Page 7 of Vicious Sentiments

A fire station sign, a coast guard sign, a seaport sign, and on Julian’s side, a rocket launch viewpoint. Another curve and a right and then we are surrounded by nothing. He slows, and I see another car up ahead, parked at an odd angle on the side of the road with its headlights off.

“It’s fine,” Julian says, and I realize I have been furrowing my brows. “Stay in the car. Ten minutes at most.”

I nod.

He pulls up along the side of the other car, and I notice three men leaning against the hood. Julian turns the wheel and we make a slow U-turn before he puts the car in reverse and backs up behind the men who have moved to the trunk of their car. The cars are trunk to trunk and I resist the urge to twist in my seat.

Julian cuts the engine and begins to fumble with the dash panel beneath the screen that controls the radio. To my surprise, it pops open easily and he reaches in.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, and before I can be confused, he pulls out a gun.

It’s a black sleek handgun that fits perfectly into his palm, and he leans forward, tucking it into the back of his belt.

I should be alarmed, but it’s clear that the gun isn’t for me. I also don’t find guns scary. I’ve been hurt far worse from just hands. Maybe I should worry about my situation—the men outside, the involvement of said gun—but I believe Julian when he says it’s fine.

He gets out of the car, and I again resist the urge to turn around. I hear the trunk pop and the murmurs of the men. Without turning my head, I eye the side mirror. All I can see is a bit of the dark tail light and the profile of one man. There’s a jostle followed by a click and it seems familiar enough that I would think Julians accessing thespare tire.

There’s a weight shift in the car—I feel my seat rise—signaling that he’s removed something. The trunk shuts and I shift my eyes to the rear-view mirror. Julian’s placed a big case or bag on the trunk and he’s making an unzipping motion. The men crowd around him and one flicks his gaze to the mirror I’m peering through. I quickly look away before he can make eye contact and keep my eyes down for the rest of the exchange.

Chapter Seven

The Orlando National Airport is crowded and feels more vast than the whole town of Bridgerock. I stick close to Julian, my legs burning to keep up with his long strides. I couldn’t fall behind even if I tried though because he has my hand clamped in his. Neither of us have any luggage and I feel out of place when we stop and he lets go of my hand.

Needless to say, I’ve never been to an airport and the metal detector that is three people in front of us has my heart hammering. Irrationally, I feel like it’s going to beep when I walk through, even though all I have is the new phone.

I mimic Julian and pull a plastic tub to me, placing the phone inside. I think of the zipper on my jacket and in a haste tug it off and throw that in too. Julian watches from the corner of his eye and smirks. I hide my embarrassment behind my hair.

Julian goes through the detector first and doesn’t beep. I’m not surprised, as I’m sure he does this all the time. I watched him put the gun back into the hidden compartment in the McLaren as well, which we dropped off at a shipping facility. Julian says it will be transported back home, wherever that is.

When I asked why we weren’t driving back, he said that it was necessary to drive here but not to drive home. I didn’t ask him to elaborate.

I hug myself and step through the metal detector. Thankfully, it doesn’t beep, and Julian grabs a hold of my hand again. As I shrug my jacket back on and pocket the phone, I notice one of the female security guards giving us an odd look. At first, I think it’s my dreary outfit in comparison to Julian’s upscale attire but then remember that he’s older and our hand-holding might seem inappropriate. He doesn’t look old enough to be my father and it’s clear he’s not a brother.

I want to worry about it, but can’t. All I care about is that I feel safe when Julian is holding my hand.

I’m not even concerned with whatever he traded with the men at the port, that whatever he did trade is now hidden in the trunk of the McLaren. I assume it’s sketchy but how bad can it be?

“Have you ever been on a plane?” Julian looks down at me and I shake my head.

“Are you nervous?”

I shrug. I am but my excitement is overpowering it. I also think that if Death wanted me, she would have taken her chance when I offered all the times before. Even so, if the plane did crash, I’m not afraid of her.

“Well, this should be a nice experience to pop—” He stops, blinks, and then smiles slyly.

He starts rubbing his thumb on the back of my hand, clearing his throat.

“It’ll be nice. We’re in first class,” he says.

Chapter Eight

Again, to my dismay, I slept through the whole flight. I was a groggy mess at the layover in San Francisco and I was lucky to put one foot in front of the other.

Finally, Julian says no more planes when we land in Santa Barbara. He leads me like a man who knows his way around an airport and before I know it, we are outside in the afternoon sun. I’m thinking of the McLaren and wondering if it could have already been shipped here, but instead we approach a sleek black car with a man in a suit leaning against the passenger door.

The man must be sixty but he’s well filled out and doesn’t look frail. He has kind eyes that quizzically take in Julian’s grasp on my hand and then flick to my frayed shorts and scuffed sneakers. He averts his gaze quickly and opens the back door.

“Home or…?” he asks Julian.

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