had it first,” she snapped as her toes hit his shin.

“Bitch!” he yelled at her as he dropped the remote. He staggered forward and picked it up, “Jesus Christ. Don’t you recognize that guy,” he pointed at the TV and turned the volume up.

“--- to see the fans and get to interact with them at the soundchecks and everything.” On the screen, a blonde guy in a sweat-soaked t-shirt was talking, a towel wrapped around the back of his neck. A blue bar at the bottom of the screen said that he was Nick Carter of the Backstreet Boys. “They’re the reason we do this, they’re amazing. We love our fans.”

“And the fans certainly love the Backstreet Boys right back,” the voice over newscaster said as the video feed cut to a string of tour buses trying to get out from a huge crowd of women, all screaming and holding up signs. From one of the windows, Nick Carter waved at the news crew as the bus went by. “Channel 12 news,” the voice over ended the segment.

“That was the bus at the gas station,” Avery observed.

“That’s the guy,” Marty said, “That guy, that’s the guy that came in the store, the witness guy.”

Avery sighed heavily, “We’re screwed,” she said.

“Screwed?” Marty was staring at the TV. He muted it again as the in-studio crew started talking about some protest that happened a couple days ago downtown. He tossed the remote onto the bed beside Avery. “How are we screwed?”

“My face on the video camera, a fucking Backstreet Boy witness,” Avery shook her head, “We’re screwed.”

“Not particularly,” Marty answered.

“Of course particularly,” said Avery.

Marty rubbed his chin. He walked back over to the other bed, fishing around in the duffel bag ‘til he found a pair of gym shorts, which he tugged on, tossing the towel he’d had around his waist into the corner with the other cloth he’d used to dry his hair. He pulled the drawstrings tight and chewed his lip.

“Marty, once they get a picture of me and a good description of you out of that guy, we’re both screwed. They’ll find us in no time, dyed hair or not.” Avery turned the TV off altogether and tucked her legs up under her. She shook her head, “I should’ve gone to college like my momma told me,” she muttered. “Instead I’m going to spend the rest of my life in prison.”

“We ain’t going to prison. We just need to get creative is all,” Marty said.

“Get creative,” scarfed Avery, “Yeah. Let’s get real creative. Maybe we can practice fashioning shives so we’re real good at it in our cells.” She laid back, staring up at the ceiling. She wondered how her life had become this. She’d started out okay enough, hadn’t she? Once upon a time, she’d been a good girl, right? She couldn’t quite remember who she’d been before she met Marty and let him consume her. It’d been so long. She felt lost, like a little kid in the woods.

Marty’s voice was low, conniving, “Yeah… creative.”





Nick couldn’t relax. He just kept pacing, pacing, pacing, pacing. Mike was anxious just watching him. “For fuck’s sake, will you please sit down?” he begged, “You’re going to get dizzy, this ain’t that big a room.”

But he couldn’t stop.

He’d talked to the cops, given them a fair description of the gunman, which they’d recorded for their artist to get the details fresh from his mind before they’d started to fade. Nick felt like he was being watched, like the gunman was somewhere lurking in the shadows, just waiting to jump out and shoot him in the head like the clerk. His palms were pools of sweat. He knew the likelihood of the guy following them once the bus left Ohio was on the low-ish side. Following the Backstreet Boys around on a tour was an act of stealth that only the most crazy fans could pull off. Half the time he didn’t even know where he was going next. Surely the gunman wouldn’t be able to catch up with him to fulfill the promise about making nightmares come true, right?

But he wasn’t sure enough to stop pacing.

Eddie came on the bus, “They need us to stay through tomorrow,” he said.

“No,” Nick replied, “No. I don’t feel safe. I want to leave. I wanna go to St. Louis.” He stopped pacing long enough to stare at Eddie, trying to make his point.

Eddie sighed, “They need your help still, they have more questions, they gotta take fingerprints and they want to run them through a criminal database, see if they can’t find a picture of the guy you saw. They need you to help ID him.”

Nick was frustrated. “Are you people not hearing what I’m telling you? This guy said he would kill me if I talked to the police. He is going to come after me.”

Eddie was frustrated, too. “I know Nick, you’ve told us about seventy-nine times since the police got here. But there’s nothing I can do. They’re insisting that we stay. If you comply maybe they can get everything done faster and we can get back on the road.”

Nick shook his head and turned away. “There won’t be any road to get back on if I’m fucking dead,” he said, angry. He returned to pacing.

“Can’t they forward the stuff they need him to do?” Mike asked, trying to find a middle ground.

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Eddie said, sighing loudly, “I don’t know. I don’t understand half the shit they’re saying. They’re all jargony and whatever. This is unbelievable.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And Jen’s pissed. Like I did this on purpose. Like it was my idea to stop at the one fuckin’ gas station in the world that was getting held up on purpose. Damn it.”

“I want protection,” Nick said.

“You have a bodyguard,” Eddie said back.

“Yeah fuck lot of good that did me,” Nick snapped.

Mike looked hurt, “Hey now, bro, I’m on your side,” he said, “Don’t go throwin’ me under the bus for this.”

Nick continued pacing.

“I’ll talk to them about having someone guard the bus,” Eddie suggested.

“I want a hotel room,” Nick added. “They saw the bus. They’re more likely to come after the bus. It’s like a rolling billboard sign declaring where I am.”

“We can do a hotel room,” Eddie agreed.

Nick was wringing his hands.

Eddie sighed, “Nick, you gotta calm down.”

“I saw a guy get shot in the head,” Nick snapped, “I can’t calm down.”

Eddie sighed again. “I’ll go talk to the cops about getting a hotel room,” he said, and he jogged back off the bus.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Mike said when he and Nick were alone on the bus. “I won’t let you down again man. I swear it.” He stared up at Nick.

Nick shook his head, “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. It ain’t your fault what happened. I would’ve been pissed if you followed me in a damn convenience store, I mean I ain’t a kid. Plus who knows what wouldda happened if you’d gone in.”

“I would’ve jumped that skinny ass bastard,” Mike answered boldly.

“Exactly. Probably would’ve got yourself shot or somethin’,” Nick said. He came to a stop in the pacing. He shook his head, “Nobody gets it. I’m scared to death.”

Mike frowned.

“Isn’t there like a Witness Protection Program or something?” Nick asked.

“I think that’s only for people who witness like Mafia type stuff,” Mike replied.

“Oh.” Nick went back to the pacing.

“I don’t know for sure, though, maybe ask somebody.”

Nick took a deep breath.

Eddie came back on the bus a few minutes later. “Okay, so they’re gonna get us a hotel room and send someone over to talk about security measures for you in the morning,” he said. “Better?”

“Marginally,” Nick answered.

“Marginally is something at least,” Eddie said, and he stepped around to the front of the bus to give the driver instructions.

Mike looked up at Nick. “See? Gonna be okay.”

“Right,” Nick’s voice carried sarcasm. “If I make it through the night.”





Marty could feel his brain working a hundred miles an hour. “What if we… we kidnapped him.”

“What?” Avery sat up. “Kidnapped who?”

“The Backstreet Boy. The witness.”

“Because adding kidnapping to our list of criminal activity will put us right onto death row?” Avery asked, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

“No. But the ransom money would get us out of the country,” Marty replied. “He’s a Backstreet Boy. He’s gotta be loaded. Surely his family and friends or management or someone would be willing to part with a good sum of money to get him back if we were to take him.”

Avery stared at Marty, incredulous. “What’re you thinking, we get a nondescript white van with a mattress and some zip ties in the back and lure him in with a Butterfinger? For Christ’s sake, we’re trying to get out of trouble, not in deeper.”

“And the only way out of trouble now is if we can get out of America. We need money to get out of the country. A lot of it.”

“Didn’t you clean the drawer out at the 7-Eleven?” Avery asked, “Why don’t we just use that money.”

Marty rolled his eyes, “That ain’t enough to get us out of the country.”

Avery sighed, “Even if this idea wasn’t completely ridiculous - which it definitely is by the way - how do you think we’d even get near that guy to kidnap him anyway? He’s a Backstreet Boy - meaning he’s unattainable on a regular basis, not to mention when he’s surrounded by a shitstorm of cops who are all literally on the look out for us.”

Marty rubbed his chin as he paced. “Okay. Good question. Let’s see. Let’s see…” He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, walked to the window and moved the curtain slightly to peer out into the street below. He hummed, trying to get the creative juices flowing. “Too bad I didn’t know who he was before, when he was in the store, I could’ve just saved us a step and taken him with me then. Think that mofo would’ve done anything to keep from getting shot. He was scared shitless.”

“Well he’s not exactly a manly man, is he?” Avery said, “Dancing like a pretty boy every night on the stage like he does. I can’t imagine it takes much to give the guy nightmares.”

“Nightmares…” Marty mumbled, and he remembered his threat in the store. “Wait… Isn’t there some sort of like witness protection something?” Marty asked, “For witnesses that are afraid that they’ll be tracked down if they talk?”

Avery sighed, “For witnesses of organized crime, like the Godfather or whatever. You might be named after him, but you, sir, are not Marlon Brando.”

A grin crossed Marty’s mouth slowly. “I’m way smarter than that motherfucker. Get up. Let’s go, we gotta get moving to make this work.”

“I’m not going out there, for all you know they’ve already IDed us and are sending SWAT teams to the hotel lobby!” Avery said.

“Not exactly a manly-man are you?” Marty teased her.

“I am not a man,” Avery said pointedly, “And excuse me for not wanting to get shot ‘til I look like a block of swiss cheese,” she added.

“And staying in the room waiting for the SWAT team is going to make it better?”

Avery crossed her arms over her chest.

“You’re gonna have to grow some balls, Princess, if you want this get out of jail free card,” Marty said with a grin.