AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Thebusdropsme off at the end of Devil’s Cove, and I stare down the length of its glitzy strip with everything I own slumped at my feet. The promenade curves gently to the left, hugging a white beach, and on the right, a row of hotels, bars, and casinos stretches out for as far as the eye can see.
Even under a blanket of Christmas decorations, I can tell it’s barely changed in the three years I’ve been gone. Palm trees. Marble sidewalks. Rich suckers practically begging me to lift their wallets from the back pockets of their tailored pants.
Gritting my teeth, I throw my head back and glare at the lights flashing against the starless sky. They remind me of the winning symbols on a slot machine: Ding, ding, ding! Jackpot!
It may have been three years since I stepped foot in this town, but it hasn’t lost its hold on me. I can feel its strong, icy hands reaching into my chest and curling around my soul, trying to bring out the grubby little thief that lives within. You’d think after such a long time, plus the scare I just had, its siren call would be easier to ignore. But the temptation makes my blood itch more than ever.
Alas, I finally learned what the word ‘consequence’ truly means, so as the skyline of Atlantic City, New Jersey, melted behind me in a smoky haze of my own doing, I made a vow to myself.
I, Penny Price, am finally going straight.
But that won’t be possible in Devil’s Cove.
I turn my back to the Pacific Northwest’s answer to Las Vegas, and squint at the timetable pasted to the back wall of the bus shelter. Despite there being a wad of gum covering the ‘Devil’ in ‘Devil’s Dip’, I can see enough to confirm there’s not a bus heading to my hometown for another hour.
Well, isn’t that just swell. I suppose rich people aren’t exactly reliant on regular public transport.
Slumping against the bench, a tired groan leaves my lips in a puff of condensation. Running from your sins is exhausting. My neck aches from both obsessively looking over my shoulder and spending over sixty hours curled up in the backs of buses. All I want to do is get to my apartment in Devil’s Dip, wash my hair, change my panties, and crawl into bed with Excel for Dummies.
I glare out to the inky Pacific, but to my right, the warm glow of Devil’s Cove draws me in. My gaze slides unwillingly to the groups drifting in and out of glossy establishments.
I strum my fingers against the plastic bench. Chew on the inside of my cheek.
Well, I dohave a bit of a dilemma. I took three Greyhounds and hitched a ride with a trucker, who kept one eye on the road and the other on my thighs, to get here. The whole journey cost me $174.83, which was exactly, to the decimal point, all the money I’d managed to snatch from underneath the loose floorboard in my apartment before I fled Atlantic City.
A bitter laugh brews in my throat. Of course it was. I’m the luckiest girl in the world, right?
My fingers gingerly brush against the four-leaf clover pendant resting against my collarbone. I used to say that with such conviction, but now…
Now, I’m not so sure.
The wind gnaws on the shells of my ears, and I stuff my hands into my pockets. My frozen fingertips brush over the silky lining, reminding me they are empty. Empty pockets, empty bank account, empty stomach. I’m not broke; I’m destitute. Seriously, there aren’t even any forgotten coppers rattling around in the bottom of my purse among the library books I’ll never get to return.
It suddenly dawns on me: I’m waiting for a bus I can’t even afford to get on.
Well, then. I’m on my feet and sliding my suitcase across the road before I can stop myself. One last grift and then, seriously, I’ll go straight.
I wish I could say the thought of conning one more man out of his hard-earned cash felt like a chore. That the thought didn’t make my heart race a little faster or make my mouth salivate for a reason other than being hungry.
But I’d be lying, and, well, I’m trying not to do that anymore.
As I head along the promenade, bitter nostalgia nips at the heels of my boots. I peer into windows and gawp into the familiar-yet-foreign worlds on the other sides of them. Bespoke suits and thousand-dollar bottles of champagne propped up in ice buckets. Dining tables with more silverware than I know the use for. Christ, I’d forgotten. This town doesn’t just scream money; it bellows it from the rooftops.
Slowing to a halt, I take in a group of women sitting in a corner booth of a bar. I can practically smell the Chanel No.5 from this side of the glass, and for a few seconds, I watch with jealousy as they laugh and joke in a way that only people who’ve never had a red debt letter posted through their door can. My own shabby reflection comes into focus and another realization hits me.
I’m way too under-dressed to be in Cove.
My faux-fur jacket won’t fool anybody. Underneath, I’m wearing ripped mom jeans, a sweater, and Doc Martens. I’ve had the same pair of panties on for two days straight, and my hair is so knotty it no longer needs a hair tie to stay in its bun.
Looking like this, I won’t get past any of the sour-faced security guards keeping the peasants out of the bars, and begging for spare change on the sidewalk doesn’t really sound appealing, especially in the Early-December freeze.
Groaning into the collar of my coat, I know I’ll have to commit just a little more theft to look the part. The opportunity practically falls into my lap when I pass a glossy boutique a few doors down, and by a stroke of luck, the girl behind the register isn’t one I went to school with.
It’s the type of boutique that has four dresses on each rack and definitely doesn’t stock sizes in the double-digits, but maybe I’ll squeeze into something. If it’s elasticated.
As I step inside, the bored-looking girl behind the desk runs a judgmental gaze from my top-knot to my boots, and punctuates it with a plastic smile.
“If you need any help, just let me know,” she drawls, before going back to scrolling on her phone.
