Page 26 of The House Beyond the Dunes

Outside, the hot summer air has cooled, but the air remains thick and humid. I pause, looking left and right, fearful one of the patrons—or maybe even Pete, who might not be as smart as Joey thinks—is waiting for me. A salty breeze skims over my skin, carrying the sounds of cars and drunken laughter.

When I see no one waiting for me, I cross to my car and slip behind the wheel. Starting the engine, I drive down the two-lane beach roaduntil I find a dark corner of a crowded hotel parking lot and slide into a shadowed spot.

Baseball bat in hand, I settle into the back seat, lock the doors, and cover myself with a blanket. I should have at least four or five hours before the sun comes up and someone notices me.

The parking lot is busy, but it’s summer in Nags Head. The intoxicated men and women who are wandering around, looking to squeeze a little more out of a vacation or long weekend. Male laughter is followed by a collection of women chatting about looking for their car. One tries the driver’s-side door of my car but discovers it’s locked. Burrowing under the blanket, I hope they don’t notice me.

“Renee, that piece-of-shit car isn’t yours,” a woman says.

“Oops,” another woman says.

A couple of others laugh. Thankfully, they move on. Soon the world around me is silent.

This time of year, stillness summons the old demons. Anything I’ve buried deep bubbles to the surface during the Fourth of July weekend.

Fourteen years ago, I’d hitchhiked to Nags Head when I was fifteen. I’d snuck out of my foster home determined to prove to myself and my foster mother that I didn’t need anyone. I thought adventure was waiting.

Well, somethingwaswaiting, but it wasn’t adventure.

A carload of gals who’d picked me up in Norfolk drop me off on the beach road at the ice cream shop at Milepost Six. The bleach-blond driver asks, “Are you meeting someone?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I lie. “My cousin is going to meet me here. We’ve got it all figured out.”

She eyes me an extra second. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” I smile. “It’s all good.”

The driver finally nods and drives off.

At the ice cream shop, I order double scoops of chocolate. I’m licking my cone outside the shop, wondering where I’ll go next, when I spot the neon signs of a bar. A place like that won’t hire me to work the front end, butmaybe I can wash dishes. I’m licking my way through the second scoop when an old truck pulls up beside me.

The driver has a thick beard, his dark hair skims his torn T-shirt, and a gold earring stud winks in the lamppost light. The other bearded guy is harder to see, but he kind of looks like he might be a brother or cousin.

“Hey,” Mr.Earring says.

I shift my gaze away from them.

“Chocolate Cone Girl, don’t look away.” His friendly tone sharpens with tension. “We just want to talk.”

I rise and toss the ice cream in the trash can. “No thanks.”

A door opens, and I hear boots moving toward me. When I turn, the driver is only feet away. He smells of construction dust and sweat. “I’m just trying to be friendly.”

“I don’t need any friends.”

If he’s realized how young I am, he doesn’t seem to care. “Can’t have enough friends.”

I dash into the bar and stand in the shadows. When a waitress eyes me, I hurry to the ladies’ room, where I linger for at least a half hour. When I’m sure the guys are gone, I slip out the back door. I’m proud of myself. I’ve made it to the beach, ditched a few losers, and even had ice cream. Who says I can’t take care of myself?

Headlights flash, and when I turn, the truck is at the end of the alley. I grip my backpack and take a step back. Time to get to the street and vanish into crowds.

As I turn to run, the truck’s passenger is blocking my path. He’s grinning. “Are you ditching us?”

My heart pounds in my chest. “No.”

“Liar.”

He grabs my arm as the truck pulls up beside us. He opens the back seat door. “Get in.”

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