“Don't flatter yourself, pretty boy,” I say, managing a grin so the words come out steadier than I feel. “Just needed to escape the tin can for a bit.”
Cyrus adjusts his glasses, those forest-hued eyes already narrowed behind them in suspicion. "It's a hundred fucking degrees and you're wearing ahoodie."
He's one to talk in a fucking pitch-black button down, but at least it's short sleeved. We may be teenaged trailer trash, but Cyrus’s idea of weekend wear is still business casual with a goth flair, and dammit, the whole Dark Clark Kent thing kind of works for him. He's only an inch taller than Jinx now, but he packs a hell of a lot of menace into that inch, and they both tower over me.
I flip him off playfully. "Not all of us want to dress like we raided a Brooks Brothers dumpster."
He rolls his eyes, like he's too cool for a response. Kade is the one I can always count on for banter, but he hasn't said anything yet. He's just watching me with those gray eyes the exact color of the stolen lighter he's flicking open and closed like a serial killer.
His brown hair is slicked back away from his face in that style he's been wearing lately that makes him look like the complete and utter delinquent he is. He fancies himself a young mobster, and I have to admit, he looks the part. Especially with the tattoos that keep spreading further up his arms, most of them related to fire in some way. There's even one on his throat now. A death's head moth.
Tank's motorcycle growls into the clearing, saving me from whatever interrogation Kade's planning. He kills the engine and pulls off his helmet, dark hair tousled before he smooths it down. Even though he was wearing a helmet with a full visor and it’s a hundred fucking degrees out, he’s still wearing the bandana he never takes off, and he has to tug at his bandana to keep it from sticking to his jaw.
I still haven't seen what's underneath it, but the scarring seems to get worse each year, somehow, especially the one that pulls at his right eye.
And yethe'sthe one who looks worried aboutme.
"So, what's the plan?" I push off the RV, ignoring the protest from my ribs. "Please tell me someone brought beer."
"Better." Jinx produces a bottle of stolen vodka from his backpack with a flourish. "Courtesy of the latest deadbeat asshole my mom's shacking up with. Won't even notice it's missing."
I wish Todd were half as oblivious.
We pile into the RV, our collective home away from home. When we were kids, it was our clubhouse. Sometimes the tower Jinx and Tank would defend as my gallant knight and fearsome dragon, respectively, while Cyrus and Kade laid siege as aninvading army. Now, it's mostly just the place we escape the shithead adults in our lives and get wasted.
The inside smells like mildew and weed and home. I curl into my usual spot on the broken couch, tucking my legs under me. Tank settles beside me, solid and safe, and I rest my cheek on his muscled shoulder. Jinx sprawls on the floor by Cyrus, already launching into a story about some girl from his psych class.
"—and then she says, 'I don't date guys prettier than me,' like that's supposed to be an insult." He takes a swig from the vodka bottle. "Joke's on her. Iamprettier."
"Your ego's showing," I tell him, but I'm smiling for real now. This is what I need. Just one more perfect day with my boys before everything goes to shit.
Cyrus has his laptop out, typing fast like he's about to commit another international felony. "Movie theater's showing that new horror flick tonight. Want me to?—"
"Yes," we all say in unison.
“Already on it,” Cy says with a grin, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he prepares to hack into the theater's website to score us free tickets. Perks of being the only halfway decent "webdev" in town. He built back doors into all the sites. Even if he's smart enough to get in without that—he coded an entire video game in a weekend just to prove a point—Cy's con-artist-slash-lazy-ass tendencies usually win out.
The vodka makes its rounds. I take smaller sips than usual since I can't risk getting drunk and saying something stupid. Like the truth. Kade notices, because of course he fucking does, but he doesn't call me out. Just keeps flicking that lighter.
Ride?Tank signs suddenly, standing up. He holds out his hand to me.
"Fuck yes." I need the wind, the speed, the illusion of freedom.
Outside, he hands me his helmet. I've worn it a hundred times, but today my hands shake as I fasten the strap. He notices—they all notice everything about me—but doesn't comment. Just waits patiently while I climb on behind him.
The engine roars to life, and then we're flying. I press my face against his back, breathe in the scent of leather and that cheap aftershave that’s somehow comforting even though it belongs to the guy the entire town is terrified of. My arms are wrapped around his chest as far as I can reach, and for a few precious minutes, nothing else exists.
No bruises.
No impending stepfather.
No goodbye in my throat that tastes like fucking arsenic.
We race through the back roads, taking corners too fast, chasing something we can't name. The others follow in Kade's car, Jinx hanging out the window like the golden retriever he is.
This is us. This is home.
This is everything I'm about to lose.
