Between Now & Never (6 page)

“No, thank
you
,” he says, earning a curious glance from me in return. He holds up the bag of chocolates. “For your help, I mean. This will be perfect.”

I pull my purse strap on my shoulder and smile. “I’m sure she’ll love them.”

Suddenly it’s that awkward moment when you both realize you’re heading in the same direction. I give a courtesy laugh and he echoes my sentiment. We make it a few steps before his feet come to an abrupt stop. I glimpse a flash of apprehension on his face before he grabs my arm and pulls me into a photo booth.

“What the—”

“Shh,” he says, dead serious, his arm taking a protective grip around my shoulders. Panic bubbles up. He smells like manly aftershave and expensive laundry detergent, like cologne mixed with sweat. He smells like danger.

He peeks out the opposite curtain before spinning back toward me. We’re face-to-face on this booth bench—totally enclosed—side by side. Inhaling the same air. His lips a breath away from mine. A host of emotions spiral through me. I’m not sure whether to be creeped out or seduced. As it stands, I think I’m a little of both.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling his arm away in a gesture of innocence. Somehow I’m holding his stuffed dog now. “I’ve always wanted to try one of these, you know?” he says with a nervous laugh and pulls out his wallet. “Have you ever taken pictures in a booth?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” I say, wondering just how nutso he is and deciding to tread carefully. You never know these days. I peel back the curtain on my side. “I really need to go, though.”

“No!” he says, and I jump. Then it all clicks into place.

“Is this about your girlfriend? Your to-be-determined special someone?”

He hangs his head and shakes it, his shoulders deflating. “No, I promise, it’s not.”

For some reason I find myself believing him.

His green eyes plead with mine, one brow arching up as his dimples sneak out to convince me. I repeat: Dimples are dangerous.

“All right,” I concede. “One quick round of pictures.” He did, after all, sweep my floors.

“Sweet,” he says and inserts his card.

We listen to the monotone voice reel off instructions. Four pictures. A light will flash before each picture is taken. Etcetera. How I ended up in this position I’m not sure. We both sit, staring at our reflections on the dark plastic and, no doubt, both stuck on the same thought that crosses everyone’s mind when they’re on this seat.

“Quick,” I say, “what should we do?”

A flash of light. Picture one down. Both of our mouths were hanging open, blank stares straight ahead.

We burst into laughter and can’t stop. A second flash. Picture number two: both of us laughing.

Our gazes meet and we pull ourselves together, his eyes never veering from mine. He leans toward me, coming halfway before pausing, his eyes seeking permission. I regard him with equal parts terror and anticipation, the intimacy of the situation whispering a thrill. He closes the distance between us and glides his nose through my hair. My heart rattles around as though this is the first boy I’ve ever been close to.

“Now smile,” he whispers into my ear. Even if I should be creeped out, forget it. My cheeks burn despite myself and I feel the corners of my lips tugging upward.

A flash of light signals the third picture and I am totally seduced.

He turns to the screen and puts on that smile of his, patiently waiting for the next picture as if whatever just happened between us didn’t happen at all. Or at least didn’t faze him.

The fourth flash snaps me out of it and I return to reality. I think of his J. Crew model and how she would feel about this.

He peers outside the curtain again, inching out before pulling it open for me to exit. I’m anxious to scram, but he stays by my side, giving me the extra copy of all four pictures as we walk out. I hold his chocolates and stuffed dog as he opens the mall door and we step out into the hot night.

I spot the bus, still shaken up from that third picture.

“Is that your bus?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah,” I say. A prideful instinct nudges in, making me want to spout off something snippy to assert the fact that this night meant nothing to me. My life, my happiness, don’t depend on guys. This was my mom’s fatal mistake, one I won’t repeat.

He starts to back away; toward his car, I guess. He pinches the brim of his hat and tugs it down old-fashioned style. “It was a pleasure.”

Who says that? It’s rare, I guess. Classy, even. One wink from him as he backs away convinces me I loved it all: his engaging smiles, our playful banter, the photo booth. Even if it didn’t mean a thing to him. They come through all the time, cute guys stopping in for something at the mall, never to return. Somehow this one felt different, and despite myself, I’m sad to see him go.

What’s his name? Did I even ask?

“Hey,” I call after him, surprised at how far away he is now. He turns, still walking away as I hold up his chocolates and stuffed dog. “You almost forgot.”

He shakes his head, walking backward with a wide smile. “They’re for you,” he calls out, as though I should have known this.

I look at the bag of chocolates in my hand—all of
my
favorite chocolates—and the dog, stunned. Confused. Still processing the fact that he gave them to me instead of the girl he likes. What on earth? I wonder why he changed his mind, and when. And then I realize.
Rocky Road, spunky, full of life, a girl he just met
. . .

I open my mouth to call out to him, to say something—anything. Get his name perhaps. But his figure disappears around the corner. Gone.

After a prick of disappointment, something warm stirs inside, sending little sparks up and down my skin. I steal a glance at my bus, which is about to leave, and then back to the corner he disappeared around, my gaze toggling back and forth. Reluctantly, I turn, staring down at the gifts in my hands as I make my way to the bus. I smile, still shocked, wishing I knew his name, his number,
something.
These chocolates, this dog . . .

They were for me all along.

V
ic has everything: a magic touch with the ball, scholarships to boot, and a mom who loves him so much she went to prison trying to get him off drugs. And then he put Julianna in danger.

I should have turned him in.

I second-guess my last-minute decision to give Julianna the dog. Vic’s got to be pissed, too, after getting beaten up by that dealer, ready to turn them in. He’d better be. Maybe I’ll tell him where to find the video so he can come clean and put this all behind him.

I look over my shoulder to see Julianna’s bus lurching to a start. Safely on its way.

I was almost sure I’d lost that drug dealer. Then I caught a glimpse of someone down the hallway, all in black. I pulled Julianna into that photo booth before whoever it was could spot us. Who knows if it was even him? I was probably just jumpy. Still am. I haven’t seen the dude since, but I needed to get Julianna out. I went in there to make sure she got to her car—bus—safely, and she did. Still, what if I was drawing added danger her way?

That whole thing with Julianna was too perfect to resist, though. And she fell for it, thought I was talking about some other girl the whole time. I smile, remembering the way her full lips pulled to one side as she tried to figure out the best chocolates for my special someone.

This might not be good. I’ll have to call Vic and tell him where the recording is. Let him fix this whole mess he dragged me into. And then I’ll keep my distance. For real this time. The Reebok Classic Breakout camp in July will be a good excuse. I can feel that scholarship on the horizon. I put my all into the Classic Open Run last month and got a coveted invitation to the breakout camp in Philadelphia, one of the best places for upcoming seniors to score a scholarship.

Walking is about the last thing I feel like doing after the sprint of my life, but what was I going to do? Take Julianna’s bus? Whoa now. That has stalker written all over it. She’ll flip enough when she finds out I’m one of Vic’s “loser friends.”

I cross Power Road, eyeing the fast-food restaurants where I could use a phone. Call my parents. But what am I going to say?
I recorded a drug deal, ran away from some guy with a gun, hid the evidence in a stuffed dog I don’t have anymore, and now I need a lift.
That would be rich.

My stomach growls, making a convincing case for stopping anyway. I hesitate before turning and heading south, deciding to stop at a restaurant on the other side of the freeway. I could use the extra minute to think, to make sense of everything that happened tonight and figure out what I’m going to tell my parents.

A block or two into my walk, I notice it. Again. An image my subconscious picked up moments ago in the parking lot. Not just any car. Dad’s Vette is nice, but this is something else. The car purrs a rich hum as it glides slowly across the road in my peripheral vision. Under speed. I keep my eyes on the ground, stealing a glance or two.

First look: black, Jaguar. My mind picks up the details. Logs them away.

Second: tinted windows, shiny hubs, six spokes. Supernice. This ride could go from zero to sixty in six seconds. Maybe five.

Third glance: F-Type, two doors. This guy is loaded.

The deep hum of the sports car fades as it drives ahead, its rear lights blending into a dozen others at a traffic light.

I tell myself off for being paranoid. Nonetheless, I let my gaze follow the car’s progress as I cross the bridge over the freeway, unable to ignore my gut. Something twists inside, knotting up. A hunch.

Something about that car is all wrong. And the night is calm, too calm—eerie.

An SUV pulls off to the side of the road, hazards blinking. Then a truck. More hazard lights. Superstrange. I struggle to keep my eyes on the Jaguar as it shifts lanes a couple hundred yards ahead. It makes a turn and disappears, cutting my focus and redirecting my gaze to the dark sky ahead. I should have been watching this all along.

I freeze, my heart lurching at the sight.

I recall the weather alert on my phone that almost got me caught. Dust storm.

They weren’t kidding.

It stretches from the horizon up into the sky, a thick brown wall of dust illuminated by city lights. I’ve lived in Arizona for twelve years and seen plenty of dust storms, but this is unreal. One, two miles high? From northeast to south as far as I can see.

The hairs on my skin prickle one by one. This thing is incredible—huge. Like something from a different country, another time. Like I should seek refuge behind my camel and use my turban as a mask.

It billows inch by inch. Swallowing the city whole.

Something flicks up and hits my leg, a cricket that scurries away. I stand, my eyes glued. In awe. Then fear slithers in and clasps on, imbedding a respect for Mother Nature, which man is powerless against. Vulnerable.

And here I am.

I reach for my phone before remembering it’s gone. I want to get this on camera. Put it on YouTube. I feel it coming. Trees rustle in the distance. I watch the domino effect. Tree by tree, until the hot breeze whips past me. I hesitate. Glance back. I have time, but not much.

I turn around and start back over the bridge, kicking myself for not appeasing my growling stomach sooner. I could be biting into a cheeseburger instead of swallowing dust. Another gust of air hits me sideways, plucking the pricey fedo-whatever hat from my head and sending it flying across three empty lanes of road.

I look over my shoulder. The horizon shrinks before my eyes, drawing closer. Dust covers car after car on the freeway below. It’s coming quick.

I increase my pace, but the wind picks up faster. One car pulls to the side of the road ahead while others proceed slowly. At any rate, the road clears around me. Here I am, the only idiot pedestrian who’s stupid enough to screw the weather alert and start home on foot. Straight into what has to be the dust storm of the decade.

Wind whips around me, picking up debris. A plastic bag, a Styrofoam cup, and, of course,
dust
. More and more of it. A strange feeling settles over me and I brace myself. What I wouldn’t give for my camera.

I punch the crosswalk button as it encompasses me, a thick haze that blurs the sky, the mall, the road ahead. Everything within thirty, maybe forty feet. The signal switches from red hand to white stick figure. Not that I needed to wait for any cars. Looks like everyone besides me is playing it safe, pulling off the road or hunkering down at home.

A coughing fit erupts before I feel it coming. I pull the neck of my shirt over my nose and jog down the sidewalk, keeping my eyes peeled for the nearest building.

Trees twenty feet ahead blur into an orange haze. There and gone. Darkness closes in, so dense it’s almost palpable. Particles of dust cling to my skin, creeping through my shirt and up my nose. I cough. Throw a wild glance around, recognizing this for what it is: zero visibility.

Apprehension claws its way in and I stop running. Can’t see where I’m going. I shield my eyes but too late. Bits of dust lodge under my eyelids, jabbing my eyes. Stinging.

My shirt thrashes around, my shorts flapping against my legs as the wind threatens my foothold. I widen my stance and wait it out, my heart making its presence known as I stare at the inside of my shirt. Hammering. Pounding. A rush of blood through my ears harmonizes with a deep rumble approaching from behind. A familiar sound. A rich, chilling purr.

I whirl around, barely see it coming.

Tires squeal. My heart hurdles into my throat. I leap into action, bolt to get out of the way, but too late. My gut sinks as part of my brain comprehends/accepts what’s happening. The drug deal. The recording. It has to be.

I hadn’t lost them.

Headlights blind me in the instant before the bumper rams into me—my leg.

Muscles, a bone.

A shattering pain.

A bottled-up scream.

I hit the hood, my shoulder ramming the windshield before the car brakes and sends me flying in the other direction. Thrown several feet ahead until I slam into the ground, the asphalt scraping off the side of my face before my skull meets something hard and unforgiving.

And everything goes black.

 

A splitting pain, a longing to slip back under. Let everything go dark again. Push it all away.

My heart thrusts with a force that takes me by surprise. Telling me something I don’t understand. It beats on, won’t let me embrace the darkness, a deep-rooted fear trapping me between layers of consciousness. Dirt digs into my flesh.

Dirt?

Pain stabs me from all angles. Sounds drift in. Wind. Lots of it. I’m outside. A car door pops open and slams shut. Two car doors. A hand grips my shoulder and I know this is it, that something I need to remember.

A deep rumble echoes, shaking the ground. Shaking me. Adrenaline flares. Thunder? Dirt, darkness, thunder, and pain unlike I’ve ever had before; if I’m dead, surely this is hell.

“Is he dead?” a bottomless voice asks.

The hand turns me over, sending shoots of pain radiating outward. A sound shakes my core; a groan. Me?

I pry my eyelids open briefly, glimpsing a silhouette through my lashes: a man. Come to help?

“That’s him all right,” the same voice says. Distant. He’s farther away.

The guy at my side says nothing. Two hands rove over my chest, pat down my sides. It hurts. A lot.

My leg, my leg,
I want to yell. He must see it. My shin—it burns. Can’t think of much else.

Dread weaves in as I realize what this guy is doing. Searching under my arms where I have no injuries. Searching my pockets. Going for my wallet? No, he skips right over my wallet. He pulls something else from my pocket, pausing.

“He must have taken these at the mall,” one of them says. “With her.”

I force my eyes open, anger simmering. Dark hair, square jaw, and those eyes. So light, so piercing, they’re not even blue.

His fist crashes into the bones around my eye.

My head whirls in confusion. My heart responds to panic, slamming against my rib cage.

Some composed part of my mind realizes he didn’t want me to see him. A foot wedges under my shoulder and kicks me back over, rocks digging into open flesh as I hit the ground. Warm liquid oozes from my face. Instinct kicks in and I pry my eyelids open. I tuck my chin down, dirt lodging in my scraped flesh as I look for the car, the license plate.

Hot air blows against my ear. “Where is it?”

A voice so warm yet so chilling. I doubt I’ll ever shake the memory of this.

“Your phone,” the other guy says, his tone urgent, angry. “Did you take pictures back there? Were you recording us?”

Nothing they say makes sense. Pictures? Recording?

I blow out an excruciating breath of air, lungs aching. Feeling like I’m about to retch, I try to focus on the car. I search for the license plate, but it’s too blurry.

“Who did you send it to?” the chilling voice at my side asks. “Did you take a picture?”

His tone is so unnervingly persuasive, I want to give him an answer. But I have none. What picture? What recording? I weave through the pain, reaching for something, anything. Some kind of recollection.

I hear a voice saying the same thing over and over.

“I d’n know. I don’t know.”

Me—I’m the one speaking. My voice is hoarse, barely there.

“Yo, Ian, maybe he really doesn’t remember,” the other guy whispers, a hopeful lilt to his deep voice. “He’s been knocked retarded.”

Ian. The dark hair, the piercing eyes
.

“What’s your phone number?” Ian asks, his cool voice devoid of emotion. A challenge.

I part my lips, but nothing comes. No numbers. Not that I would tell him, but I can’t remember a single digit, which isn’t like me. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s numbers.

I twist my head at great cost, cement scraping what remains of the skin on my cheek as I spot the license.

Arizona plate. SNT . . .

“I don’t know,” I keep saying, a pathetic confession. It’s the truth.

SNT1039

I will it into memory. The numbers are easy; it’s the letters I’ll forget. A drop of moisture hits my cheek.

SNT for scent or spent or . . .
saint.

Irony of the century. I remember my initial thought about these freaks, how I took them for good guys stopping to help.

I glimpse the frame around the license plate, black with white letters in caps. ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP.

Rain sprinkles down, hitting the back of my neck.

“Yo, Damian, should we finish him off?” the other guy asks.

In that instant everything stops. My thoughts, my heartbeat—even the pain.

Damian, the guy at my side—
Ian
for short?—stands up. “And have homicide charges following us? Nah; the kid doesn’t remember a thing.”

I try to recall the letters and numbers of the plate, but they’re already gone.

“His lucky day,” one of them says.

Then something smashes into my head—a shoe—and I embrace the darkness at last.

 

I’m swimming. No, I’m walking. Through rain. Or perhaps I’m running; I can’t tell. It’s a dream, that much I’m aware of, but I’m too tired to pull myself out of it. And this feels so real, like it really happened before. And then I realize it did.

It was raining outside—pouring—one of the few days each year when storm clouds actually gather above Scottsdale, AZ, and let loose.
A monsoon.
Rain came down in buckets, angry pellets of water hitting the dry ground like bullets. I ran up the stairs—seventeen of them, taken two at a time—with the excitement of a reckless seven-year-old high on sugar and focused on a mission. No time to waste.