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He kick-started the old bike into life, and the engine caught immediately. Then he was off, the back tire sliding a little as he slipped from the scant gravel to the asphalt of the two-lane. Take that, Ike, he thought, grinning smugly. It was time to give a little back to the man who didn’t think twice about back-handing him; he was a burly son of a bitch with a cruel streak that he tried and failed to control. There would be hell to pay when Noah returned, but maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just keep riding west; he was old enough at eighteen to do what he wanted, even if it was on a stolen motor bike.
Oh, hell.
His mother, if she knew what he was doing, would have a heart attack. But how much did she care? If his whereabouts weren’t engraved on the bottom of a martini glass, she wouldn’t have a clue, right? No, Cora Sue left all of her child-rearing and now teen-monitor duties to Ike the Spike or his paternal grandmother, the Sperm Donor’s aging and oh-so-religious mother. As far as Noah knew, his grandmother still regularly wrote to her felon of a son and, no doubt, spouted the same Bible verses and quotes to Ronnie as she did to Noah. She plucked them at random, from the Old Testament as well as the New. They were often butchered and spun for her own purpose, but they continued to ring in his ears.
“Do to others as you would have them do to you” and “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer . . .” and Noah’s personal favorite, “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. . . .” Amen to that, Grannie!
He wouldn’t dwell on the consequences of what he was doing. Not now, anyway. With the hot wind in his face, the Yamaha whining high and steady, only to catch, then thrum again as it wound through the gears, and his pocket full of the old man’s ill-gotten money, he steered the bike steadily west, where the desert stretched toward the mountains that were on fire, backlit by the setting sun.
His heart surged.
He felt free, and though it was a probably a temporary sensation, one he might regret, he didn’t care. At least not for the moment.
He flicked his wrist, shifting as the motorcycle screamed down the highway, passing a few cars heading toward the lights of Las Vegas. Sin City. And his home. At least for now. Probably not for long when Ike discovered his stash and bike missing.
But who the fuck cared? Live for the moment, baby, that was his new motto.
Grinning, he wound the bike up, engine revving, tires humming and eating up the dusty asphalt strip as he cruised by the park.
Remmi wasn’t on the bench where she’d said she’d be. Disappointment welled inside him, and he waited, driving the bike in figure eights, then gassing it and popping up a wheelie, as the seconds and minutes rolled past.
What do you expect? A girl like that. Emphasis on girl, and she is way out of your league. A braniac who reads books and doesn’t give a crap about what every other girl her age likes isn’t going to be into you. Still he waited and argued with himself, coming up with a dozen legitimate reasons why she hadn’t shown up: the car wouldn’t start, she’d been found out, she’d fallen asleep, she got called into work, she had to babysit those twin siblings, and on and on.
Still he hung out, feeling the heat rising from the parking lot pavement, watching others come and go, mothers, and babysitters, even a dad or two, or a grandparent; all stayed only long enough for their kids to play in the sand and the fountain while they chatted on their cell phones.
But no Remmi.
He checked his watch and noticed the sun was beginning to set over the ridge of mountains.
Fine. She wasn’t going to show.
Angry again, he pressed on the gas and sped out of the parking lot, racing to the part of town Remmi called home. He didn’t see her in the lengthening shadows surrounding her house, and even after several passes, he didn’t catch sight of her. The house was quiet, almost as if no one was home, just one lamp blazing from a back window, and the nanny’s car, a small Honda Civic, parked in the drive. Was Remmi inside? He drove loudly past twice, and neighbors across the street peered through the windows, but no one stirred in the Storm house. Either she didn’t hear him, couldn’t respond, or just didn’t want to see him.
Fine.
He couldn’t wait forever, he decided, and hit the gas, speeding along the narrow bit of rapidly declining suburbia and onto the main road, his back tire skidding a bit again before it caught and the bike righted itself.
Adrenaline burning through his blood, he wondered if he’d ever see Remmi again, told himself it didn’t matter, though that was a hard and fast lie considering his sense of disappointment.
He pushed the bike ever faster, around a slow-moving pickup loaded with bales of hay, and then farther, the Yamaha whining in his ears, the wind screaming past as he headed unerringly west and into the Mojave, now burnished by the rays of the dying sun as it stretched silently to the mountains.
CHAPTER 2
Didi hankered for another cigarette as she drove, but resisted the urge. She’d already broken some unwritten law by lighting up with her twins in the car, and she’d just have to wait. Instead, she reached across the bench seat and opened the massive glove box, another place she kept props, then with one hand and an eye on the road, she scrounged around until she found an opened tin of Altoids. She popped two, hoping her breath would smell fresh for the upcoming meeting.
Her heart was pounding a million times a minute at that thought. Hands tight on the steering wheel, she gave herself an internal pep talk. “You can do this. You know you can. It’s for the best. For you. For the kids. For everyone.” But she blinked against an unexpected gush of tears and refused to let them fall from her eyes. Not only did she not want to appear weak to herself or to him, she didn’t want to ruin her so carefully applied makeup.
She checked the Caddy’s dash, noting the time. She couldn’t screw this up. Her next set started at ten, and she’d promised she would be there. And she would be. Nothing could go wrong. It just couldn’t. She stretched her fingers over the steering wheel, feeling them tense despite all her best intentions.
She’d been planning this night for months, ever since the midwife had given her the news that she’d be delivering twins. Not one baby, but two. Oh, Lord. She’d wanted to argue with Seneca, but the woman, who had some Jamaican blood in her, was a skilled midwife and nursemaid. Tall, elegant, with sly, watchful eyes, Seneca knew how to keep her mouth shut as well as help with the birthing and caring of babies without the inconvenience of hospitals full of staff and visitors with their watchful eyes and wagging tongues. Doctors, nurses, aides, and whoever else within the walls of even a private hospital would have been hard to buy off—there were just too many people involved—but Seneca, though not cheap, not by a long shot, could keep her mouth closed. Seneca’s tight lips, coupled with her skilled hands, made her well worth the trouble and expense, and even if Didi really couldn’t afford the midwife/nursemaid right now, she would soon be able to.
Didi might not be much of a celebrity, as she darned well should be, but right now she had to filter the publicity around her and make sure her secrets were secure. Or else her plan would backfire—and she couldn’t risk that. She had a future to think of. Not just for herself, but for her children. She hazarded another quick glance at the back seat, where her babies were cooing and gurgling. Little Adam and Ariel. Her throat grew thick, and she turned her eyes back to the road and searched for the spot where she would exit this strip of highway. Within minutes, she found the back road that dissolved into gravel and wound through the cholla and yucca before turning onto the broad expanse of Mojave. Her throat was tight and as dry as the dust that plumed from beneath the whitewalls of her Caddy as she tore past Joshua trees and followed the dirt bike and ATV tracks through the uneven desert.
One of the babies started to cry, and she let out a sigh. “Not now,” she said softly. “Please not now.” To distract herself, she turned on the radio again but didn’t even notice what was playing. It didn’t matter.
Her nerves were on edge, but in an hour, maybe less, this part of her plan would be over. And then . . . And then . . . ? Phase two.
“God help me,” she whispered, and despite her vows otherwise, she pressed in the lighter again and searched her bag for one more cigarette.
