Nope, the next chapter won't turn out like you expect I bet. Heehee. Welp, hope ya enjoy. Review if you fancy.

When she returned, there was a distressed air about her. She fluttered around the kitchen, busying herself with tasks so simple they didn't even need to be done, such as attempting to scrape off a stain that had been on the counter for over a year. She was generally up front, as were most of the girls. I surmised she was avoiding me, so I dropped the book I had been occupying myself with and went to the kitchen.

"Where'd you drop him off at?" I asked in an attempt to clear the tense air.

She stopped scrubbing the stain and looked at me with what I deciphered as worry.

"At that gas station down town…That boy had just robbed a store when you found him. The police are out looking for him. If they find out we housed him, we could be in trouble Ana, for aiding a criminal."

"It's not like we knew that."

"The police aren't going to believe us Ana, we're not liabilities, it comes with the job."

"Well…" I thought hard to come up with a simple solution. I'm more book smart than anything else, and the girls liked to point that out whenever I screwed up. "You should've told him to keep his stay here a secret."

Monica smacked her forehead with her palm and squeezed her eyes shut in frustration.

"I doubt he would listen to us Ana."

As she was saying this, I was compelled to get up and grab my coat, which hung on a wobbly wooden coat rack just by the door.

"Well he better."

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

I reached for the doorknob, but stopped and turned back to look at the stressed out woman who I had endangered because of my selfish desire to play nurse.

"I'm going to make sure he doesn't get us in trouble." She opened her mouth to protest but I waved it off. "I still have the blade, besides, he's injured." I was about to add that I knew the weak points in the human body, but decided that would be over the top. Everyone in the group knew that I was good at that stuff by then. I'm sure at least one of them thought it was all I was good at.

Whether Monica didn't feel like arguing or had trusted me to convince Dallas to keep us a secret, I don't know. I didn't vex myself with that. I knew it was most likely that she had given up on me, but I couldn't think that.

The gas station was about a mile to walk, but I was able to hitch a ride with a neighborhood friend of Monica's a little over half way there. It would be no problem catching up with him, that is if he had gone anywhere. It was probable that he was taking a rest there or waiting for a ride.

Seeing him standing, leaning against a gas pump, smoking a cigarette caused a major decrease in my stress levels, but somehow my heart still pumped as fast as it had been as I had anxiously searched for his face. I wasn't worried, I wasn't afraid. What was it?

"We need to talk." I said as I approached. He nodded, not taking his cigarette out of his mouth as he dug into his pockets and lit one up for me. I took it gratefully.

"So," he removed the cigarette and puffed out a ring of smoke. "What do you want?"

I couldn't help but to catch the suggestion in that small question. I should be used to it by now, but it seemed his flirting had a different effect on me. It had to be the fact that he was younger and more handsome –that's not saying much- than most of the men who came on to me at bars.

"You stayed at my apartment, and you'd just robbed a store." He grinned like it was some sort of accomplishment. "If you tell the cops we'll…"

"Heh, yeah. You can tell little Monica bitch that I won't do it. For you, anyway." He paused and shrugged slightly. "Want to do something?"

I had a tugging sensation that he might actually do as he had threatened if I declined, and besides, the girls said to never turn down an invitation.

I tossed my cigarette to the ground and grinded it into the concrete with my foot.

"Alright," I agreed.

"We have to wait for my ride first."

I leaned against the gas pump beside him and frowned as I stared into the embers that still glowed from my cigarette. Somehow I was reminded of my mother, so I looked away.

"So where ya from?"

"Does it matter?" I snapped.

"Okay then,"

"It's…"

"I get it." he said coolly.

I peered over at him and read an expression that proved he did 'get it'. I didn't have to tell him everything about me, and he didn't have to tell me everything about him. We both knew that neither of us were perfect in any way.