N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(3)

My stomach rolls again as I make my way into the garage and get two beers from the cooler by the door. There’s nowhere to pour the drugged one without being obvious so I chug half from each of the two fresh ones and fill them with whatever is in mine. I grab a third clean beer and go back out to Henry and Jameson who are leaning on the hood of the truck.

I hand them the drugged beers, buying myself time.

“Mighty kind of you,” Henry says, taking a swig. His eyes gleam brightly from under the brim of his hat.

“Come on, kid. I want to show you something in the garage,” Jameson says. I hear Henry chuckle. They set their beers down on the open tailgate.

Shit. Time’s already up.

They move toward me. I have no choice but to back up into the garage. As much as I wish I can fight them off, I can’t. There’s two of them, plus they have the height and the crack strength advantage. I’m just a lanky kid with anger issues. I can hold my own, but I choose my fights wisely and this would be anything but wise.

But I do have an advantage, something I have that these fuckers don’t. A brain.

I step toward them, stopping them from backing me into the garage. “I wanted to show you something, too. I mean, since I’m aging out soon and I won’t be around anymore. It’s…it’s kind of a going away gift. It’s inside. I’ll go grab it and bring it out.”

Jameson scrunches his sunburnt forehead. “Boy, you’ve been nothin’ but a fucking thorn in my side since you got here, and suddenly, I’m supposed to believe you got me a gift?” He chuckles.

“Isn’t family supposed to annoy each other?” I ask, trying to deliver words that literally taste like bile in my mouth. “Besides, it’s not like a sentimental gift. It’s shit I know you’ll be into. Pike’s shit.”

Pike isn’t just a friend; he’s a high-end dope dealer, and Jameson knows this. At the mention of his name, Jameson practically starts salivating for a taste of whatever it is he thinks I might have for him. He waves his hand toward the house. “Well, then by all means, go fuckin’ get it.”

Henry looks annoyed and rolls his eyes, but I’ve got Jameson onboard and have bought myself the time I need.

I duck back into the darkened garage and open the door to the house. When I’m sure they aren’t looking, I shut it again and crawl on my knees to the far wall. I grab an oily rag and shove it into the gas tank of Loretta’s wood paneled station wagon. I dart back to the door and pretend to be coming back out, locking it from the inside before slamming it shut to get their attention.

“Well, where is this gift?” Jameson asks, peering into the darkness.

“Come on in here. It’s in the front seat of Loretta’s car, on the dash. Didn’t want to bring it outside, considering the law’s been on this street every few hours since the meth-heads on the corner got busted. I figured the three of us could do it in here.”

“Smart, kid,” Henry mutters as they both enter the garage.

You have no fucking idea.

Jameson gets in the driver’s seat and Henry the passenger’s.

I pretend to be getting into the backseat, opening the door, but what I really do is light the rag in the gas tank with my Zippo.

“It ain’t in here,” Jameson says, looking around the dash with irritation.

“What the fuck, boy?” Henry barks, turning back to me. I stand in front of the lit rag.

“Sorry, I meant it’s in the trunk. Hang on just a sec.” When he turns back to Jameson, I jog over to the trunk and pop it. With it open, they can’t see me as I step out onto the driveway and jump up to grab the rope attached to the garage door, but it’s high and I miss.

“Wait, I didn’t see you open the fucking trunk. What the fuck are you up to?” Jameson grates, but he can’t see me. He opens the car door.

Shit. I jump for the rope again, and this time I don’t miss. As soon as my hand is around it, I pull it down to the ground as hard as I can. The door closes with a bang, just as Jameson and Henry emerge from the station wagon. Thankfully, it’s one of those old school garage doors with a key in the handle, and even more thankfully, Jameson always stupidly leaves the key inside. I turn the handle to click the garage in place and then the key to keep it that way.

“Open this fucking door!” Jameson roars from the other side.

“This one’s locked, too,” Henry adds.

“What the fuck are you up to?”

I can’t resist answering. “This is my gift. The gift of travel.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Travel? We’re locked in. Let us the fuck out now!” His panicked screams only cause me to chuckle.

“Enjoy your one-way ticket to Hell, motherfuckers.”

“Shit, the gas tank!” one of them announces. The terror in their voices doesn’t make me feel sorry for them. It makes me want to pound on my chest with my fists like a triumphant fucking Gorilla, but there’s no time. I turn, grab my backpack, and run as fast as I can from the house. I vaguely register a few more frantic “what the fucks” before the deafening boom of the explosion and billowing roar of the flames fills the night air.

The voices are silenced at last.

I look over my shoulder and watch as the entire house catches fire, the roof collapsing within seconds.