Bound to the calloway's heir

Sienna, ֍ flashback ֍ I had been sitting on a cracked plastic bench while my eyes darting to every shadow at the smelly bus station when my eyes caught it. The faded flyer was taped to the lamppost for a Volunteer Unit with Food and Shelter pecks. I tore it down and followed the address to the rundown community center on the edge of town. The volunteer unit was a patchwork of do-gooders and drifters, run by a Sister Margaret McCain, a missionary. While I waited for my turn to be interviewed by the matron in charge, the previous night's event of Ian's scream still echoed in my ears, just like my parents. At twenty, I had the guilt of witnessing three people die, and it had left me soulless. Maybe I couldn't help my parents, but I could have helped Ian by crawling out. Without a second thought, I had left him to die in that mall restroom just to save my own skin while his blood stained the tiles. The guilt ate me up from the insides, numbing me to the hunger gnawing at my stomach and the fear that the cartel was a step behind me. I had ditched Wyoming that night and after an hour at the bus station I had my hair tucked under a stolen baseball cap and a hoodie that hid my locket. If Ian was there, he would have been proud of me for putting my skills to work. I couldn't go back to pick-pocketing now that the bikers were no longer there to guide me through or could I apply for odd jobs and anything that required an ID, that would lead the cartel straight to me. I needed to disappear just as my father had warned. When it was finally my turn, I was told the unit fed the homeless, handed out blankets, and offered cots in a drafty gymnasium for those willing to work. I signed up as Sarah Goldberg, a name I plucked from thin air, claiming I'd lost my ID in a fire. The kind Sister's eyes narrowed, but she didn't press further to my relief. "God sees the truth," she said, handing me an apron. "Work hard, and you will find peace." I had nodded like a naïve homeless person she thought I was. Even though I knew that the peace she promised was a lie, yet the food and a bed were real. I kept my head down, washing dishes, sorting donations, avoiding eye contact. The other volunteers were a mix of college kids earning service hours, recovering addicts looking for redemption, and people like me, hiding from something. I steered clear of their stories, knowing that was a luxury I couldn't afford. Belinda Adams joined the unit a week later. She was my age, maybe a year older, with a sharp wit and a laugh that could fill a room, her braided hair swinging as she hauled boxes of canned goods. She had this way of seeing people like she could spot the cracks we all tried to hide. I didn't want to be seen, but she didn't care. She had plopped down beside me during breaks, offering half her granola bar, talking about her dreams of moving to Los Angeles, finding a job in a fancy company. I would nod, giving her nothing, but she kept coming back, like she knew I needed her more than I had admitted. I had kept away from trouble until one evening, about a year into my stay. I was taking the donation box to the office when my eyes caught a spooky-looking man loitering outside the center that morning, and instantly I knew that the cartel had found me again. Panic had been my shadow all day, whispering that I needed to run. I held the donation box in my shaking hands, wondering what I was going to do. The center had over a hundred people on site and I couldn't bring them to their death. I glanced down at the wooden donation box, improvising my escape. It was padlocked, yet stuffed with crumpled bills and coins from locals who thought their spare change could save the world. It was nothing Ian and the gang hadn't taught me to pick. I glanced over my shoulder, my pulse racing, then slipped a bent paperclip from my pocket. The foyer was empty since the other volunteers in the kitchen were prepping dinner. Ian had taught me how to pick locks, his hands guiding mine in a Wyoming motel room, his laugh warm against my ear. I flinched at the memory while I worked the clip into the padlock. It clicked open, and I lifted the lid, my fingers snatching a handful of the crumpled twenty-dollar bills. "Sarah?" I froze, the bills crumpling in my fist, my heart slamming against my ribs. Belinda stood in the doorway, her eyes wide in accusation. I dropped the money back into the box, slamming the lid shut, my face burning with shame. "I didn't see anything," she said quickly, stepping closer, "But you need to be careful. The sisters here have got eyes like a hawk." I stared at her in shock. "Why aren't you ratting me out?" She shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Because I have been where you are. Running from something, stealing to survive. You don't strike me as a thief, Sarah. You're just... scared." I wanted to deny her word and to tell her she didn't know me, but I couldn't. She saw me, and it terrified me. "Don't say anything," I whispered. She nodded, her eyes softening. "I won't. But you owe me one, okay?" I didn't get a chance to answer her as Sister Margaret's voice cut through the foyer. "Girls! What's going on here?" Belinda turned to her, smiling brightly. "Just chatting, Sister. Sarah was just helping me with the donation box, checking if it was full." Sister Margaret's eyes narrowed, her gaze flicking to the box, then to me. I stood frozen, my hands shoved into my pockets, the paperclip burning against my palm. "It's been tampered with," she said. My stomach dropped, but Belinda didn't flinch. "Must have dropped outside," she said. Sister Margaret didn't look convinced, but she didn't press. "This is not over. Let's get to the kitchen" I followed her back to the kitchen, my head down, guilt twisting in my gut. Belinda stayed quiet, her shoulder brushing mine in silent support. That night, we lay on our cots in the gymnasium, but I couldn't stop staring at the ceiling and thinking of how she had protected me. Her loyalty made me feel safe. She didn't owe me anything, but she'd protected me, just like Ian and my parents had. And like Ian, she would have to pay for it. I couldn't have her die either. Right there, I planned my escape from the volunteer, and it had to be the next day without saying goodbye to any of them. I couldn't anyway. Goodbyes were for people who stayed, and I was a curse, always having to run from my past. While we went about the morning devotion the next morning, I trailed behind, calculating my escape. Belinda walked beside me, her shoulder brushing mine, her silence louder than any words. I couldn't look at her. She had seen me as the thief I had become, and I didn't deserve her loyalty. We reached the narrow hallway leading to the dorms, but Belinda grabbed my arm, pulling me into a shadowed alcove beside a bulletin board. Her grip was as firm as her eyes blazing into mine and I braced myself for the accusations I had been dodging since the foyer. "Spill it, Sarah. Why do you need it?" I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes, my hands fisting at my sides. "You wouldn't understand. I have to run from here Belinda." "Then make me," she said, her arms crossed. "You're not leaving until you tell me what's going on. Who are you running from?" I laughed and slid down the floor as my knees gave out. "You don't want my story, Belinda. It's a mess." She crouched in front of me, her eyes level with mine. "Try me." I looked at her hazel eyes and saw something I hadn't expected. It reeked of pain. She wasn't just some do-gooder volunteer. She was also carrying something heavy beneath the happy girl facade. And maybe that was why I felt she could be trusted. "My parents were murdered," I said, "Three years ago. I was there, hiding in the attic when they arrived. These men with guns. They wanted something my father had. I don't even know what. They shot my mom, and then my father, and burned our house to the ground. I ran, and I didn't stop." Her breath hitched, but she didn't interrupt, just sat there, listening as I told her about meeting Ian and our escapades with the other bikers. My voice broke as I described the gunshot in the restroom that killed him. I told her about my guilt and fear as the reason I had been looking over my shoulder. "They're still after me," I whispered, my fingers clutching the locket but leaving that out of my confession. "Belinda, I stole the money because I needed to run again. I saw a man outside this morning, watching me. I can't stay here, Belinda. I can't. These people are really dangerous, and they don't mind burning this place down to get to me." Tears streamed down my face and I buried my head in my hands. I waited for her to walk away or get Sister Margaret alerted, but instead, I felt her warm arms around me, pulling me into a hug. It felt like home. "I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve that. None of it," she said, patting my back gently. I clung to her, my sobs muffled against her shoulder, the first time I had let myself break since Ian's death. She held me until my tears slowed. "You're not alone anymore, you've got me now." She said, I shook my head, wiping my face. "You don't want to get mixed up with me, Belinda. I'm a curse. Everyone who gets close..." "Stop," she cut me off, her hand squeezing mine. "You're not a curse but a survivor. And I'm not going anywhere." I stared at her, my heart aching with something I hadn't felt in years. It was hope. "Why are you doing this? You don't owe me anything." She exhaled, her gaze dropping to the floor, her fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve. "Because I know what it's like to lose everything," she said. "My parents died six months ago in a car accident. Left me enough money to start over, but no amount of cash fills that hole, you know? I came here to figure out who I am without them. And then I saw you, trying so hard to be invisible, and I couldn't look away." "I'm sorry about your parents," I said, noticing how our world may have been different, yet we carry the same emptiness. She nodded, "Thanks. And I'm sorry about yours. About Ian. But you're not running alone anymore, okay? We will figure this out together. How about we start by knowing your real name?" "Sienna" I said, not bothering to be careful at that moment. "Nice to know, Sienna" She winked at me. I didn't know what to say, so I just squeezed her hand. "Let's clean up before Sister Margaret comes sniffing around. And next time you need money, ask me. I have got enough to share." I laughed, for the first time since that night in the safe house, I felt like I wasn't alone, like I could breathe without looking over my shoulder. ֍ ֍ The door creaking open pulled me out of my thoughts seconds before Belinda's delightful squeaks reached my ears and I jumped out of my seat, running straight into my friend's arms. "Oh Belinda!" I said, blinking back the teary memory of our friendship brought to my eyes.