Famous in a Small Town(48)

“Yeah, you. What the fuck?”

August moved toward him, and Dash straightened up from the back seat, snapping Brit’s door shut and then tossing me the keys.

I was torn. Brit needed me, and we needed to get out of here, but if there was going to be a fight—a confrontation, an anything—I wanted to help.

“Can I help you?” August intercepted Tanner, his tone bright. “Are you lost? Do you need me to call you a ride?”

Dash strode toward them, taller than both, his hands in loose fists at his sides.

I hesitated a moment, and then got in the car.

I glanced at Brit in the rearview mirror as I started the engine. Her eyes were shut, her head tipped back.

Outside, Tanner was now pushing into August’s space, shouting something; Dash was edging between them.

I hated the sound of yelling. I didn’t want to see anyone get hurt. I didn’t want anyone to get in trouble. I desperately wanted to be home in bed with the fan on, looking over at Ciara’s side of the room—you could change what was over there, but it would always be her side of the room—even if it made me sad. I wanted to hear the TV from the living room, the low murmur of my parents’ conversation: Five letters, “not a whit.” Four letters, “almost fall.” The wanting was so strong, I could hardly remember why we came here in the first place, I could hardly think of a way out of it.

Until I eased the car up alongside them and laid on the horn, blaring long and loud and unforgiving.

Tanner jerked back. Dogs started barking. I didn’t let up as August and Dash retreated. August hopped into the passenger side, Dash in the back.

I sped off, leaving Tanner in the street, fuming. Or at least I assumed. Didn’t have much time to assess as he was disappearing in the rearview mirror.

Lord help me, I’m never going back.





thirty-seven


The trip back to Acadia was nothing like the trip down. Blasting Brit’s road-trip music, the anticipation of finally making headway on the Megan Pleasant mission.

This was muted, the road stretching out, dark on either side except for the illumination of our headlights.

I could hear Dash murmuring to Brit every now and then, but otherwise it was silent. Until August said, “So … fun night?”

“Don’t.”

“What? I’m serious. That dude? Super charming.”

I didn’t reply.

“Wish I could’ve been there when Brit kicked his ass,” he muttered after a moment. “Getting his phone was somewhat satisfying, though.”

“What?”

“Nicked it,” he said, and when I looked over, he was holding a shiny gold phone. “Just in case.”

“What? Why? Why would you do that?”

August shrugged. “In case Brit wanted to blackmail him or something. I have to figure out how to unlock it, but you know there’s got to be some kind of embarrassing shit on there.”

I pounded the heel of my hand against the steering wheel. “You can’t just take people’s stuff!”

“Well, apparently he took Brit’s brother’s future first, so …”

“We have to go back.”

“What?”

“We have to give it back. We can … put it in his mailbox or something.”

“I know exactly where I want to put it and it’s not his mailbox.”

“I swear to God—”

“Will you both just shut up?” Dash rumbled. The headlights from a passing car lit up the interior for a moment, and I could see Brit in the back seat, tucked into Dash’s side, expression vacant and unfixed.

“It’s a crime, August,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control. “You could get arrested. You could go to jail. You think you’d be the first person concerned about that.”

I didn’t have to look over—I could feel August’s eyes on me. After a beat, a silence nearly too thick for the car to contain, I heard the crank of the window being lowered. The Cutlass didn’t have automatic windows.

“Fine,” August said, and then tossed the phone out.

I slammed on the brakes.

“Why would you do that?”

He didn’t respond. He was looking down at where I had thrown my arm out to stop him from hitting the dashboard.

I dropped my hand, placed it back on the steering wheel, and eased the car onto the shoulder. Parked, unclicked my seat belt, got out of the car.

“What are you doing?”

I slammed the door and started marching resolutely back in the direction we had come.

Another door slammed, and footsteps fell in behind me.

“This is stupid. You’re being stupid.”

“You are,” I said, in possibly the weakest comeback of all time, but I couldn’t help it. My head was pulsing, tears building behind my eyes. “You don’t think, you just do stuff, without stopping to think about how it might affect people—”

“I know exactly how this is gonna affect him—he can’t call Ubers or send people pictures of his dick. What a tragedy.”

I stopped, my sneakers grinding to a halt against the pavement. I squeezed my eyes shut and several hot tears slipped down my cheeks fast, the heavy, stinging kind, dripping off my jaw and splattering on my shirt.