The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(16)

“Wait! You don’t want to do that.” Foster spoke automatically, willing him to hear her. Instantly, energy crackled over her body, a lot like a hot wind had just blown across her naked skin—which made zero sense.

But then the pudgy man spoke, and Foster understood what had happened—what had actually happened for the very first time since she didn’t count accidentally putting Tate to sleep.

“Guess I don’t,” his shoulders lifted and fell in an exhausted sigh. “Do I?”

Foster blinked. “Shit, it worked. I mean, it actually worked.”

His thick, sweat-streaked brow wrinkled with confusion.

“Uh, okay, so,” Foster glanced at his nametag. “Billy Bob, really?”

“Named after my uncle and my daddy.” He grinned proudly.

“I just,” she shook her head. “Anyway, I’m going to take these things, and you’re not going to remember that I ever came in here.”

“I never remember nothin’.” He nodded. “Would you like a sack for all that?” he asked, already bagging her goods.

“Um, thank … thank you, Billy Bob.”

He pulled another toothpick from behind his ear and stuck it between his lips. “Pleasure.”

Foster was halfway to the door when guilt washed over her. “Crap.” She took out a couple wadded twenties and hurried back to the counter. “For,” she made a sweeping motion that took in the bag and the fuzzy television screen. “Everything.”

Foster burst out of the Quickie Mart, excitement turning her walk into fervent skips. “Cora is going to pass out when I tell her—” She stopped short of the door to the truck, sorrow slamming into her gut.

She’d never have the chance to tell Cora anything ever again.

Foster doubled over. Chunks spewed from her mouth, coating the wet gravel in mockingly cheerful shades of brightly colored sour candy.

She passed the back of her shaking hand across her lips. “Get it together, Foster. You can’t make this guy come with you if you’re falling apart, and Cora said he has to come. So…” She dug out a bottle of water and rinsed her mouth before squeezing the handle and hefting herself onto the seat. “I got stuff to clean that cut,” she announced, swallowing back her despair. “And some beef jerky. It’s practically a road-trip requirement.”

Tate grunted, his head lolling to the side to rest on the window. Soft snores spilled out of his parted lips and Foster pulled back onto the two-lane road, hot tears silently slipping down her cheeks.





6


FOSTER


The freeway stretched ahead, bordered by flat, dry, brown nothingness. All the middle states looked the same, and Foster couldn’t wait to finally be back on the West Coast. She took a swig from her almost empty water bottle, mentally kicking herself for not picking up a few Red Bulls at the Quickie Mart.

God, Cora picked a hell of a time to die, Foster decided, skipping over the in-between stages of grief and landing smack in the middle of anger. Not an hour before I successfully used my Jedi mind trick—twice! And not for evil either like practically every time I’ve ever tried to use it before. But, I mean, who could really call trying to get out of doing homework evil? Well, I mean, who besides Cora. Anyway, Foster shook her head, trying to hold on to her anger, that’s not the point. This time, I used it for good and Cora wasn’t even there to see it. And I don’t want to think about what would have happened if it didn’t work. Tate would have annoyed me to death and that bumpkin could’ve gotten us captured or killed. For the umpteenth time, she checked the rearview mirror. Murdered by Eve and her creepy minions. Just like Doctor Rick.

She squinted, flipping down the visor to block the sun as it continued its descent below the cloudless horizon.

Wait. No, not dead—missing. Cora said that Doctor Rick is alive. Hope clenched her heart, and then fled just as quickly. Doctor Rick was alive, but he was also … not trustworthy. Cora’s words uncurled a memory. He’s not the man we knew.

As impossible as that sounded, Foster believed in Cora with every fiber of her being.

If she said Doctor Rick was alive. He was.

If she said he’d turned into a bad guy. He had.

Foster believed Cora, but that didn’t make her heart hurt any less. She blinked hard, refusing to cry.

Okay, one thing at a time. First, I get us to Sauvie Island safely. Then I read Cora’s letter. Cora will have an explanation for this mess. Cora always had—

“Did you abduct me?”

Foster jerked in surprise, almost slamming the truck into the small sedan zooming by. “Uh, no.” Hiding her near collision, Foster flipped on the turn signal before drifting slowly, deliberately into the neighboring lane. “You fell asleep about two hours ago.”

“Two hours?” The tendons in Tate’s neck bulged as he scrambled to look out the front, side, and back windows, wincing as the cut in his leg opened and began to weep scarlet. “Ouch! Damn!” He pressed his hand over his thigh and spoke through pain-gritted teeth. “You’ve been driving for two hours?”

“Welcome to Nebraska,” Foster said with a flourish of her hand. “Not much better than Misery if you ask me.”

He ran a hand through his wavy, dark hair. “I can’t believe you let me sleep for two hours!”