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For a moment, we keep standing around awkwardly, neither of us sure what to say. I don’t want them to leave. I don’t want to be alone. Although, there’s no reason for them to stay here. In fact, they should leave ASAP before one of my dad’s guys sees them.
“Could you help me find my phone before you go?”
“Sure.”
Both men have their phone lights searching the area around us. It doesn’t take long before RJ bends down and picks up the device.
When he offers it to me, I tell him, “Thank you. I need to get a ride home.”
“I would offer to take you, but we’re gonna need rides of our own since we had too much to drink,” Barrett explains.
“That’s okay,” I say, only a tad disappointed as I try to get my phone to turn back on. There’s a big crack down the center of the screen, surrounded by smaller cracks.
“You calling a friend to come get you?” Barrett asks.
“No, an Uber if I can get it to come on.”
“We’ve already got a ride on the way here. Let us drop you off.”
“Okay, yeah,” I easily agree since my options are limited. “Thank you, Barrett. You’re a lifesaver.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Barrett
Lyla looks shaken up, even if she’s trying to act all tough after her fall.
She’s stubborn and proud like her sister. I’m not sure if the “fiery redheads” stereotype applies to everyone with crimson hair, but it applies to the Perry sisters.
I pull up the ride share app on my phone to update our plans so we can drop Lyla off first while RJ goes to round up his cut from his bike. “Do you have a place of your own, or are you still living with your dad?” I ask so I can put in the address.
“I still live with my dad and grandma, which is both sad and pathetic, I know…”
“I still live at home too.”
“Oh, right.”
I enter in the address I still know by heart and then the homeaddress for me and RJ. Tomorrow we can get Jordan to bring us back to get our bikes.
A few minutes later, a burgundy minivan drives through the lot. I wave my arms above my head to get their attention as the headlights shine across the lot.
“Shotgun,” RJ says as the driver turns down our row.
As soon as the van stops, he opens the front passenger door and hops in while the rear door slides open automatically, the interior lights illuminating the second row. “After you,” I tell Lyla.
She climbs in and sits down with me right behind her.
Before the doors close, it’s impossible not to notice that her injuries are worse than she let on.
She must have seen her face in the rearview mirror because she gasps and lifts her fingers to the scrapes across her forehead.
Her light green dress has brown dirt stains, a few tears. She holds out her palms, and they’re scraped up too.
“Looks like you all had a wild night,” the driver remarks before the door closes and the overhead light goes out again.
Ignoring him, I lean closer to Lyla to whisper, “Do you want to go to the emergency room to get checked out?”
“No. I’m fine, just embarrassed. What a shitty day.”
