Perversion (Perversion Trilogy #1)(32)

I know where I have to go, and what I have to do.

Splashes of graffiti cover the exterior of every building lining the main road through town. Lacking’s equivalent of archaic caveman drawings, all competing to be noticed.

Most are signs from different gangs, marking their territories. A Bedlam bleeding black rose. A yellow bandana tied around the face of a sugar-skull for Los Muertos. A tattered pair of angel wings representing the Immortals MC.

Between the signs, there’s a lot of So and So wuz here’s and the word redrum appears repeatedly. As if murder spelled backwards somehow makes it more threatening.

You won’t find an art museum in Lacking, but you will find art created by some ridiculously talented, if not misguided, artists. A depiction of Jesus hanging from the cross. A cartoonish big breasted woman with tiny plastic toy soldiers hanging from her nipples. A gun in a man’s open mouth with a white flag that reads BOOM sticking out of the back of his head.

And then, there are the hundreds of lifelike murals of fallen gang members, usually with RIP written on it somewhere along with a date of birth and date of death.

Every drop of spray paint in this town holds some sort of meaning. A message.

A warning.

I tear my eyes from the paint on the walls and concentrate on the task at hand. The graffiti warnings all around me act as the wind at my back, propelling me forward, faster and faster, until I’m practically running toward the bus station.

The money for two one-way tickets out of Lacking crunch in my pocket with each step. It sounds like freedom.

I come to a stop as the bus station appears at the end of the road and take a deep breath. Escaping Lacking is risky, but so is staying. With each passing day, it only gets more dangerous, as does Marco.

One of the larger murals of a fallen gang member comes into view. It takes up the entire side of the bus station. The Los Muertos yellow bandana is tied around the man’s neck, I don’t bother looking at the rest. I take it as a sign to keep moving, and so I do.

I enter the bus station and purchase the tickets quietly and quickly using two fake IDs I’d acquired after waiting for the just the right ones to come along. Ones with photos who could, at a quick glance, pass for me and Gabby.

Gabby’s was the easier of the two. Long dark hair, big brown eyes. Of course, Gabby was stunning. There was no one who could match her, but Giana Villanueva was a close second. Mine? Not as easy. It’s half the reason I’ve straightened and darkened my hair. Now, I at least somewhat resemble Kelly Flowers, organ donor.

Peering out the glass door of the station, I check the sidewalks to make sure there’s no one lingering outside who might recognize me. It’s clear. I leave just as quietly as I came, without so much as causing the bell above the door to ring.

I’m walking away, back in the direction I came, but I stop. Feeling the sudden need to see the rest of the mural. I turn and look over my shoulder. The rest of my body follows.

RIP Slinky. 10/31/90-11/2/15.

Slinky? I crane my neck, and my gaze lands on his face. I knew him. Slinky’s real name was Carlos. I know that because that’s how he introduced himself. “They call me Slinky, but the wifey calls me Carlos.” I spoke to him several times but never for long. He was one of the more pleasant of Marco’s soldiers. A few times, he brought Gabby and me several trays of chicken and rice his wife had cooked after realizing our food situation was more of a famine than a situation. Carlos disappeared shortly after, and I never saw him again. I found out later he died in a shooting between Los Muertos and Bedlam.

Grim may have even been the one who killed him.

The thought would be sobering if I wasn’t already all too aware of all the shitty situations gathering other shitty situations like a rolling tumbleweed.

Above Carlos’s head, written in cloud-like lettering are the words he lived and died a soldier.

A soldier. Not a friend. Father. Husband. Cousin. Son. Amateur boxer. And I know from just the few short conversations we’d had that he’d been all those things.

Not even Carlos.

Just Slinky, the soldier.

That’s all he was.

To this town. To Marco. To his own so-called brothers.

I can’t live in Lacking because I can’t die in Lacking. There won’t even be a mural for me when this town brings me down. I’m no soldier. And no matter how much I pretend to be one, I can’t fall in line like the others. When I die here, I’ll be nothing. Not Emma Jean, the writer and story-teller. The best friend. The girl who likes magic and complaining about her hair in every weather situation.

I can’t die as nothing.

I won’t.

My heartbeat sputters. I cough and try to steady my breath. Turning back around, I head toward the compound and to Gabby as quickly as my feet can take me, staying as close to the buildings and under the shadows as I possibly can.

The bus tickets suddenly feel like theiy’re burning the inside of my pocket.

My heart sputters again.

My confidence crumbles when a rush of doubt comes crashing back into me. My footsteps falter. I catch and grab on to a nearby light post, saving myself and my face from a collision with the sidewalk. I can’t catch my breath. My hair falls forward into my face as I lean over and try to squint through the agony of my chest tightening like a car being squashed in a junkyard.

What the hell did I do?

I’ve either bought Gabby and me two tickets to freedom.