Blood to Dust(53)

Prescott and Hussein exchange words while I continue staring at the back of her head, wondering how the hell I got here and why I am placing my future in the manicured hands of a twenty-five-year-old blonde from suburbia. We’re going to trade Stella for a beat-down, black Corvette. Tinted windows. Nevada license plate. Rough state. When Hussein leaves for the back of his lot and rolls around the corner with it, I snort out a laugh. I’m not sure what year the car is, but suffice to say we’re about the same age.

Hussein slaps cash into Pea’s hand and she gives me the difference without counting the bills, before awarding the middle-aged man with a hug and a tap on the shoulder.

“Take care of yourself, Prescott,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously. I nod a goodbye at him and climb into the driver’s seat. I can barely fit into this low, small car with my height and width. My knees touch the steering wheel and I need to bend my neck if I don’t want my head to hit the roof. Shit, my nose is almost touching the windshield.

“Good choice, Prescott. Next time, why don’t you fix us up with a f*cking unicycle? That’d be fun.”

“Hey!” She throws her bag to the backseat. “It’s not my fault you’re the size of a Costco warehouse. This is a great car. Looks like the Batmobile.”

“It’s beat-down and old,” I retort.

“Beatmobile,” she concludes. “We shall call it the Beatmobile.”

“I liked you better when you were blindfolded and locked in my basement,” I murmur, starting the car, the rumble of its engine roaring to life.

“And I liked you better when you were locked in a cell in San Dimas, watching your youth waste away.”

Yeah. I f*cked up bad by telling her I would ditch her after this week. The worst part about it? I didn’t even mean it.

Shit, I didn’t even think it.

Planning ahead requires attention, and right now, the only thing I’m focusing on is staying alive and killing Godfrey and Sebastian before they kill us.

Where am I going after this murder crusade? Canada? Mexico? What am I going to do in Mexico? My Spanish isn’t good enough to live there. Unless I plan on sticking to ordering food and swearing at soccer teams for the rest of my life. Then, I’m good.

No. I’ll move to Canada, which will give me the language advantage. But f*ck, the weather. It can get real cold. Although, I’d be one state away from Iowa. Prescott could visit me all the time. . . Wait, what the f*ck am I thinking? Visiting me in. . .whoa. Slow down there, stud. She’s just a brat who’s using you to get ahead in the game. You should be doing the same. Get your head out of your ass, Nate.

Thankfully, Miss Fucking-off-to-Iowa smacks me out of my reverie. She throws the stress ball at my forehead and it bounces back into her hand.

“Earth to Nate. This is the direction we’re heading. And it’s jammed as hell.” She points at the GPS with the hand that clasps the ball. “We won’t get to Los Angeles for another six to seven hours, if we’re lucky.”

“We’re good. We’ll just have to stop at the first L.A. mall we get to, take photos for our fake IDs and get some more money. We’ll hit downtown L.A. before dinnertime, give your guy everything he needs, check into a motel and wait it out.” I signal the blinkers and swerve onto the highway, rolling down the windows and letting the hot, dense summer air breeze into our car. The noise of the outside swallows Prescott’s delicate voice, but I can still hear her yelling through the wind.

“You’re a shithead for not sticking around for Camden, Nate.”

Is that right? The girl’s still keeping a f*cking dagger in her panties. My dagger, by the way, and she’s pissed off about me not throwing myself under the bus for her?

“Let me ask you something,” I start. My nostrils flare, and I slide the shades I retrieved from Stella up the bridge of my nose to cover my eyes, because I can’t chance her seeing what’s behind them. “If your sensitive soul is so crushed about me not sticking around, why don’t you come with me to Canada when we’re done? Didn’t we say something about a blood oath?”

“You might want to rethink that incident, because, if I remember correctly, that’s around the same time you f*cked me and bailed on me for oh, four days or so?”

“I came to my senses.” I crush my teeth together. I wanted to fight it. Us. Whatever this f*cked-up thing was, I didn’t want to be a part of it.

The Beatmobile slows down to a stop, and we’re stuck in traffic, moving south from Concord to Los Angeles. I check on Prescott through my darkened sunglasses and know that she’s just as uneasy about this as I am.

Standing still is not an option in our situation. There’s a police car five vehicles away, and if they decide to stop us, my life is over.

“I’m not coming with you to Canada, or Cabo, or wherever the hell you’re going after this is all over,” Pea whispers hotly, licking her lips. “I’m going to Iowa, just like I said. You held me hostage, for crying out loud.”

“Give me my dagger,” I fire at her.

“No. You still haven’t convinced me you’re trustworthy enough not to stab me in the middle of the night.”

I wrench my eyes back to the road, shaking my head. We spend the next four hours in silence. I use the time to mull over the whole Mexico versus Canada debate. I’m leaning toward Mexico. Closer and less chance of me being handed back into the open arms of the US authorities.