Текст книги "All It Takes"

Автор книги: Sadie Munroe

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Chapter 3

Star

I can’t believe it.

This is just my luck.

The stupid car won’t start.

I’m stuck in the parking lot with Lacey watching from the window, and my mother’s stupid fucking car won’t start. I keep turning the key but the engine just won’t turn over. It just sputters and dies. Sputters and dies.

I give it one last shot, muttering every swear word I can think of as I twist the key in the ignition, but once again, nothing. Groaning, I slump forward and let my head fall against the steering wheel.

Fuck.

God. Fucking. Dammit.

What next? Just how much more am I going to have to deal with?

I already had to sit through Lacey’s entire rendition of the tragic life story of the guy she’d run off at the diner. She’d just sat there and went on and on, completely unaffected, like she was regaling me with the plot of a movie she’d just watched or something. It was shameful.

I don’t know if I’ve changed so much since we were kids, or if she has, but the girl I remember playing in the sandbox with wouldn’t have gotten so much joy out of another person’s suffering. Or wouldn’t have been so oblivious about it, as she seemed to be. Because I don’t know how anyone could cause the death of another human being unintentionally and not be suffering.

And, according to Lacey, that’s what the guy had done.

He’d killed a man. A father. A man with a family.

He’d gone to a party, had apparently gotten high as a kite and he’d driven himself home. But the party was three towns away, and he only made it back through one and a half of them before the accident. He’d made it nearly all the way through Thurould when his car had collided with the other man’s. And that had been that.

Lacey had taken such joy in telling me this that it actually soured what was left of my appetite, and I ended up pushing the rest of my food away. She didn’t even notice. She just grinned at me. “It was even bigger news around here then when the Fire Marshall’s son decided that he was a she, if you know what I mean. I mean, Avenue’s very own murderer. How insane is that?”

“Manslaughter,” I mumbled as one of the guys in the booth a little ways away started waving in our direction and calling out to her.

She glanced over her shoulder real quick, as the guy called out playfully, “Can we get some service over here, Babycakes?” then turned back at me, puzzlement in her eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“Manslaughter,” I repeated, louder this time. “Murder requires intent. Manslaughter is accidental. Unless he actually went out and tried to run someone down, he would have been charged with manslaughter. Not murder.”

“Lacey!” the guy had resorted to yelling by then, the playful tone fading out of his voice.

She twisted around in her seat and yelled “I’m coming! Keep your pants on!” at the guy, and then turned back to me.

“Whatever,” she said, waving me off and pulling herself up out of the chair and snagging the tray of food she’d abandoned earlier. “Listen, since you’re back now, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

That’s how I ended up getting dragged across the diner by my childhood best friend—who I would have been perfectly happy leaving in my childhood—and meeting a group of three guys who looked up at me like I was an alien that had just crash-landed on their planet. On Christmas. In the middle of dinner. Jesus, I was already sick of this town.

How is this my life?

“This is Preston,” she said, laying a plate of steak and eggs in front of the guy closest to her, the one with the blond hair and bright green eyes. Damn, I think. Apparently Lacey isn’t the only one that embraced the whole small-town-golden-child thing. I nodded at him, like his name was supposed to mean something to me. “Preston’s granddaddy owns this Mary Lou’s. Has for years. Preston,” she said, turning back to me and waving her hands at me like she was presenting some kind of door prize. “This is Star. We went to elementary school together.” He nodded at me, and I felt kind of like I’d just been dismissed by a dignitary or something. Who did this guy think he was? “And this,” Lacey continued, oblivious to how uncomfortable I was “is Clay.” She set another plate of food on the table, this time in front of a guy who I suddenly realized looked exactly the same as Preston. How the hell had she been able to tell them apart? “Clay is Preston’s brother,” she said to me, because apparently I was blind on top of being an alien.

“Much to my dismay,” the guy said, giving me a little smile before turning to his food. Okay, I liked this one a little better. But beside me, Lacey scoffed and whapped him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “You be nice, Clayton,” she said. Then turned to me. “Preston’s my boyfriend,” she said. Ah, that explained it. “And Clay is just jealous.”

“Of course I am, Lacey. Of course I am.”

He clearly wasn’t, but Lacey didn’t seem to notice that, judging by the grin she had spreading across her face. “And that’s Barry,” she said, pointing at the other guy at the table who had broad shoulders and close-cropped brown hair. And who, mercifully, didn’t look anything like the other two. “He’s been friends with Preston and Clay since forever. He’s back from college for the summer. He’s on a football scholarship. Quarterback,” she said, her voice ripe with emphasis, much to my confusion. Did I look like someone who cared about football? I was pretty sure I didn’t.

“You know,” she said, turning to me with a strange little smile pulling at her lips, “since you’re here for the summer and Bear’s here for the summer, maybe you two could go out sometime.”

That was when my brain clicked back online and I realized I had to make my escape. I could see where she was going with this and I wasn’t about to let myself be led like a lamb to the slaughter of a summer full of bad blind dates. Quarterback or not, I was out of there. Before she could get another word out, I made my excuses, grabbed my stuff and tossed a twenty on my table—more than enough to cover my crappy BLT platter when I’d actually ordered a bacon cheeseburger in the first place—and hightailed it out of there before Lacey could stop me.

Unfortunately, my escape only got me as far as the parking lot where my getaway vehicle is refusing to start and sounds like an old woman with bronchitis and a three-pack-a-day habit. Fantastic.

I’m trying to decide whether screaming or crying would be a better option for venting my frustration before I freaking explode when there’s a knock on the window next to me and my entire body jerks.

I whip around in my seat, heart slamming in my chest, and find the guy that Lacey had all but kicked out of the diner standing there, looking at me through the driver’s-side window.

Great. Just great.

Ash

I fucked up. I know that.

But for some reason I hadn’t expected it to follow me around for the rest of my life.

It’s not like I’ve ever stopped thinking about it. It’s hard not to, when your fuck-up costs another man his life. But I’d just assumed that when I got out of prison, it would be over.

It is never going to be over.

No one is ever going to let me forget what I’ve done.

What they don’t seem to realize is that they don’t have to bother. I’ve been living my mistake every single day for the past five years.

It had been stupid, so goddamn stupid, but by the time I’d figured that out, it had been too late. The guy was already dead.

Peter Hanlon-Wright. Father of a son with another baby on the way. His face is burned into my brain, and will be for the rest of my life.

I’d been out at a party that night. And like all the parties I went to back then, there had been booze and drugs everywhere. And if it was there, then so was I. I don’t even remember the party itself, only that I’d been there with Gina, my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend now. I can only remember flashes. Throwing back a beer. Doing a line. The flash of Gina’s red hair as she tossed it over her shoulder. Bit by bit, I’ve tried to piece that night together for the past five years, only to realize that most of it is gone forever.

I’ll never know why I chose to do what I did, why I snagged the keys to Gina’s car and drove home, instead of crashing on the guy’s sofa like Gina had. I don’t know why I felt like I just had to get home, why I had to drive through three fucking towns instead of just sleeping it off in the backseat.

But I did. I don’t even remember the drive, not really. But I remember the crash. The sound of metal on metal. The screams that I took forever to realize were actually coming from me.

The pain.

The flash of the lights from the police cruiser.

Bit by bit, piece by piece, it’s like a goddamn puzzle laid out in front of me, but it’s missing half the pieces and it doesn’t match the picture on the box.

It doesn’t seem right that a night you can barely remember can change your life forever, but apparently fair and right don’t apply to a guy who killed a father because he was too drugged up and stupid to keep away from the wheel.

I let out a shaking breath and light my cigarette as I try to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

No job. People in this town aren’t going to give me a shot, and I can’t blame them.

No home. Parents kicked me out. Living out of my car.

No girlfriend. Gina kicked me to the curb immediately after the crash. I was still in the hospital when she dumped my ass for good.

I’m fucked. No doubt about it.

I take another drag and lean back against the brick wall of the diner when all of a sudden the diner’s front door flies open hard enough to send it slamming against the wall and a figure races out.

I watch as the girl I’d noticed—the really hot one with the long dark hair and the tattoos—rushes out of the diner like she’s got a herd of raptors on her tail. She has a kind of ratty-looking bag thrown over her shoulder, and it bumps against her hip as she hustles across the parking lot. Toward the crappiest looking station wagon I’ve ever seen. The thing is ancient, and a fucking eyesore at best, all beige and peeling. My car isn’t exactly in tip-top shape after five years in my parents’ garage, but it’s a damn sight better than that thing. It’s a wreck.

The girl doesn’t seem to notice or care, though. She just jerks open the door and throws her bag inside fast enough that I’m starting to wonder if she held up the joint or something. I smirk at the thought. It would serve them right. Also? If it was her, it would be kind of hot. All Thelma-and-Louise old school. Not that I watched that movie or anything. At least, not since I grew out of having TV night with my parents.

I lean back against the brick wall and take another drag from my cigarette, waiting for the girl to gun the engine and peel out of there like a bat out of hell. But instead of the epic getaway, the car just sort of…coughs.

Well, that was fucking anti-climactic, I think as I watch the girl’s face fall and hear the car sputter again. Yeah, that’s not good.

I watch her for a moment, see the flurry of emotions pass over her face as she realizes that her car isn’t going anywhere. Hope. Confusion. Anger. Defeat. She glances back at the diner and I wonder just what made her want to book it out of there like that. I look over myself, glancing over my shoulder as I stub out the butt of my cigarette, and see the blonde peeking through the window. Ah, that makes sense.

I stand there for a moment, running the options through my mind, before I let out a sigh and push myself off the wall and make my way over to her.

What the fuck are you doing? A voice in the back of my brain asks. You weren’t welcome in the diner, what makes you think you’re going to be greeted with open arms when you approach her, you creeper? I tell the voice to shut the hell up and reach over and tap against the driver’s-side window. The girl jerks like she’s been electrocuted, and spins around to look at me.

This is such a huge mistake, the voice supplies, and I plaster on what I hope is a nonthreatening smile and motion for her to roll the window down. I sink my hands into my pockets and shift my weight around, because apparently five years in prison has completely killed every ounce of smoothness I ever had. But the girl rolls down the window, anyway, and I’m suddenly struck by the fact that I have no plan here, no idea what I’m going to do or say.

So, even though this is a horrible fucking idea, I blurt out the first thing that comes to my head.

“Car trouble?”

***

Luckily for me, it was the battery. Because, while auto shop was the only fucking class I stood a chance of passing in high school, I’m more than a little bit rusty. So the fact that the battery just needed a boost was a godsend. Seriously. One look under the hood almost sent me running for the hills, it was such a mess. I don’t know what she’s doing with that car, but it sure as hell isn’t right. It would be merciful to take it out back and shoot it.

But of course, I’m not about to say that to the extremely hot girl, who is apparently the only person in Avenue who’s willing to talk to me. Seriously, she’s even hotter up close. It’s criminal.

“Okay,” I say, attaching the booster cables to the battery and pulling my head out from under the hood. I wipe my hands on my already-filthy jeans. Damn, I need to go to the laundromat. With what money, I’m not sure. The money Dad gave me isn’t going to last much longer at this rate. “Give it a try.”

I’m starting to wonder if staying in prison maybe wasn’t a better life plan for me.

The car groans a little, but then the engine turns over and it hums back to life. I grin and remove the jumper cables, letting the hood fall back down with a slam. The girl’s eyes widen and a smile breaks out across her face and something in my gut jerks.

Fuck off, I tell it. I’ve been in prison for five years. Of course seeing a hot girl smile at me is going to get me revving. She’s not interested, jackass, I say to myself. Maybe if you hadn’t been such a fuck-up, you might’ve had a shot. But there’s no way now. You’re lucky she’s even talking to you.

She leans her head out the window, her long, inky black hair whipping around her face in the wind. “Thank you so much,” she says, reaching out and taking the cables back from me before dumping them into the passenger foot well. “I don’t know what I would have done if I couldn’t get it to start.”

I’ve seen pornos that start like this, my mind supplies helpfully, and all I want is to turn around and slam my head against the brick wall behind me. Dumbass.

“It’s no problem,” I say. “I mean, your engine’s kind of fucked—kind of broken—” What is wrong with me? “So you might want to take it in for a tune-up when you get a chance. But that should keep you going for a bit.” Walk away, I tell myself. Just nod and walk the fuck away.

“Seriously,” she says, and I can tell that she’s trying not to laugh at me. Which I would appreciate, if I didn’t want to go bury my head in the sand for the rest of my life. “Thank you.”

I just give her a nod and turn to walk back to my car. I love that damn car, but after living in it for a week, it’s starting to lose a lot of its appeal. But I’m only a couple steps away when her voice rings out.

“Hey,” she says, and I turn back. She jerks her cute little chin in my direction. “What’s your name?”

“Ash,” I tell her, reaching into my pockets for my pack of smokes. “Ash Winthrope.” I need something to do with my hands. But as I pull one out and stick it in my mouth, she’s leaning out her car window, reaching a hand out to me to shake. “I’m Star,” she says, and I can’t help the startled laugh before it escapes.

“Of course you are,” I say, and watch as her brow furrows adorably. I shake my head, a rush of heat traveling up my neck. “I mean . . . I don’t know what I meant,” I say, going for honesty when quick-thinking fails me once again. Story of my life. I reach out and shake her hand. It’s warm and smooth and kind of tiny in mine, but it’s stronger than I thought it would be. “I guess I meant it suits you,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you, Star.”

The handshake goes on a little too long to be comfortable, and we both kind of laugh and drop our hands at once as soon as it gets a little too awkward. I’m left standing by her driver’s-side door, shifting my weight from foot to foot, trying to figure out an escape route. Whatever game I once had has been completely erased in the past five years. Now I’m a spaz.

“Well,” I say. “I guess I’ll see you around, Star.” And then I start making for my car again.

“Hey, Ash,” she calls out, and I stifle a groan. I’m trying to make a fucking graceful exit here. Can’t this girl see that?

“Look,” she says, “I get this is kinda awkward, but I heard you talking to the waitress inside.” She nods toward the diner. My most recent failure. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Yeah,” I say, and reach into my pocket for my lighter. I light my cigarette and take a drag, and try to resist the urge to fiddle with the lighter. Playing with a flame in a public place probably isn’t going to endear me to the hot chick who clearly knows enough of my history to be wary of me. No wonder she’d looked so freaked out when I knocked on her window. Must have scared the life out of her. Shit.

“Listen, your history is your business. Not mine. I’m just wondering if you’d be willing to help me out with something.”

Ah, shit. She’s one of those girls. The ones that want to walk on the wild side without ever getting their own hands dirty. Crap.

“I’m not into that shit anymore,” I tell her. “I’m clean now. Five years.”

Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open a little. A beat passes, and I wonder if I should just sprint to my car. It couldn’t be any more uncomfortable than what I’m dealing with right now. I glance over my shoulder and . . . yep. The blonde waitress I asked about a job is watching us from the front window of the diner. She’s probably getting ready to call the cops if I hang around Star much longer. I need to get out of here.

“That’s not what I meant!” Star yells, and I shuffle to a stop before I even realize I’ve moved. I’m halfway to my car. Well, it looks like the old fight-or-flight instincts are still intact. That’s something. “Look,” she says. “My mother just died and I’m cleaning out her house. But I can’t do it by myself. I need help, and I can’t afford to hire professionals. I can’t pay much, but I just thought . . . ”

I look back at her, and I’m surprised to see that she looks just as freaked out as I feel. But for once, her nerves don’t seem to be caused by me. Something else is bothering the crap out of her, and I kind of want to throw my arms up in victory that it isn’t me. I’m a bastard.

“Not to sound ungrateful . . . ” I say, turning and taking a step back toward her car. I take another drag from my cigarette. I’m going to have to start rationing the damn things soon. Maybe quit altogether. Mom would like that, if she bothered to give a shit. She’d been after me to quit since I was a teenager. “But why me?”

Star’s teeth worry at her lower lip, which only makes it look plumper and fuck. Not the time. Then she sighed and let her head flop back against the headrest. “My mother was a hoarder,” she says, her voice so quiet I can barely hear her over the road noise and the jangling of the bells over the diner door as an old man and his grandson exit. The old man shoots me a bitter look when they walk by, and he keeps the kid on the other side of him, shielding him with his body. Yeah, like I’m going to attack a kid and an old man. In broad daylight. Jesus, people in this town are even more fucked up than they were five years ago.

Then Star’s words niggle at something in the back of my mind. “A hoarder,” I say. “Like those crazy people on that sho—”

“Yes,” she snaps before I can get into all the weird crap I’m imagining, like layers upon layers of dead animals crushed under broken lamps and half-full bags of cat food. Then she sighs again, and lets go of the steering wheel she’d been holding in a death grip to press the heels of her hands into her eyes. When her hands drop back down, I can see that this is what’s bothering her. And it’s bothering her enough to ask me for help, a guy she knows just got out of prison.

Fuck. And I thought I had problems.

I’m still weighing it in my mind—the desire to eat and maybe one day having an actual roof over my head versus digging through a garbage dump—but my mouth is already moving and words are escaping without my permission. “How much?”

“Like I said, I can’t pay much,” she says. “Not even minimum wage. I could manage maybe five–six hundred a month.”

A month? How long is this gonna take? How big of a mess can one person create? I’m still thinking about it, rolling the idea over and over in my head when she turns around in her seat and starts digging in the purse on the passenger seat. I lean forward, arm braced against the car, curious. Then she’s turning back and shoving a crumpled piece of paper through the open window. I grab it. “That’s my number,” she says. “You can think about it if you want, but I’m going to be getting started right away. I need to get this done by the end of the summer, and I’d really appreciate the help. That is, if you’re willing.”

I stare down at the phone number scrawled across the slip of paper, at the little scribble underneath that could only be an address, and then I look up at her. Her eyes are all big and brown and earnest as fuck. What the hell is this girl thinking?

“You do know about me, don’t you?” I ask, and try to pass her the piece of paper back through the car window. “Like, you’re not under any delusions or anything, right? I just got out of prison. Aren’t you worried I’ll get in there and start stealing shit?”

Star stares at me for a moment, completely still. Then she throws her head back and laughs, and goddamn if it isn’t the hottest fucking thing I’ve seen in five years. She just shoves the phone number back at me. “If you steal anything, I’ll be eternally fucking grateful, you have no idea” she says, and my gut jerks again at the sound of her cursing at me. She’s already a gorgeous chick with kick-ass tattoos and the cutest fucking smile I’ve seen in years. How she just got hotter, I have no idea. “Just keep the number, okay?” she asks. “And give me a call when you make up your mind.”

“What if I can’t help you out?” I ask.

She just shakes her head and smiles at me. “Either way,” she says. “Just let me know.” Then she reaches out and wraps her right arm around the back of the passenger seat to watch behind her, and pulls out of the parking spot.

She’s down the road before I can think of anything to say to that. I take another puff of my smoke and stare down at the phone number in my hand. It’s a little crumpled, so I grip the cigarette between my lips and use both hands to smooth out the paper against the leg of my jeans. I fold it up and stick it in my pocket, and look up to see the blonde waitress still watching me through the window. I give her a smirk and a little wave—one I’m dying to turn into a one-finger salute, but somehow manage to restrain myself—and head back to my car.

I have some shit to think about.