Page 19 of Falling in Reverse

My best friend’s face turns deadly as Juice strums his fingers along the rubber handles of his bike. “Sorry to say, but your ass ain’t pickin’ up heavy ass crates,” he chomps out. “You’re gettin’ too skinny, chicka.”

“Then I’ll stare at yours and catcall you to make you feel special,” I deadpan through a stale-ass expression.

Juice winks at me, his light-hearted nature welcoming right now. “Sounds good to me.”

“Whose blood is that?” I ask, and Levi only spares me half a second before analyzing the street again.

“Not mine. And you’ll stay out of the way.” He declares it as though he’s the boss of this gig. And maybe he is, since Juice and Hot Rod are always following him like two lost puppy dogs.

I salute him with two fingers across my forehead. “Won’t be a problem.”

I’ll be asleep on top of a shipping container while these dummies are loading up the ship with the stolen guns and sending them off to wherever their destination is to.

FIVE

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I slept for maybe an hour before Juice’s rendition of “Astronaut in the Ocean” by Our Last Night was, not only being sung by him, but on full fucking blast off his Bluetooth speaker.

I wasn’t much help, as Juice stated. Plus, they had several forklifts lifting the heavy crates onto a freighter, so I wasn’t needed.

However, I made myself useful by texting Travis—who just happens to be Sheriff Muncy’s son—to bring a bunch of burgers, fries, and pops for the boys from the twenty-four-hour diner in town.

Since the shipping yard has three shifts, it’s always busy. Plus, it was nice to have a place to go to at all hours of the day after Levi and I used to pull all-nighters doing stupid shit, then chuckling about it over chili fries.

Receiving a special bag from Travis—a cheeseburger with ketchup, mustard, and extra pickles—he sits next to me on top of a red shipping container as the boys below chow down while they work.

Hot Rod shoves his French fries in the back pocket of his black jeans while he guides Juice on the forklift to stay steady on the pier connected to the ship. And I wish they could be as focused on a conversation as they can moving machinery.

Boys.

“I’m not gonna ask what you guys got going on here, but I am going to say that my dad is sleepin’ right now.” I smile at Travis consistently, being respectful of not prying into all the silly, stupid crap I get into.

But always tell him, anyway.

“Hijacked a truck full of guns that were going to the Forsaken Crew.”

Travis’s head snaps my way, and I can already sense his state of anxiety. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him that. “What?”

I steal a look at him, his curly mahogany brown hair perfectly paired with blueish-green eyes that lock onto me through green-rimmed glasses. I’m his wild friend who can’t chill the hell out—like ever.

“Are you okay?”

I lift my burger still wrapped in waxed paper. “I’m here, aren’t I? Everything’s cool.”

“Yeah, but…were you shot at?”

I shake my head.

Yeah, I recognize that I’m lying. I know that he could go ask Levi, Juice, Hot Rod, or any of the other guys, but he won’t.

He won’t because he trusts me, and as much as I appreciate and honor it, I don’t want Travis to worry about me like Levi does every second of every day. In which, by the time he turns thirty, Levi’s going to be full of gray hairs and wrinkles if he doesn't stop.

“How’s school?” I ask him, changing the subject to something more cheery for him. Travis loves college. He’s a super-smart guy who excels at math and science. Your textbook definition of a nerd but without the acne and big words that he randomly throws in sentences. I don’t need a dictionary when I speak to him, so there’s that. And if I hadn’t known him since first grade, and didn’t make stupid decisions, like date guys who aren’t any good, he’d be the perfect guy for me.

Levi would approve of him, loves him like a brother, could kick his ass any day of the week, and we’ve all known each other forever. Dad thinks he’s great, doesn’t understand more than an eighth of what he says when Travis gets going on but, nonetheless, there wouldn’t be a standoff with a shotgun if he got me home too late.

Trav is one of those guys who didn’t let poverty stricken his positive outlook on life when the world wasn’t so benevolent to him. I’ve been beating boys’ asses since elementary school for bullying him, yet he never got on me about protecting him. He always thanked me, and I looked over him like a mother lion, ready to pounce on anyone who crossed him.

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