Wanted (3 page)

I search my brain trying to figure how I got trapped down here. Last thing I remember was me and Bonnie heading down Potter Lane to go pick up Henry at his pa's house in the middle of nowhere. We'd all visited our kin for two days but we needed to get back on the lam. I slowed down to drive around a fool truck driver who lost his load, when—Christ. It's all coming back.

As I veered past the crates, rounds of gunfire blasted through my head, my neck, my arms and legs—jolting me right outta my seat. Bonnie's spine-chillin' scream was the last thing I heard before blackness came. It's obvious to me looking back now that the sheriff's posse brought along enough ammo to shoot a herd of buffalo. Cold-hearted bastards never even offered us a chance to surrender.

Not that I would, but they dint know that. At least I coulda taken down a few of the laws before me and Bonnie got smoked.

I realize then that I ain't in any mineshaft—I'm in my final resting place. I have a foggy memory of being told I'd need to stay here until my time was up, but I didn't know where “here” was. Then I blacked out. I should prolly be screaming in horror as a man is wont to do when he finds out he's dead, but cryin's for sissies. Don't solve nothing neither. I'd rather plan my revenge, because it's as clear to me as Mama's crystal earrings that my execution wasn't no accident.

My anger festers like an infected wound until I reach a place of pure hatred for the son of a bitch who set me up. Someone tole the feds where I'd be and what time, which narrows it down to about ten people or so, most of 'em family. Soon as I learn how to escape this hellhole I'm in, I'm going to figure out which rat squealed and I'm going to kill the bastard. Make 'em suffer too.

An eye for an eye, my daddy always tole me, and I've always been a dutiful son.

Even if it turns out that it's him that did it to me.

As Clarissa and I walk up the sidewalk to the party, a girl runs out of the front door and leans over the porch railing, puking into the bushes. It's barely 10:00 and there's already a drunk chick? Not good. Clarissa breezes past her, but having been in this same position many times, I stop to pat the girl on the back. “You need anything, hon?”

“Nooo,” she moans.

I repeat my mantra: no drinking, no stupid decisions. I'm here to flirt with some football players for a few hours and then go home—alcohol- and hickey-free.

Once inside, the floorboards vibrate from the bass beneath our feet as a party song blasts below us. We head down a flight of wooden stairs to the basement. By the second step, the earthy scent of weed hits my nose. The fourth step adds the obnoxious laughter of drunk kids into the mix. At the bottom, my worries skyrocket. At least fifty people mingle throughout the finished basement, a pack of them huddling around the two kegs. Normally I'd be psyched to be here, but this party has “nosy neighbor police call” written all over it. I'm already queasy and I haven't had any alcohol. I take a deep breath. I am
not
drinking tonight. Not a drop.

Why not? I bet they got good hooch here.

I look left and then right, looking to see who said that. Before I can process what's going on, Clarissa grabs my hand and pulls me through the teenage wasteland. “Isn't this awesome?” she shouts over her shoulder. Every few seconds she announces, “Hey everyone, this is Monroe!” A couple of people raise their beers in acknowledgment, but most are too involved in their own conversations and beer pong games to care to meet someone new. Suits me just fine. Blending into the background is a welcome change.

Clarissa lets go of my hand and squeals, “Hankster!” She races across the room toward a scruffy, bearded, olive-skinned guy with a sleeve of tattoos. He's wearing jeans and a simple gray t-shirt. He holds his muscular arms out wide, grinning widely.

Wait.
That's
her boyfriend? Not at all what I imagined her type to be.

He lifts her off her feet and pulls her into a bear hug, his face beaming with such glee it's as if he hasn't seen her in months. I can't tear my eyes away as he cups her head gently between his hands and gives her one sultry kiss on the mouth. That's so sexy.
He's
so sexy. After he sets her down, she gives me a little finger wave goodbye before getting swallowed up by the crowd.

So much for hanging out with Clarissa tonight.

Of course, if I had a hot boyfriend who gazed at me the way Hank gazed at Clarissa, I wouldn't want to hang out with me either. Before I can decide what to do next, two guys appear in front of me.
Right
in front of me. One guy is blond, has bad acne, and is wearing a t-shirt that says
I'm Higher Than You.
Given that he's so tall he has to duck to avoid hitting the ceiling vents, he's correct no matter how he's defining “high.”

The other guy is slim, average height, super cute… but
ultra
preppy. He's got dark brown hair with bangs in his eyes, a big silver watch, and of course, signature rich boy attire—a blue Polo with a white t-shirt underneath, designer jeans, and Sperry Top-Siders. By appearances only, neither guy strikes me as my type, but we'll see. Chemistry works in mysterious ways.

“How's it going?” the tall one asks. “I'm Kyle and this is my friend Jack.” He hits his friend in the chest with the back of his hand. I recognize Kyle's name—he's hosting the party we're at. He leans in close to my ear and says, “Jack's kind of shy, so I'm helping him out a bit. He thinks you're cute.”

I'm dying to ask if we're back in middle school, but my friend Anjali's declaration that my sarcasm scares guys away finds me smiling instead. “Hi, I'm Monroe. Nice party, Kyle. Are your parents home?” Prior party experience shows kids stay more chill if parents are around.

Kyle's eyes widen. “Are you kidding? They'd never allow this! They're at a wedding in Texas. Left my brother Turf in charge. That's him in the green shirt.” He nods to my right.

I look to see a stocky college-aged guy in a green shirt standing on the coffee table. He's surrounded by a group of people and has a full shot glass in each hand. After a loud whoop, Turf tilts his head back and pours both shots into his mouth at once. He opens his arms wide and points to himself. “Oh yeah! Double-decker!” His friends cheer him on.

“He seems very responsible,” I say matter-of-factly.

Kyle laughs, but Jack flicks his hair out of his eyes in what has got to be a rehearsed maneuver. “I never heard the name Monroe before,” he says, squinting at me. “Except, you know, Marilyn Monroe.”

My chest swells with pride. My name never fails to be a conversation starter. “You're on the right track. My parents love old movies. I have two older sisters—one is named Ginger, after Ginger Rogers, and the other Audrey, after Audrey Hepburn. And obviously me after Marilyn Monroe.” I point to the tiny diamond in my upper lip. “Note the Monroe piercing.”

“Did it hurt?” Jack asks, wincing.

“No, not really,” I answer, thinking that the only other person who ever asked me that was a little girl at Walgreens.

“Shouldn't your name be Marilyn then?” Kyle takes a sip of his beer, smirking.

“
Touché
,” I reply, thinking the smartass might be my type.

“I'm named after someone famous too,” Jack says. “Jack Daniel, at your service.” He bows at the waist as if meeting royalty.

I raise an eyebrow. “Guess it's a good thing your parents weren't into Wild Turkey.”

Kyle cocks a thumb in Jack's direction. “Wild Chicken would fit him better. Dude's scared of everything.”

Jack smacks Kyle's hand away. “Shut up. I'm not scared of
everything
—only your dad's creepy company.” Jack looks at me. “His dad runs a ghost bus tour that takes you around Chicago to locations where lots of people died. I saw his dad's schedule on the fridge upstairs. There's a group called ‘The Half-Dead Society' going on a private tour tomorrow. If that's not scary, I don't know what is.”

“The Half-Dead Society?” I ask, amused. “Is that where a group of zombies sit in a circle eating decaying body parts while the therapist asks questions?”

Kyle laughs out loud. “You never know. Lots of groups go on his tours—mystery book clubs, historical museum societies, stuff like that. His company's tagline is ‘Where the Dead Come Alive.'” He wiggles his fingers in my face and opens his eyes wide, trying to look scary.

“Sounds fun,” I say, intrigued by the idea. Maybe a little by Kyle, too.

Jack wrinkles his nose. “Fun if you like hearing about how people offed themselves.”

“Hey guys. What's up?” A pretty Asian girl slips under Kyle's arm.

“Ah, speaking about getting off, here's my little geisha girl now.” Kyle leans in to kiss her and she playfully slaps his face. So much for that. He looks over his shoulder at Jack as they walk away. “Good luck tonight, bro!”

If that last comment means that Jack's hoping to hook up with me tonight, he should move along. “Well, it was nice—”

“Wait!” Jack does one of his bang-flipping moves. “You want a beer?”

“Um…” I hesitate, twirling a lock of hair around my finger. This is harder than I thought.

Before I can answer he adds, “Because it's five bucks a man if you do.”

My face flushes with embarrassment. So that whole conversation was a ruse to get beer money? “Not interested,” I blurt out quickly before I change my mind.

“No problem,” he says with a head nod. “I stopped after two beers because I have a killer practice in the morning. My team is in the state golf tournament this week. I could get kicked off for even
being
at a party like this.” He stares, as if waiting for my reaction to that newsflash.

“Wow.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I can tell by his expression that he was expecting me to say something nice about his achievement, but forget that. Not only am I not sure if I'm being played, but golf is so boring that the TV commentators have to whisper because they know everyone at home has fallen asleep. I search for Clarissa. Where is that girl?

A glassy-eyed chick stumbles, grabbing onto Jack to keep from falling. “Whoopsy! Sorry, Jack. See you later maybe?” She gives him a drunken wink before weaving toward the keg.

Trollop.

There's that voice again! I look at Jack to see if he said it, but he's blankly staring at the bimbo, a smile on his face. Is it possible for a brain to cough out words and phrases on its own? Unless somehow when I cut myself… no. That's stupid. Bonnie Parker is
not
in my head.

Jack leans closer. “That was a slutty girl from school. The guys all call her 7-Eleven because you can get in and get out so quickly. Get it?”

“Um, yeeeaah.” I scrunch up my nose, wondering why he'd share that with me. “Don't let me stop you.” I look past Jack at a guy running past us with his head tilted up, his arms out to the sides, balancing a screwdriver on his nose.

“Nah. 7-Eleven's not my type.” He smiles at me so long that I get the unsettling feeling that he's trying to say that I am. This completely throws me because, up until now, we haven't exactly clicked on any topic in the remotest way.

I take a deep breath, needing to move on before he gets any ideas. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Jack. I'm going to hunt down some water. Good luck on your tournament.”

I take two steps toward the stairs when Jack grabs my arm. “Hey, hold up. I know where the Johnsons stash their water bottles. I'll get you one.” His face beams with hope.

I wave off his offer, smiling. “Nah, that's okay. Just tell me and I can get it.”

“Nope. I'll be right back.” Before I can argue, he's gone.

My sister Ginger once told me that when guys at bars send free drinks to you, they feel you owe them a conversation. But if it comes down to a choice between listening to a boring guy drone on about his life and paying for alcohol, I'd rather buy my own drink.

I lean against a pole and scan all the males at this party, trying to find one who looks intelligent or interesting, spying only one guy who doesn't look like a jock. Jeans, plaid button-down shirt, stylish glasses. Having an intense conversation with a guy in a Hawks t-shirt. I glance at my phone and sigh. Right about now, all my friends are dancing their brains out to Manic Devil, the cover band at prom. I wonder if Anjali and her date, Luke, are hitting it off. A giant rush of sadness hits my chest. God, I could use a beer. I bite my fingernail, wondering if I have five bucks on me. Just one will make my pity party less pitiful.

Kyle's brother gets back onto the coffee table and downs two more shots. “Now
that's
what I call a mixed drink, people!” He pounds his chest and howls like Tarzan.

He hops off the table and struts past me, stopping mid-stride. “Titty, titty, bang, bang!” he purrs, checking me out. “You wanna do a shot with me, sexy mama?” He raises his eyebrows twice, suggestively licking his lips.

“Not unless it involves bullets.” I turn and walk away. Creep.

“Your tits ain't that great anyway!” he shouts from behind me.

That twit is lower than a snake's belly.

I plug my ears, hoping to silence the woman in my head.

The other fella don't have no fire, but he ain't so bad.

Blood rushes out of my head, making me dizzy. I lean against the wall, dazed. This can't be happening. There's no way Bonnie Parker is speaking to me. She's been dead for like eighty years. This is some sort of stupid brain trick, a cranial hiccup. I run a hand through my hair, needing to come up with a rational excuse. Think, think!

Anjali and Josie are always on my case for writing guys off too quickly, so maybe my conscience is picking up on that. I mean, compared to jerks like Turf, Jack's a gem—he's cute, has goals, is basically a nice guy. There have to be other things Jack likes besides golf, right? When he comes back, I'll ask him questions, talk about his family. This is all a huge misunderstanding.