I crank up the aircon, type Nikau Palms Hotel into Google Maps and put my phone into Cece’s holster. I wish I’d recorded Shannon’s little confrontation. I’ll have to start doing that every time I’m in public from now on. But if that shitshow proved anything, it’s that I’m on the right track. With any luck, Betty’s already digging into my conversation with Grace, and this’ll all be over soon. And when it is, when Thrasher and his goons are banged up, and Thompson Farms is in the toilet, I’m leaving this town for good. I’ll go straight from Pukekohe to the Auckland airport and never come back.
I light another cigarette with Shannon’s orange Bic, crank down the window and smoke. It’s a dog move, ripping cigs in your mate’s car, but I’ll pay to have it cleaned, and hopefully Cece will understand. After all, it’s not every day you get threatened by two former classmates. I’ll need a new lighter, though. Just looking at Shannon’s sends imaginary spiders tippy-tapping across my skin.
Jake. I want to talk to Jake. I’d give all the vapes and tequila in the world to have his voice in my ear, his arms around my body, his strength at my back.
You were JGH’s missus, yeah? Not surprised he ditched you. He can do better.
I take a deep drag on my cigarette and call Betty again. It goes straight to voicemail. More spiders crawl down my back. Maybe she’s done with me. With my whole batshit plan. My tongue hurts, but I inhale, demolishing a quarter of the cigarette in one go. And that’s when I notice Cece’s car is bouncing from side to side.
I slow to a crawl, and the jolting increases, the car lurching forward like it’s drunk.
“It’s nothing,” I say, like that might make it true. Then a metallic screech starts up. I don’t know much about cars, but I’m pretty sure I’m riding one of Cece’s hubcaps.
“Cunting fuck!” I swear, wrenching the steering wheel left.
I park on the grass verge, flip on my hazards and sit there, my breath coming in pants. This can’t be what I think it is. And if it is, it can’t have happened the way my hyperactive brain is telling me it did. Still, it takes another cigarette to get me out of the car to investigate.
I walk to the back right wheel and see it. A slash. There’s no other word for it. There’s one long, clean line running the length of Cece’s back tyre. I didn’t run over a rock. There’s no glass shard buried in the rubber. Someone has slashed Cece’s tyre.
I dive back into the car, yanking my phone from the centre console. I call Cece, but it also goes straight to voicemail, and I don’t want to leave a voicemail. I don’t want to scare her. But maybe I should scare her? Thisisfucking scary.
My hands are shaking sohard that my phone slides into my lap and bounces onto the car floor. I pick it up, then drop it again. Someone slashed Cece’s tyre. Shannon, maybe. Although it could have been someone else from the pub. It must have happened while I was in the bathroom, or…
“Drop it,” I whisper. “What are you going to do now?”
I call Cece again, and this time, when it goes to voicemail, I leave a message. “Hey, Cee, sorry this is shit timing, but I have a flat. I’m about fifteen minutes from the hotel, and I’d change the tyre, but you know I don’t know how. I’m sorry. I’d call roadside assistance, but I think you need a membership, and I can’t remember if you have one. Can you please come get me? I’ll give you… a billion dollars. Okay. I hope you’re all good, but please call me soon because?—”
The message cuts out, and it occurs to me that if Cece comes to change the tyre, Tristan might be with her. That would suck, but right now I’d take The Golden State Killer for a ride-along if it means getting safely back to the hotel.
I press the back of my head into the driver’s seat, a headache pounding in my temples. If one of the guys at the pub slashed Cece’s tyre, they might be coming to find me right now. I sit bolt upright, ready to bail, then realise that’s fucking ridiculous. It would take ages to walk to the hotel, and if I approach any of the nearby properties, there’s every chance the occupants will know exactly who I am and why I shouldn’t be here.
I’m lighting a third cigarette when twin headlights appear in the rearview mirror. They’re dazzlingly bright and so high up I know the car they belong to must be massive. I hold my breath and pray for whoever it is to pass, but they seem to be slowing down. I keep holding my breath. It could be a do-gooder, or it could be a man from the pub, eager to find the nosey bitch on her own. I ball my fists, ready to scream when the owner of the headlights suddenly speeds up and zooms away.
My heart is pulsing so hard I taste blood. I scramble for my phone, but there’s no one left to call. Cece’s not answering. Betty’s not answering. Davis is miles away, and even if my parentscouldforgivemy social media sluttiness, they’re off spraining their ankles on the slopes in Queenstown.
Then it hits me. Thereissomeone else. Jake Graves-Holland is from Pukekohe, and he’ll be here this weekend for the reunion. I deleted his number, but I know it by heart, because when I like someone, I always learn their number by heart. I can’t help it. I start cataloguing every detail, building a profile of all the things they know and like, so I’ll never let them down. And Jake might have let me down, and asking him for help might hurt like hell, but I know he will.
Before I can second-guess myself, I crush out my cigarette and dial Jake’s number. I listen, my heart in my mouth, as it rings and rings. Then there’s a beep, and a robot voice implores me to leave a message. Another fucking voicemail. I want to cry. I hang up and call again. Same result. I start talking, even though I shouldn’t, because now Iamcrying. Big, loud sobs right into Jake’s voicemail.
“Jake. Hi. Hey. Sorry for calling. I don’t know if you’re around, but I can’t get onto Cece, and I don’t know what’s… There’s just so much shit happening. Everything’s so fucked up?—”
I wipe my face and try to get control of my breathing. “Someone slashed my tyres. Cece’s tyres. I’m in Cece’s car. I went to the pub near Thompson Farm, and now everyone’s mad at me, and I don’t know?—”
A loud screech makes me jump out of my skin. I turn to see a truck pulled up behind me. A shiny-black Dodge RAM. The driver’s door swings open, and a huge figure gets out. A man almost as big as his chode vehicle.
“Shit,” I breathe. “Gotta go. Someone’s here. Outside the car. I’ve gotta?—”
I hang up. My limbs are water, but something inside me stays steely, because I can see who the man is now. Shannon Strom. I smile at him in the rearview as I select the Voice Notes app on my phone and hit record. My entire body is shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
Sliding my phone into my pocket, I open the driver’s side door and get out tospeak to my ex-classmate once again.
“Hi,” I say brightly. “What’s up?”
Shannon Strom grins, and that grin says he knew he’d find me here. Been counting on it, in fact.
“Car trouble?” he says, smirking like we’re in a porno.
“Looks that way. You make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?”
