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“Do you want to talk? You haven’t...much.”
“About the accident?”
He nods.
I shake my head. “Not now. Maybe later tonight. I could tell you the whole story.”
He smiles sadly. “Okay, Pig.”
TWENTY-TWO
Barrett
December 31, 2015
The gun is at the bottom of my duffle bag. If you pack them right, the airport scanners never know.
One of those job perks they can’t take away…
I didn’t want to bring the gun.
I hadn’t planned to.
Then Blue called.
Things have changed.
I take the gun out of the bag and unwrap it. Then I don my black costume. I say a silent prayer before I leave the bathroom, .38 strapped to the inside of my boot.
* * *
Gwenna
January 1, 2012
1:42 a.m.
“Oh my God, you’re Jessica! From End of Day!”
The girl’s brown eyes are huge in her freckled face. Her jaw drops in stunned elation, and I nod, casting my eyes down for just long enough to steel myself. I’ve had some practice with this sort of thing since EoD came out. It’s an indie film, and like a lot of good indies, it’s developed a bit of a cult following.
By the time I glance back up, the girl has whirled around, the knot of her work apron riding up her mid-back, revealing a dancing Grateful Dead bear tattoo.
As I set my items on the Breckenridge General Store’s counter, she cups her hands around her mouth and bellows, “Come here, Silas! Jessica from End of Day is here, and she’s buying one of your dad’s gardenias!”
I hear the smack of shoes on the cement floor, then a high school guy steps out from between two aisles. He’s tall, with white-blond Justin Bieber hair. He sticks his hands in his pockets as my eyes roll up and down him, keeping his gaze on his sneakers, his face cool, while the brown-eyed, brunette cashier cuts her eyes at him. When he comes to a stop beside the nearest magazine display and doesn’t fall down at my feet, she gives him an incredulous look. “Seriously, Silas? You’re the biggest fan. Can you believe she’s fucking here?”
Never meeting my eyes, he gives her a sideways smile and murmurs, “No.”
I’m betting this boy has my Abercrombie pool party stuff, or my Burberry nothing-under-the-jacket campaign bookmarked in his spank bank. Which means it’s time to change the subject before we all end up embarrassed.
“Your dad grows the gardenias you guys sell?” I ask him, hoping to put everyone at ease, as well as steer the subject away from the movie. I’m a singer, not an actress—although I am proud of the movie.
The guy nods and finally, he looks me in the eyes.
“It’s a kind of insanity,” he says, revealing a retainer than makes his voice sound—well, like he’s got something in his mouth. “They won’t survive for long in someon
e’s yard. So they’re just house plants up here.”
