Five years.

That’s how long it’d been. Five years since Liza, and her sugar daddy, and her psycho brother. Five years since she made him into a criminal.

He’d managed to get away (somewhat) unscathed — busted lip, black eye, minor concussion and god knows what else, but nothing time couldn’t heal. Physically, at least.

Was Chip a wanted man? He didn’t know. The cops surely had pieced together what’d happened at Ken’s house, and then at the motel, and then the trailer park. He wanted to believe he did a good job at staging the crime scene.

Regardless, he didn’t stay in Louisiana to find out. He had the money; $68,000 worth of blood money, still packed tightly in the manila envelope.

At first, he kept things simple. Solo road trip, in a way. Kept driving west, taking occasional pit stops at roadside motels and 24 hour diners.

That got exhausting quickly.

Chip liked the mountains — deserts. He’d come to that realization along the way. So when time came to settle down, he picked a small town in Nevada. Quite literally, in the middle of nowhere.

He used a good portion of the $68,000 to pay for a ranch. 3 acres, couple barns, pens and stables. He lived in a trailer on the property; some things never change.

He researched ranching to the best of his ability. Got a few cattle, a horse, small herd of sheep, and even installed a chicken coop. Maybe most importantly, he got a dog — Milo, a blue heeler. He sold eggs at the local market every other Sunday. He got along well with the locals.

No Liza. The town untainted. He may be a bit lonely, but he was relatively happy. And that was more than enough for Chip.

Still, that didn’t stop him from constantly looking over his shoulder. He owned three firearms — one revolver, one rifle, one shotgun. He kept the remaining $32,000 in a safe under his bed. And he didn’t let himself get close enough to anyone to risk his freedom.

Until the night everything changed.

It was roughly 8:00 at night. Chip had done nightly chores already, brought the animals back into the stables and the barns. He was settled on his couch nursing a glass of whiskey when Milo started barking.

He never did that. Not unless something — or someone, was outside.

So what did Chip do? He threw on his boots, grabbed his shotgun, and started to scope the perimeter surrounding his trailer. Milo followed closely at his side.

Eventually, he found the culprit.

“What the fuck…” Chip found himself muttering, aiming his weapon.

There you were — collapsed in the yellowed grass, badly beaten and still ethereal in the moonlight.

You looked dehydrated, like you’d been running. You had several bruises lining your arms, legs, face; and even more scratches. More concerningly, you were barely conscious.

Chip’s instincts told him to help you — lower his weapon and escort you inside, patch you up and offer you some food and water. But like he’d groomed himself to do over the last five years, he hesitated.

Because if there was one thing that made Chip fucking stupid? It was pretty girls.

And you were, in fact, a very pretty girl. Young. Way younger than him. Even beaten nearly to a pulp, you were the most beautiful thing he’d seen in ages.

He’d been so good at keeping to himself, playing safe…

Milo was standing at Chip’s side, letting out the occasional whimper or leaning down to sniff your boots.

He managed to snap out of his daze after another brief moment, awkwardly clearing his throat — shotgun barrel still pointed at your chest.

“…uhm, sweetheart…? You okay…?”