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Nebraska shares a border with Iowa, the bane of my existence and Pea’s next stop.
Did I mention I fucking hate Iowa?
Prescott has her new ID. I’m glad she does, because it’s a great way to cover her ass. And what an ass that is. Speaking of, she’s been walking funny all day today, so I’m glad we spent most of it in the Beatmobile, heading north back to Stockton. I know she’s sore from yesterday, and I should feel guilty, but honestly? Couldn’t be more thrilled. She let me into her ass. That’s like code for Ask me on a date or something.
I was just about to. For a second there, when we were in the pool, I was about to throw all the fucks I give about my safety out the window and just go for it. I wanted to ask her if she’d like to go to dinner when this is all over. Not here in California. But maybe somewhere else. Maybe even in fucking Iowa, for all I care. After all, by then, I’ll be Christopher Delaware.
Then she threw the deadline in my face, and reminded me that we’re just a business arrangement with a little pleasure tossed in.
A lot of pleasure tossed in.
Still, it’s work. She wanted to know when I’d leave, and I gave her an exact date because she put me on the spot. It’s not like I’m counting the days and hours I have left with her, but I’m not gonna lie, it stings like a bee-tch.
I fling a look in her direction from the driver’s seat, watching her squeezing her stress ball, eyes trained on the road.
“We need to crash somewhere outside of Stockton. The deeper we get into their territory, the better their chances of finding us,” I say.
“I know a place in Lodi, so far away even the owner isn’t sure where it is exactly. I’ll pull the address.” She turns her body to the back seat and fiddles with her backpack. I peer down to check the time on the dashboard and see that time is on our side. It must be a sign from God.
“I’m pulling over to take a piss and pump some gas.”
“Cool.” She awards me with the same treatment as her word. She’s never been so cold to me before.
Fuck it, she doesn’t have to like me, and it’s probably even better if she doesn’t. It’ll only make things easier when she pisses off to Iowa.
I shut off the engine and stride into the bathroom while Prescott pumps gas. It’s becoming harder to leave her to do things on her own without the nagging fear of them taking her again. This time, I may not be there to release her. I take the fastest leak in the history of piss, and when I get back, I spot her standing just outside of the gas station, next to a payphone, one finger stuffed into an ear and the other ear covered by her cell phone. She’s talking to someone animatedly.
Who the fuck is she talking to and how is it more important than guarding our stupid, impractical car?
I stride in her direction, knowing that I’m intruding and not giving a damn. Our destinies are chained for the time being. This is not about acting like a jealous boyfriend.
Because I’m not her boyfriend.
And I ain’t jealous.
Right.
“Okay,” she says and nods into the phone. “Yes, of course. Whatever you want. Whatever you need. Thanks again for reaching out, I really appreciate it.”
Pea, polite and well behaved? That’s new and unbecoming. When she hangs up and slants an eyebrow in question, I fold my arms on flexed pecs. I’m tense, and not just because of this phone call. Something feels off. It’s in the air. It’s in her eyes. It’s fucking everywhere. Life taught me how to recognize when things are about to explode, and right now, I need a bulletproof vest.
“Who was it?”
“None of your business,” she chirps with a sugary smile. I grab the hem of her jacket and pull her to my body, invading her personal space.
“Spill it, Cockburn, or I’m riding your ass dry tonight.”
“I swear to God, Nate, call me Cockburn one more time and I—”
The payphone behind her starts ringing. We don’t pay attention. At first, it doesn’t even register at all. All I hear is snippets of our conversation. Some are things I tell her, some are things she tells me.
“. . .maybe if you didn’t act like a cold-hearted bitch. . .”
“. . .I’ve never met someone so self-centered. . .”
“Next Wednesday can’t come soon enough. . .”
Finally, when the payphone doesn’t stop ringing for a full minute, and the sound somehow becomes ear deafening, it dawns on me that:
A) Our car was left unattended and we’re in a fucking rundown gas station.
