But a shake of his head a moment later dashes any hope
“Nah. I like Punk.” He tussles my hair with a grin. “You’re my punk.”
And I smile back at him. “Yeah, I think I could get used to that. I’m your punk.”
My stupid heart pitter-patters, butterflies circling my gut.
Little do those butterflies know there’s a murder of crows looming on the horizon.
But if this is the closest I’ll ever ascend to heaven, I’ll settle on however little time we have left.
CHAPTER 11
NOAH
Nothinglike a good fuck session and three cups of gas station coffee to keep me awake. The sun teeters on the horizon as we drive straight toward it—a giant ball of fire ready to consume us. It’d be a fitting end, but one I’m not quite ready for.
There’s still too much business left unfinished.
I flip my sunglasses over my eyes as the somber light peaks through canyons of trees around a curve that’s entirely too sharp for a highway. My little fuck nugget—or punk or what-the-fuck-ever—rests with his head against the window. He’s been in and out of sleep all night.
The early morning hours of daylight bring a creeping heat that rises like steam on the asphalt of the roadways. The blinding light of the sun does the same thing to my body that a fourth cup of coffee would do. Wide-awake and ready to drive until the nextsunrise.
Driving in fucking circles.
Just up ahead, if my memory is unshakable as I believe it to be, is the same stretch of endless highway I first picked Seven up on.
The radio hums beneath the soundtrack of the tires spinning over the pavement. The radio jockeys delve into the hot issues of the day for the surrounding community of bumfuck nowhere. Serious issues—a domestic murder-suicide and a serial killer targeting farm dogs—are talked about in a manner more fitting for scandalous neighborhood gossip.
“And we’re still following the grim story of the Route Seventy Arsonist,” the sole woman on the radio says, piquing my interest. I spin the volume dial to the right. “What started out as a simple story of a burnt car abandoned on the side of the highway has shifted into a grim reality over the past two days. Authorities have identified the owner and victim of the car as Stephen Young. The victim went by the name Magnus to those who knew him and served as the leader of a church known internally as The Sinless Children. The story only gets weirder here as an inside source claims the church has been under investigation for three years. However, when questioned, the authorities have refused to comment. A representative for the church also refused to comment and is not currently cooperating with law enforcement.”
“That’s because it’s a cult,” a man interjects with achuckle. “What do you expect them to do? Open the doors with arms wide open?”
“Alleged cult,” the woman says.
“Alleged this. Alleged that,” the man continues. “The only weird thing about this story is that cults like this even exist in this day and age. Some scorned member of this cult was probably lashed one too many times and took this Magnus figure out to a shed. And well, you know the rest.”
Seven, suddenly awake, doesn’t even blink when he turns to me, eyes sunken. It’s the unmistakable look of a man praying silently he hasn’t been caught in the act. A look that’s been painted across my own lying face one too many times, when I used to pray Kevin somehow missed the notification popping up at the top of my phone. He never missed it, not even once.
I slam on the brakes.
Seven’s body flings forward, crashing against the dashboard with a thump.
The tires spin through the gravel on the opposite side of the shoulder, kicking up a cloud of dust into the air that billows forward.
“Get the fuck out of my car,” I seethe, unable to look at him. Instead, I opt to stare at the road ahead as a rig storms by, rattling the windows of the car.
“Noah…” he pleads softly. “I can explain.”
Again, I’m not able to look at him right now. I pop the door open, get out and circle the front of the car.He pushes the passenger door open before I can rip it open. It’s much better this way.
He exits the car with his head bowed.
I pass him without uttering a peep, pop the trunk, grab his bag, and throw it into the ditch beside us. Don’t say a word as I make my way back to the driver’s side. And that’s when I catch my first good look at him.
There’s something about the way the morning light cascades over him. Like he’s ripped straight from the shadows of the night and thrown into unfamiliar places. Never seen him under the harsh light of day. Never seen the twinkle in his almond eyes, but that might be the tears pooling at the creases.
Shitty that now is when I have to see him like this, in all his glory like he was made by god to be kissed by the warmth of the sun. Shitty that this is the way I’ll always remember him, because I’m about to leave him on the side of the road for good.
