N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(4)

The smell of oil, burning wood and melting plastic is so strong it singes my nose hairs.

It smells like…revenge.

Freedom.

I inhale deeply.

It’s the best that fucking house has ever smelled.





Chapter Two





KEVIN





My brother is dead.

I found this out within five minutes of arriving in Logan’s Beach.

“What you need, kid? Beer? Smokes?” The gas station clerk asks in an accent I can’t quite determine.

“No, I would, but I don’t have any money,” I answer. My stomach growls as if emphasizing my point.

I haven’t eaten in the three days it took me to hitchhike here to Logan’s Beach.

“Then, what you want?” she asks, turning her attention to the clip board resting on top of her register.

“I just want to know if you know him,” I say. I press his mug shot to the bullet proof glass. “Samuel Clearwater is his name.”

She peers over at the picture. Her eyes light up with recognition. She smiles and points to my brother. “Yeah. yeah. Everyone knows him. Samuel Clearwater, but he goes by Preppy.”

Excited by her answer, I press further. “Shit, great. Um…so, do you know where he lives or where he works? I’m trying to find him.”

She shrugs. “Sorry, kid. He gone.”

“Gone where?”

She yells at someone in the back in a language I don’t understand then turns back to me. “Almost one year he be gone now.”

My voice rises with my frustration. “What’s one year? Gone where? Where did he go?”

Her shoulders fall. My empty stomach fills with dread.

“Almost one year. That how long Preppy be dead.”

I don’t know what happened after I left the gas station, but I know it was a while ago. Two days? Two weeks?

I’m not sure because I’m in a heavy fog that won’t clear, not around me, within me.

My head throbs, but I can’t remember why. I let out a hiss from the sting of pain when I touch my right eye to inspect it and find it almost swollen shut.

“What the fuck?” I mutter, then slowly although still vaguely, I recall the beating I took at the truck stop earlier. But where am I now?

A car horn honks in the distance. It grows louder and louder until it breaks through my dream-like trance. I turn toward the noise and groan, shielding my eyes as I’m assaulted with blinding headlights from the sedan only a few feet away.

“Get out of the fucking road, kid!” an angry voice yells.

The road? I look around. I’m standing in directly in the center of a road. No, not just a road. I’m on a high bridge. How the fuck did I get here?

The pavement scratches my bare feet as I limp to the side, allowing the car to pass, and I remember that I lost my shoes when the truckers dragged me across the parking lot.

The driver of the passing car speeds by with a wave of his middle finger.

I lean on the railing when something in my back pocket clinks against the metal.

I reach around with a groan as my muscles protest and pull a half-empty bottle of vodka that was hanging from my back pocket.

“There is a God,” I mutter, taking two long swigs. I look to the sky. “Where were you when I still had shoes?”

The fog takes over again. When I come to, I find myself sitting on a small ledge as cars pass on the other side of the guard rail. The only thing separating me from the water below is the night air. I look down into the shallow waters below. The pointed peaks of sharp rocks spear through the top of the softly rolling waves.

“Way to find somewhere to take a rest,” I tell myself. I lift the bottle to my mouth once again and take a long pull.

The night is humid and beyond hot, but the air is cooler up here on the bridge, the breeze drying my sweat as quickly as it beads on my skin.

I’m not going to jump. Or at least, I don’t think I’m going to jump. That’s not why I’m up here, but I’m not leaving this spot. Not yet. I just want to sit. I don’t want to die, even though it feels like I’m dead to the rest of the world. Regardless, I keep my eyes closed for a beat longer, long enough not to notice the headlights of the parked car or the person getting out of it until I hear a scraping on the railing above my head.

I look over and there’s a girl. She’s about my age with short, platinum blonde hair that is chin length on one side and slightly shorter on the other. She’s climbing over the railing. Her eyes are wide on her heart-shaped face, but I can’t tell the color because her pupils are huge as she looks down at the water below. Her chest is heaving. Her expensive looking white cut off shorts and light blue off the shoulder top are quickly streaked with grease and grime from the bridge. Slowly, she lowers herself down to sit, her arms above her head, pushing out her chest as she clings to the metal wires running alongside the bridge. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply through her nose.

“Welcome. Want a drink?” I ask.

Her head whips toward me, a startled expression on her face. “What are you doing up here? Who are you?”

I raise the bottle. “You know, just having a drink. Enjoying the breeze.” I hold out my arms. “The usual thing one does on a bridge.”

I can’t see her face, but I can practically hear her roll her eyes. “Sure, I always climb to the top of the highest bridge in town and teeter over the edge of the railing just to feel the wind and have a nightcap.” Her voice drips sarcasm.