Page 1 of Can't Stop
Chapter One
Rayna
Life on the run hasn’t been easy, but at least Dalton is good company. It’s not as if I was ever used to some sort of normalcy, anyway. Things have been anything but normal since he blew into my world. It’s kind of fabulous.
Almost as fabulous as the taxidermy-rat thong I hold against my pants.
“You can’t be serious,” Dalton whispers. He runs his hand through his dark hair and glares at the bikini bottoms. “They make those to look at, not wear. It’s a gag gift.”
I peer past him, at the man working the cash register. “Is there a top as well?”
The man grabs a plastic bottle and spits dark liquid into it before raising a gnarled finger toward some shelves in the shadowy back half of the shop. “I think she put some out last week. Ain’t been selling too good, so she ain’t been making as many.”
“Gee, I wonder why,” Dalton mutters, and I smack his arm before I head toward the dark recesses.
As I thumb past a raccoon-skin bikini, I find the top that matches the bottoms in my other hand. The stiff skins are barely big enough to cover my nipples, but that’s okay. The more Dalton can see, the better. With a grin, I tuck the prizes under my arm and head for the register.
“Eighty-five for the set,” the man says, and Dalton begrudgingly pulls his wallet from his back pocket.
It’s probably not wise to spend this much money on something so silly, but one day we will put down roots, and when that day comes, I want to have a nice little taxidermy collection started. I’ll feather my nest with all the dead things. Van Gogh will still take the top spot, of course, but he needs friends, and this little rat getup is perfect.
Dalton is kind enough to stop at these little hole-in-the-wall shops we pass on our journey south. We have no exact destination in mind. We’re just traveling along until something feels right.
Halloween is right around the corner, so that gives me something to look forward to. Dalton thinks we should take the year off, that we shouldn’t go on a spree this year. I beg to differ. It’s the one time of year when we allow ourselves to indulge in the darkest hobby. We already confine our deeds to a single day per year, and I’m not giving that up.
“He’s right, you know,” the grizzled man says as he dangles a black plastic bag toward Dalton. “You really shouldn’t wear this shit. My wife don’t exactly make them with skin-safe ingredients, and I doubt you want to go pressing tanning solution against your nether regions.”
Considering the Frankenpeen incident, some aged tanning solution is the least of my concerns. Besides, it’s not as if I’ll wear it long before Dalton rips it off and ravages me.
I pluck the bag from his hands and thank the man for his advice—which I won’t be following—as we leave the shop. My stomach grumbles loud enough for Dalton to hear when we step into the waning fall sunshine. He peers down the strip of stores situated along the edge of a dilapidated parking lot.
“Do you want to try the Chinese place or the Mexican place?”
The Chinese place doesn’t even have pictures of the food on the wall, so I opt for Mexican.
Authentic Mexican smells and sounds and sights tease my senses as we step into the building at the end of the strip. A stunning dark-haired hostess leads us to a dimly lit booth in the back of the restaurant. Seconds later, we have drinks and a bottomless basket of chips and salsa.
“Pick something cheap,” Dalton whispers as we peruse the menu.
I sigh and pull Van Gogh from my bag. I place him beside the napkin holder with a pat of his head. He’s looking a little worse for wear these days, but life isn’t easy for this antique squirrel taxidermy. He isn’t meant to travel the world.
“We really need to look into setting up somewhere,” I say. “We could save the traveling for once a year, when we . . . you know.”
Dalton closes his menu and nods. “I know what you mean, bones. I want that too.” He reaches across the table and grips my hands. “We just haven’t found the right place yet. When we do, we’ll know.”
He’s right. We don’t exactly slot nicely into any of the places we’ve been through so far. We snag odd jobs in the urban and rural communities we pass through along the way, and none has felt like home.
A server comes to take our order. Dalton gets two soft tacos, and I do the same. The chimichangas are calling my name, but I want to have enough money left over to stay some place nice tonight. Preferably somewhere with at least one star.
As we wait for our food, I glance around at the decor, which is mostly placed to set the mood. Papel picado douses the ceiling in color. A large mural depicting a mariachi band performing in a bustling city center dominates the rear wall. But something out of place catches my eye—a large, furry figure in a dark corner. A single dim spotlight illuminates its terrifying and very impossible form.
I snag the arm of a passing busboy and point to the strange taxidermy piece. “Excuse me, what the fuck is that?”
The young man doesn’t need to turn his head to know what I’m referring to. “My great grandmother had it commissioned. It’s a chupacabra—a legend. She swore that’s what it looked like, though, and when she picked it up, she paid extra because the taxidermist did such a good job.”
“Can I take a closer look?”
“Rayna,” Dalton says.
