[ xv. bat out of hell ]

➸➸➸

"OH, MY GOD! WHAT the hell were you doing?" Willa Deveraux demanded forcefully, her sage eyes wide with terror and disbelief. Once she had pulled the Jeep Wrangler off to the side of the road and yanked the keys free from the ignition, she immediately crossed back over to John B. Routledge's side, the taller boy now waiting stiffly on the cracked sidewalk for her. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?!"

"I . . ." John B. trailed off hesitantly, his brows knotting together as he looked towards the road—towards where he had nearly become roadkill—and then back to Willa, who shared a mutual expression of confusion. "Uh . . . no?"

As the two young teenagers stood facing each other in the middle of the sidewalk, lost in a heated and panicked exchange, not a single passerby around paid them any attention. In fact, the downtown area of the Outer Banks—the unspoken middle ground between the Figure Eight and the Cut—was relatively empty. Almost too empty for an ordinary business day, and especially too empty for an island attempting to rebuild from the severities that Hurricane Agatha had left in her wake. For as far as the eye could see, regardless of which direction Willa looked, all of the roads were littered with debris and broken branches, each piece of ruin its own little imperfect scar on an island that thrived in haunted excellence.

After a long, bated moment, Willa exhaled a sharp, timid breath and raked a nervous hand through her hair, wincing at the familiar pain of her rings snagging in her frizzy knots as she pulled her low bun free from its loose loop at the base of her sweaty neck. She was breathing hard as she let both of her flannel-covered arms fall back down to her sides, her vision side-sweeping John B. as she looked further down the block in the direction that he had come from, as if likely expecting another sprinting figure to soon follow. To Willa's growing suspicion, there was absolutely no one behind the Routledge boy, near or far. "Where's Kiara?" She prodded.

John B. followed Willa's searching gaze and shrugged his shoulders tightly. "Her dad came and picked her up," He informed dully.

"Her dad?" Willa repeated, wrinkling her nose. "Picked her up from where?"

"The sheriff's station."

For the millionth time that day—just when Willa Deveraux was certain she could not be surprised by any more mayhem that John B. Routledge had to offer—her eyes widened in alarm once more and her jaw dropped. "What?" She gasped. "What the hell happened? Did you guys get caught in the lighthouse?"

"Not in the lighthouse," John B. clarified as he shoved his own hands into the pockets of his dark shorts. "but not much later after that, either. We decided to take a shortcut down the beach, and Shoupe was waiting for us."

Willa's jaw fell softly back to a close and she looked away from John B., allowing her attention to divert further down the wide street, in the direction that she had initially been heading before her near hit-and-run. She could still feel John B. watching her every movement, his body shadowing hers as he stood beside her, both of their hearts still beating unsteadily in their stiff chests, uncomfortable in the eerie calm that engulfed them both. "How did the cops even know you were there?" She questioned over her shoulder.

"The ranger there knew something about my dad and the compass, but he wouldn't tell me and he threatened to call the cops, so . . ." John B.'s jaw clenched and he closed his hickory eyes, his anxious, rattled thoughts likely going back to that terrifying moment—when he and Kiara truly had felt like they were stuck between a rock and a hard place, caught between the swift seas and the locked land. "I might . . . I might have assaulted him," He confessed. "but not on purpose! It wasn't supposed to get out of control the way that it did. I just didn't know how else to stop him."

Even though Willa had not been in the lighthouse herself, she was almost certain that there had likely been another way out of such a harrowing situation without someone getting hurt. While long ago Willa might have been the one to hit first and ask questions later, that was not how a situation like this worked . . . Then again, there were several things about today that should not have happened the way they ultimately did. Now standing there, face-to-face with a sweaty, beaten, and bruised John B., Willa could not help but begin to believe that danger and destruction followed the Routledge boy, regardless of where he went.

Hell, there was no saying that either teenager was currently safe right now. Even though it was only downtown, how could they know the difference between a shelter and a battlefield when their world had already been so severely turned upside down?

In the end, all that Willa Deveraux could say in response was, "Holy shit."

"Yeah." John B. scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck as he looked down at Willa. He did not know quite what to say, either. "Holy shit."

"Well, how . . . how did you get out?" She struggled to ask next. "Without . . . you know, DCS getting involved?"

"Peterkin wanted to help, to pull some strings," John B. explained. "but I wouldn't give her what she wanted, so Kiara's dad ended up bailing us out instead. And he was not happy about that."

Willa pursed her chapped lips and shook her head doubtfully. Of all the ways that Willa Deveraux had rebelled against her parents, being arrested was certainly not one of them. Her parents would never let her out of their sight again if she ever established a criminal record, regardless if it were even for something as small as trespassing. No, Maren and Alden simply could not risk their perfect and posh public image. They could not risk the painful truth getting out to their fellow kook friends that they were raising a family they could not anchor down—that the Deveraux patriarch and matriarch were closer to raising their six diverse children as unfavorable pogue dregs rather than their desired kook elites.

Willa wondered if Kiara's parents held their own daughter to the same harsh standards. Moreover, she could also not help but wonder where Kiara Carrera was right now, involuntarily pulled away from the heart of the pogue group. Was she locked away in her room, forced to think about what she had done? If the roles had been reversed, that was exactly where Willa would have been; locked away in a tower at the top of the Deveraux castle, never to see the light of day again until she was a responsible adult capable of affording exile. Right now, at only sixteen years old, that was not a way of life Willa could handle on her own. She was smart enough to know her limits—or at least she thought she was. Nonetheless, she was still only a teenager, after all, and her future—good or bad—was still entirely unknown to her.

Slowly, Willa turned back around to look at John B., her sage gaze falling gently to the purple and blue bruises that littered his freckled face. Had Peterkin asked about those bruises when she interrogated him? Or had she not cared, deeming all pogues to carry bruises and scars of some brutal making? They lived in the Cut, after all. It had not been given such a name out of coincidence; there was little to no kindness in the shadows of the dying woods and drowning marshes—the police knew that better than anyone. "Peterkin seems really concerned with your personal life," She noted dryly.

John B. swallowed stiffly and nodded his head in bitter agreement. "She wants the compass," He admitted.

Willa's expression darkened worriedly. "She knows you have it?"

"I told her I don't," John B. insisted, even as his voice gave him away; just as it had undeniably done when he had been locked away in the sheriff's office only hours prior. "but I know she doesn't believe me."

Willa was not surprised by this. In only the short time that she had rightfully gotten to know him—beyond just ordinary circumstances in their shared school hallways—Willa knew John B. was not a good liar. What she was surprised by was everyone's unexpected and cynical insistence on taking claim for themselves of a cheap compass that had been collected from the bottom of a murky marsh. "Why on earth would she want the compass for?" She prodded.

John B. merely shook his head and a deep tremor echoed through his aching and tight muscles, chilling him to the bone, even as the warm shifting sun shined down on his exposed skin. "I don't want to find out," He told her seriously. For a long moment, Willa was silent, unsure of how to respond when her own mind was attempting to work through the intentions of the local police. It was one thing to fear for the gunmen who were hunting them down—hunting John B. down—but did they have to worry about the police turning on them next, too? John B. seemed to notice Willa's deepening expression of worry and, unbeknownst to even himself, he reached a gentle hand out to touch her bare arm, his calloused fingertips rough on her soft bicep as he pulled Willa from her troubling thoughts. "Why aren't you with JJ and Pope?" He questioned.

"I had them drop me off at home. There was some stuff that I needed to do," Willa explained, shrugging her shoulders with the simplicity of her answer. There was no need to delve back into the encounter with her mother or her siblings. John B. likely would not care, anyways. "I was planning on heading out to JJ's soon, actually."

John B. sent her a puzzled look, but the corners of his lips were tilted upwards just the slightest in a small smile, cracking through the tired facade that pulled heavily at his worn-out features. "Do you even know where JJ lives?" He wondered innocently.

"He gave me directions," Willa defended with a huff, placing her jeweled hands firmly on her hips. Her tensed fingers loosened at the touch of her own soft flannel, a piece of normalcy in a setting that was entirely bizarre. After the past two days, her hometown island did not feel the same to her; a piece of order had been lost amongst chaos and gunfire, and rage. And oddly enough, aside from her own person, John B. was next closest piece to normalcy Willa had in her foreseeable future. For there was no saying what happened beyond this moment—beyond this desolate, broken street—but as long as they made it back to the Chateau and back to the others in one piece, Willa knew that she might yet just be all right. "So, now that I've gathered you still aren't running from the cops . . ." She continued carefully. "why were you running like a bat out of hell back there?"

And just like that, the minuscule smile vanished from John B.'s features as reality caught back up to him once more. "I got fired," He announced dejectedly. "Ward found out about the stolen tanks."

"How?" Willa questioned in alarm. "Did he catch you sneaking them back onto the boat or something?"

"Ward didn't," John B. answered, irritation seeping venomously in his angry tone. "but Sarah did."

Willa frowned, her lips tilting downward as her brows knotted together in disappointment. She hardly knew anything of the Cameron family; she had never gone out of her way to know Sarah Cameron or her siblings or even her parents after her own friendship with the kook princess had sizzled out long, long ago. Because of this, she could neither defend nor condescend Sarah Cameron further—even if kooks were known to do all that they could to bring pogues down. Nonetheless, Willa had not been there. But she was here now. And this time it was Willa's turn to reach out, her hands hesitantly going to John B.'s own. With her smooth and tiny hand delicately resting in his labor-worn grip, she held tight to his fingers, silently telling him all the words that the human language was incapable of conceiving. "I'm so sorry, John B.," Willa eventually murmured sadly. ". . . And I'm also so sorry about almost hitting you—I didn't actually hit you, did I?" She added hesitantly.

"No, I'm okay," John B. reassured her tiredly. "No bumps or bruises. Not from you, anyways." John B. attempted to smile back at her, the same way he did at the Chateau when he had tried to hide from her the pain of his bruises and aches from his brutal fight with Topper at the Boneyard, but, like before, it did little to soothe her again. Once more a heavy silence fell over the two teenagers, but it was far from an uncomfortable pause between them now. Slowly but surely, even if they did not realize it themselves, Willa Deveraux and John B. Routledge were coming to a mutual understanding that they both needed their own quiet moments every now and then; a tiny patch of peace within themselves to reel through the uncertainties that coursed dangerously through their frazzled minds.

Just then, a sudden and sharp thought occurred to Willa, and she abruptly looked back up to the boy beside her. "Hey, uh . . . before I nearly ran you down back there, I was heading downtown," She explained. "but after that I was planning on heading out to JJ's—or—or we could go back to your house and take your van instead . . . Either way, I can give you a ride wherever you need it." Willa paused briefly, hesitant and prudent in each word that left her lips, as if she were digging her own grave and had long since lost the power to stop herself from picking up the shovel. "Do you want to come with me?" She questioned politely. "I mean, I know you've probably got—"

"Sure," John B. gently interrupted her, cutting her rambling off before she had the chance to make an excuse herself. "I could use the company."

Willa's expression softened. "Yeah?" She asked.

John B. nodded his head warmly, hickory meeting sage once more. "Yeah."

A newfound confidence instantly surged through Willa's chest, pushing the girl to stand up straighter as she exhaled a breath she had not realized she was holding. "Good," She replied, her voice only slightly teasing as she turned away from John B. and began to walk. "Who knows what trouble you'll get into if you're left by yourself."

Rather than return to Willa's awaiting Jeep, the two teenagers opted to walk the last three blocks to the tailor shop, neither of them quite ready for their unexpected, but surprisingly soothing encounter to end so soon. Nonetheless, to Willa's eerie discontent, while she undeniably knew that John B. and herself had both strolled these familiar sidewalks for several years, this time felt different—and not just because they were a kook and a pogue, standing side-by-side as a united duo in the eyes of an ever-watchful and hateful society. No, this walk towards the deeper downtown area was hushed. The July air, though always stiflingly hot, was chillingly stilled; as if Willa and John B. were walking through the eye of a pierced storm and Hurricane Agatha was about to make a grand and brutal reappearance.

John B. avoided looking at any of the passerby townspeople, keeping his bruised gaze down to the girl beside him who was walking on the inside of the narrow sidewalk, further away from the exposed yet empty road. "So, what do you need to go to the tailors for?" He wondered casually.

Willa was looking down at her keys as she walked, her fingers shifting along the chain to her magenta-colored elastic card holder to ensure that she still had her credit card on-hand, and had not left it on her messy bedside table like she always tended to do in a drunken or smoky haze. "I need to pick up my dress for the Midsummers ball," She answered, returning the collected keys back to her flannel pocket.

"Midsummers," John B. repeated with a sneering scoff. "You're not actually into that, are you?"

Willa snorted. "Of course not," She assured with a roll of her eyes. "I go because my parents make me."

"Hey, at least you'll have Kie to keep you company," John B. supplied heartily.

Willa smiled inwardly at John B.'s attempt at comfort, but she truly did wonder how Midsummers might ensue. If Willa's mother really seemed to have a problem with her daughter and Kiara working together under the false pretenses of a simple debate project, she hardly thought Maren would allow the two girls to have a casual hangout under the gleaming spotlights of some of the kooks' bests. Then again, with so many people around, maybe Maren Deveraux would not have it within her to make a scene. Either way, Willa was bracing for disaster from the approaching Midsummers ball. "Well," She sighed. "even if I don't have any company I'll probably just get really drunk. I'll make my own fun."

John B. sent her a smug look. "Fireball?"

"Oh, you know it," Willa chuckled lightly. "That's my favorite kind of booze. Can't make it through any party without a shot or two of Fireball."

"More like a bottle or two," John B. snickered playfully, drawing them both back to the earlier hours on the Boneyard beach. When life had not gotten so out of hand and they were just two drunken teenagers on a piece of warm driftwood, working their way closer and closer to an intoxicated haze of lust and bad decisions. Decisions that would be left to the Boneyard once the blaring sun rose up once more, shifting the sands of the island so that a tainted kook and a lost pogue would never cross paths again—but maybe that was why neither teenager was there on the sunken shore of forgotten joints and broken beer bottles to watch the sun rise. Maybe they had outdone the trickster island when they had stood strong in the shadows of the night instead, their bodies alight with the crackling of gunshots, not quite ready to lose their young and stubborn grips on one another. Maybe their intertwined paths were only just beginning to form.

"You're never going to let that go, are you?" Willa countered distastefully, her nose wrinkling as her stomach turned with hungover phantom pains.

"Considering that I think a part of your drunken soul now lives on my front lawn?" John B. poked fun at Willa, the familiar smile pulling at his lips once more as a mischievous glint sparkled faintly in his eye that was not still nearly swollen shut. "No, I don't think so."

Both teenagers laughed loudly as Willa attempted to smack his arm, but John B. quickly stepped out of her reach, dodging her easily. So lost in their own minuscule joy, lost in the serenity of simply being two teenagers of a beautiful summer day as they walked down the blistering block, eager to find shelter in an air-conditioned shop, neither Willa nor John B. heard the frightening, but all so familiar rumbling engine of the lone, black pickup truck as it pulled up to them alongside the curb until it was too late.

Willa Deveraux immediately froze where she stood, her fiery blood turning to ice in her veins as she stared back at her petrified reflection in the tinted passenger's window of the large truck. John B. Routledge stiffened with caution and instinctively stepped in front of Willa, his wider body concealing the smaller girl as best as he could, but any attempt at further defense was futile. They were already caught and the two burly gunmen on the other side of the window knew it, and they no longer cared who was watching. Slowly, the passenger's side window rolled down and before Willa even had time to blink—before she even had time to let out a final exhale of breath—the barrel of a pistol was being pointed squarely in her chest.

"Time's up," One of the gunmen growled, his voice deadly cold and vicious. He was smaller than the driver and much of his face was obscured by a beard, but regardless of his size he was a killer, nonetheless.

Neither teenager should have been surprised that they had been found so easily; it was a small island, after all. It was only a matter of time before their luck ran out, and now it finally had. But as Willa Deveraux had already promised of herself earlier in the afternoon, once lodged into the same crevice of fear that she had found in a chicken coop, she would not go down without a fight. Beside her, John B. Routledge was thinking the exact same thing as he slowly and swiftly twisted his arm back, his calloused hand finding her jeweled one all over again as the first crack of the catalyst wound its way undone.

"Run!" John B. shouted to her.

Willa did not need to be told twice as she immediately spun on her heel—incredibly grateful that she had switched her Birkenstocks for broke-in Converse when she had been home—and sprinted down the block. Following closely in John B.'s shadow, the two teenagers ran together, pulling each other forward as they rounded a corner and barreled into a nearby alleyway, riddled with boxes and broken tree branches that made hurried navigation even more difficult. Behind them, Willa could hear the distant roar of the truck as it made its way down the street in their direction, trying to pinpoint where the scrambling teenagers might pop back out next, but even closer behind, Willa could hear the harsh pants of the lone bearded gunman on foot, closing the distance between them.

"Don't you run!"

A trembling and choked breath escaped Willa's lips as she dared a glance over her shoulder, and her eyes widened on the fast-approaching gunman, his expression crazed and lethal. Meanwhile, in the time she had turned away, John B. had let go of her hand and propelled his body up onto a white-picket fence. Prepared to swing his body over the edge, the sheer weight of his hit knocked the fence entirely over, sending John B. sprawling painfully into the dirt of an opposing yard. Willa soon stumbled on the broken white planks as she chased her fallen friend, her heart hammering madly in her chest as she tried not to think of how close the gunman might be in their staggered state. "Get up, John B.!" Willa urged. Without thinking, Willa then instantly reached down and grabbed a single, long plank, and held it over her shoulder like a baseball bat. As the bearded gunman approached, Willa instantly threw the board out and struck him hard in the chest, knocking him back and his weapon to the hard, dirt ground. Now with the tides turned back in the favor of their own escape, Willa waved a hand to John B., fiercely encouraging him to get back up. "Let's go!" She yelled.

With John B. back on his feet, Willa turned and ran once more, hurtling her body over a fallen tree. Her feet smacked hard in the dirt as she sprinted through an unrecognizable yard, but her pace halted once more at the sharp yelp from John B., followed by an even louder shout of pain from the gunman. Only when Willa reached another distant alley across the long yard did she risk another look over her shoulder; to her relief, John B. was still on his feet, and the gunman had been knocked back to the dirt once more.

"Keep running!" John B. cried as he reached her side, his hand instantly searching for hers. With a sharp tug, he yanked Willa down the dark alleyway and back out into the wide and bright road, leaving their dirty and sweaty bodies exposed in the open for all to see. Suddenly, Willa leaped in alarm at the sound of squealing brakes and she turned as John B. narrowly pulled them out of the way of the approaching black truck. "Go! Go! Go!" He pressed breathlessly, pushing Willa around the front of the vehicle so that they could run in the opposite direction, further away from where the truck had planned to be heading.

Willa grunted in pain, her stomach and legs aching as she pushed her body past the point of exertion, her soaring heart making her burning blood pound so loudly in her ears that she felt lightheaded. Clenching her tearful eyes shut, Willa allowed John B. to pull her back down the road as the familiar shouting of the approaching gunman sounded from the nearby alley, and the truck soon slammed back in reverse. Despite the numerous obstacles, both gunmen were still very much lively and ready to kill two innocent teenagers in broad daylight.

"Stop!" One of them bellowed. Neither teenager did no such thing as they turned down a parallel suburban road, leading farther out of the downtown area. With John B.'s encouraging and panting voice in her ear, Willa pushed onward, running because her life truly depended on it.

Suddenly, despite every nerve in her body screaming at her to not let go of John B.'s hand, Willa Deveraux did exactly that, knowing she needed the extra momentum in her freed arms to propel herself forward on her own. If they kept like this, running hand-in-hand, they would only slow each other down. They were safer this way; apart, but still alive.

Little by little, John B. began to run faster than Willa, taking the lead sprint without any true intention of doing so. Like Willa, his survival instincts were in control, and his body would do whatever it took, even if it meant outrunning the girl he had initially just guarded from a loaded gun with his own flesh and blood.

"We've got to hop that fence!" John B. yelled back from over his shoulder as he pointed ahead to the chain link fence that lined the end of the block, never quite looking back at the doomsday that now unsuspectingly shadowed Willa.

Because in the next instant, Willa Deveraux was on the ground.

Willa cried out in alarm as the larger gunman—who had long since abandoned the truck—tackled her from behind and sent her much smaller body sprawling down onto the hard asphalt. To her own painful agony, before even her own body touched the ground, Willa's chin hit first, her smooth skin busting open with a sharp rip. The gunman's arms soon curled around her middle, holding so tightly to her shaken body that he could have crushed her ribs if he pleased.

Hot, sticky blood now ran steadily from the fresh gash in her chin and trickled down her exposed throat, and Willa struggled to regain her breath, her world spinning sideways as she attempted to pull herself free. "Stop squirming!" The gunman growled, using all his heavy weight to hold Willa down.

"Get off of me!" Willa shouted back ferociously, her jaw searing with pain as she spoke. She twisted beneath the gunman's hold, her body pushing down into the asphalt as her fingers curled around her keys that stuck out from her flannel pocket. Once her car keys were locked securely in her trembling, sweaty grip, Willa fought back. With her head spinning and her chest heaving, her lungs desperate for air that she was so agonizingly deprived of, Willa did not think of any pivotal part of the human body in which her odds of survival might be better—no, she just stabbed and stabbed, burying the jagged metal where she saw pink, fleshy skin, over and over again.

It was not until Willa heard the distant wail of a police siren that the gunman instantly released his hold on her weakened form and scrambled back to his feet. With Willa still lying flat on her back on the hard ground, the gunman spat down a final curse in her face, and then turned on his heel and fled back for the black truck. Willa's trembling hands were still curled tightly around her keys, the metal tinted red with blood that was not her own, but she could hardly feel the worn chain in her grasp. Her sage gaze was still locked towards the burning orange sky, her chest attempting to slow its frantic rise and fall as she fought for breath that had not been stolen from her just yet. From the corner of her eye, Willa soon saw the bearded gunman follow his friend, never once looking back towards the beaten kids left lying in the road.

At the piercing thought of her escape partner, Willa slowly and creakily pushed herself up onto her elbows, thankful that the sleeves of her flannel had protected her arms from getting cut. The same could not be said for her bare legs, though. Fresh scratches littered the tops of her thighs and her right knee was bleeding badly. Scuffed and raw, fresh and hot blood trickled delicately down her calf. To her shock, she could not feel that excruciating and stinging pain, either. All that Willa found she could focus on was her own rattled breathing, and the thought of the Routledge boy who could have not gotten so far away from her.

Once more, the familiar chirp of the police siren sounded from over Willa's shoulder and she hesitantly turned around. On the other side of the chain link fence was the sheriff's stalled vehicle, but that was not what held Willa's attention for very long. Instead it was the sight of the motionless teenage boy lying at the base of the fence, feet away from a live wire still surging with dangerous volts of electricity.

"John B.!" Willa exclaimed fearfully. She was on her feet as quickly as her unsteady and injured body would allow and was soon crossing the short distance to John B.'s fallen figure. "Hey . . . hey, I'm right here," She whimpered, falling back down to her hurt knees beside him as he made a small, incomprehensible noise in the back of his throat. John B.'s hickory eyes were partially closed, the boy fading in and out of consciousness as his body cooked from the inside out. Suddenly, fearful of losing him right then and there, with no regard to the pulsing electrocution that could have surely been fatally imminent with a single false move, Willa pulled John B.'s limp upper body into her arms, her core trembling as she struggled to keep them both upright. "I'm r-right here," She soothed breathlessly, pushing his shaggy bronze hair away from his sweaty face. "It's o-okay, John B., it's okay . . ."

Frightened tears began to leak from Willa's eyes, but she did not dare try to wipe them away. Off in the distance, she heard the sharp, familiar roar of the black truck's engine as it fled the downtown area and she flinched painfully, but the gunmen were not coming back for them just yet. For now, it was only Willa and John B., once more. Or so she thought.

"Willa Deveraux, is that you?"

At the soft yet firm calling from the opposite side of the chain link fence, Willa lifted her head away from John B.'s weakened features, and soon came face-to-face with none other than the Kildare County sheriff, Susan Peterkin. The woman's brows were contorted in alarm, but she remained unmoving as she took in the gruesome and terrifying sight of the two downed kids, both of them entirely unsuspecting of just how lucky they were to be alive.

"P-Please," Willa blubbered out through trembling, pleading lips, her chest heaving so harshly against her raging heart. She could not breathe, her own body on the verge of giving out in fear, and pain, and exhaustion. Unable to hold her own knotted head up any longer, Willa Deveraux soon collapsed back down against John B. Routledge's rigid figure, the young girl bloody and sobbing in the middle of the road.

"Help us."

~~~~~~~~~~

willa deserves the whole damn world but all she's getting so far is a bloody jaw and constant terror. and fyi, john b. didn't know she got tackled; he literally got electrocuted as soon as she was hit--otherwise of-fucking-course he would have turned around and went back for her.

anywayssss i hope this chapter was as enjoyable as it was stressful!! i had a lot of fun writing the interactions between willa and john b., but as usual i always get nervous with action scenes... so i hope the whole chase sequence played out all right? i'd really love to hear some feedback about this chapter!!

we also got to see a little bit of a rough and tough willa in this chapter! and there's definitely more where that came from.. she knows how to fight, y'all, but also--she's just a scared kid. like, could you imagine getting chased by two gunmen at only sixteen, getting tackled by one said gunman, and STILL fighting back with just her freaking car keys?!

now, i'm sure there's a lot more about this chapter that i could say, but i'm still reeling from the thrill of writing it. so, i hope y'all enjoyed this craziness of a chapter! there's more to come very soon!! i'd love to hear your thoughts and what you'd like to see next! so please, leave some votes and comments because your girl would really appreciate it! thanks for reading! and i hope y'all are having a lovely day or night.

stay safe and stay well.

--B.

oh, and on a really random note--i also released the beginnings of a new outer banks fic?? just a fair warning, i won't likely get started on it very much until i'm near the end of part one of this story... but anyways! it's set in a different universe from willa and its about the story of miles cameron, the twin brother of sarah cameron--i really wanted to write a story that centered around the craziness of the cameron family because they're so interesting to watch and write about!! anyways, the new book is on my profile and it's called "LINES WE CROSS" and i'd really appreciate it if y'all checked it out!! please and thank you!!

and now, here's ya sendoff meme. enjoy.