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ELIOT
I’ve walkedthe straight and narrow for as long as I can remember. I got As in school, invested my money wisely, and chose a perfectly respectable, though boring, career. Good old accounting.
I can count the times my parents have been cross with me on one hand. I’ve never been sent to the principal’s office or the dean’s for that matter. I’m the perfect member of society, and I’m sick of it.
My younger sister, Austen, spent most of her life in one type of trouble or another. She spent half of her youth either sitting in the principal’s office or grounded at home. Usually both. She was always one of the hottest topics of the rumor mill. And what does she have to show for it? A job she loves, a writing career that’s taking off, and one of the sexiest boyfriends to ever walk the streets of Dansboro Crossing.
If that’s not bad enough, Brontë, my youngest sister, got pregnant from a one-night stand. She had to quit her burgeoning modeling career and move home. Her effort landed her a gorgeous billionaire who hunted her down and weathered the storm of emotions, only to propose marriage. She’s also got the cutest baby on the planet to boot.
It’s not that I’m jealous of them. Okay, maybe a little. At least in the boyfriend/fiancé department. I’ll pass on the move home/baby department. It’s just, as far as I know, no one has ever looked at me and thoughtHell yeah, I’ll take the boring accountant with thighs a little too thick and unmanageable hair. Life isn’t fair like that. So, while they’re both home snuggled up next to their happily-ever-afters, I’m out here going it alone.
Literally. I can’t find anyone to help me, so I’m out here living it up on my own. Currently, I’m sitting in my car wondering if I’ve lost my mind.
In a month, I’ll be thirty years old. As far as I can tell, my life is almost over and I’ve never really lived. I’m done with being plain old Eliot. Good, reliable Eliot. I’m ready to be crazy, fun Eliot.
That’s what I was thinking anyway when I bought the “pyro pack” of fireworks from Sammy’s Seismic Skyrockets. It seems like a pretentious name for around here, but who am I to judge? Sammy gave me a hell of a deal on the trunk load of fireworks.
“Okay, so here’s to marking off number one on the list.” I climb from my car. A nice, respectable, boring Toyota. I should add “buy a sports car” to the list. Would that make me too cliché? Maybe I’ll just test drive a really fast sports car instead of buying it.
“God forbid you do anything on a whim, Eliot.” Great, now I’m starting to talk to myself.
Popping the trunk, I heave one of the giant firecrackers that promises to both shoot off an impressive aerial display as well as a fountain of sparks out of the base. Setting it on the curb, I continue unloading until the trunk is empty.
I figure I have about ten minutes of fireworks to set off. At the last minute, I had Sammy add a handful of Roman candles to my purchase. I’ve always loved how they make me jump every time a new flame shoots out.
I check for traffic and lug one of the contraptions into the middle of the street. Dansboro Crossing has just one major road running to it with two bars, a couple of gas stations, and one restaurant which happens to be in one of the gas stations. Everything else is in town. There’s usually not a lot of traffic in the evening out here.
A couple of kids made a huge splash setting fireworks off in the middle of the street when I was a junior in high school. The description that circulated through the hallways made it sound epic. Of course, I wasn’t there. I was probably home studying for a test. Recreating it is first on my list.
Setting the fireworks down, I take out the long matches Sammy suggested and light the wick. It’s glorious! The first one whirls sparks like a pinwheel before shooting several loud rockets into the air.
With a grin, I run quickly back into the street with the next set. Patrons from one of the bars filter out to watch.
The next firework I light has delayed rockets that burst forth, spraying the sky above us with different colors. The bar patrons applaud loudly as it shoots into the sky. Each successive firework gets bigger and bigger. The more I shoot off, the more people find a place to watch. I even have a couple of cars that pulled over to catch the show.
Sadly, all good things must end. When I finally place the last and biggest one in the middle of the street, I have a grin on my face. I light it. It begins to whistle like a rocket. Each rocket that shoots from it vibrates deep in my chest.
I almost forgot the Roman candle in my back pocket. I pull it out and light it too. Something about this feels so freeing. This is what I’ve been missing. The rush of acting bad.
I’m standing in the middle of the road admiring my work when a siren blips behind me. Oh shit. I planned to be gone when any of the sheriff’s department showed up to see what the fuss was about.
Spinning around, I find a patrol car parked behind me with a sheriff’s deputy standing next to the door. A good-looking deputy. One I haven’t seen before. I would remember him.
He has a scowl on his face, and his arms are crossed over his chest. He looks a little like one of the models on the covers of the western books I like to read. Yes, I like a good western. Sue me.
At least he does for about two seconds. Right up until I shoot him. Then it turns into an action movie. Or maybeWalker, Texas Ranger. The old ones; not the remake.
As if in slow motion, I watch in horror as one of the Roman candles fire right at him. I must have dropped my arm when I turned around. He leaps for the car but not fast enough for the rocket to miss completely.
I can’t seem to do anything more than stand in the middle of the street with my mouth open. I’m almost positive I’ve just killed a man, a law enforcement officer at that. I literally shot the sheriff.
“Point that damn rocket up,” he yells before easing back out of his car.
Instead, I manage to drop it on the ground. Now they’re shooting under the patrol car. It’s not enough to shoot the sheriff, I’m going to blow his car up.
He throws the SUV into gear and backs away from the sparks. He climbs back out and snatches the Roman candle off the ground. It puffs out one more blast and dies.
