Bad Boy Blues(107)

Maggie gives me a stern look from where she’s sitting at the middle of the table. “Leave her alone. She’s been through enough.”

“Just tell me where she went.”

“Why? So you can hurt her some more? She’s been crying for three days now. I thought she’d pop her eyes out.”

I rub a spot on my chest.

You felt a spark, probably in your chest.

“Tell me so I can make it better.”

Maggie studies me with pursed lips. In fact, the whole room is studying me.

“Maggie,” I growl.

“Fine. She said she was going north. She wants to go someplace snowy. That’s all I know.”

North.

“Okay, thanks.” Then, I look at Nora. “Thanks for all that you’ve done for me.” To Maggie, “You too.”

After that, I’m running.

I don’t stop until I reach my bike, and take off after her.





Someone’s following me.

Or at least, it feels like it.

I’m losing my mind, I think. Maybe I want someone to follow me. Someone like him. It’s insane.

I’m crazy.

First of all, how would he even know where I am? I never told him where I was going. That wasn’t part of the plan. He’s back at his mansion, probably sleeping or washing off jail before going to be with his mom.

And second of all, I don’t want him to follow me. I want him to leave me alone, and die in peace, or at least, wish about my death in peace.

As it is, I’ve lost it, my peace, as soon as I lost the town limits in my rearview mirror.

I’ve been driving slowly and sketchily.

The highways are wide and the vehicles are wider. They’re hurtling along like they’re all out to get me and each other.

The first few hours, I take every rest stop exit and throw up all my organs.

Then I get hungry. Ravenous. So I stop at a food exit and load up on basically everything. Fries and burgers and slices of pizza and hot dogs. I have soda. I have water. I have juice. I have wafers and Funyuns and candies.

God, so many candies.

I have more food than I have luggage.

I sit in the parking lot and stuff my face with gummy bears while I watch people through my window. They all look happy, like they’re on the best road trip ever. I guess they don’t know what it feels like when you drive away from everything you’ve ever known.

The only person who can relate to that is the one I’m kind of running away from. And the funniest thing is, he won’t even care. He won’t even come after me.

Again, not that I want him to.

Or rather, this late in the day when I’m tired and exhausted, I can admit that I want him to, but I can’t want that.

And that just makes me cry.

So I sit in that parking lot for about an hour, gorging on candies and sobbing my heart out, slumped over the wheel.

When I’m all out of tears, I realize that there’s a prickling on the back of my neck.

So much prickling, it’s almost an itch.

It sends me out of my car and I look around. There’s miles and miles of road and infinite sky, and all the faces I don’t recognize.

Sighing, I get back in, start the car and roll out of there.

I drive for the rest of the day, stopping here and there. When the sun’s setting though, I’m done. I can’t take it anymore. I find a motel on my GPS and pull in.

At reception, I get a room for the night and haul my luggage up the stairs. Without any obligation to save up for my house, I have enough money to get me through a few months. I’ll need to find something after that, but I’m not worried about that right now.

Right now, I only want to sleep.

I slide the key in the lock and open the room. The walls are brownish beige and it has a queen bed with white sheets and a dark brown blanket.

I take a quick shower and put on a fresh pair of shorts and a soft t-shirt – fine, his t-shirt. I think it smells like him: musky and like blueberry pie. It covers me down to mid-thigh and sags around my shoulders and chest.

Even though I have more food than I can handle, I still decide to go to the vending machine I saw at the end of the hallway.

Only, the stupid machine is broken.

I stab at the buttons but nothing happens.

Glaring at it, I mutter, “You stupid piece of shit.”

Then I growl and shake it.

“I want my fucking Twix, you idiot.”

I kick at it for good measure.

“I don’t think you get candy that way.”

That voice makes me spin to my right even as I lose coordination in my limbs. I almost fall on the machine I’ve been abusing when I see him.

“You…” I breathe out, looking at him like he’s a ghost.

Am I dreaming?

Did I fall asleep at the wheel? Or maybe I’m in that motel bed right now.

“Hey.”

His rumbly voice makes me feel plenty awake, however.

Super, hyper awake. Like I can hear all the sounds, the buzzing of the overhead light, the low tones of television somewhere.

“What... how... you’ve been following me all day,” I manage to say while my eyes can’t stop gorging on him.

It feels like ages even though I only saw him this morning. In the same clothes.

Except, those clothes are even more rumpled. His sleeves are folded up to his elbows, exposing his tan forearms and his tattoo. His shoes are mud-caked and so are his pants. Don’t even talk about the wrinkled shirt and messy collar.