Page 6 of Dare
Rollingher eyes, she dismisses my warning with a wave of her hand. I pull out behindher and a few minutes later we’re cruising down the highway. Summer isstubbornly hanging on with its heat and humidity, though Labor Day is rightaround the corner, and I wipe at the back of my neck with my palm. For themoney I paid to rent this damn truck, you’d think the air conditioning wouldwork, but when I try, all I get is hot stinking puffs of air.
Highwaydriving is dull and monotonous even with my favorite playlist blaring, and mymind begins to wander. Ayda. Messing with her through the wall has been themost fun I’ve had in a long time. I’ve always been able to hear her, but itnever occurred to me to talk to her. Maybe because I was too busy listening toher with her vibrator and trying to picture the look on her face when shecomes.
She’sso introverted, staying in her apartment most of the time. I assume it’sbecause she’s self-conscious. I’ve seen her a few times, lying beside the pool,or coming from her car, but I don’t think she noticed me. Her eyes were alwaystrained on the ground as if she hoped to find a wad of money on the pavement,her long hair hanging half in her face. It wasn’t until I saw her a few daysago talking to the homeless man in the parking lot that I actually saw hersmile, and got a glimpse of why she hides herself away.
Crinkledskin, somehow warped and bubbled, extends from the corner of her jaw up to hertemple on the right side of her face. It must be from a burn. I don’t know howlong she’s had it or what happened, but she’s obviously not comfortable lettingpeople see. I can’t blame her. People can be assholes.
Ifound myself staring at her, but not because of the scar. It was the expressionon her face as she spoke to the homeless man the rest of us have completelyoverlooked. It wasn’t a look of pity or disgust, but compassion andunderstanding. She cares. And that’s a hard goddamned thing to find these days.
Leahputs on her turn signal, and I follow her small silver car onto the highwayramp and through a neighborhood dotted with apartment buildings. Instead ofliving in the dorms, she’s opted to share an apartment close to campus with twoof her high school friends. Neither are present when we arrive, but theapartment is already lightly furnished with their belongings.
“Areyou sure you don’t want me to stay until one of your roommates shows up?” I askas she starts unpacking her boxes.
Gettingto her feet, she approaches me and lays her hands on my shoulders, looking upat me. “I’ll be fine. You have to quit worrying. I’ve been on my own a fewyears now, you know.”
“I’maware.” My gaze sweeps around her bedroom before I continue the search out inthe hall. “Do you have a smoke detector?”
Laughing,she rolls her eyes. “Yes, right there.” She points to a detector in the centerof the hall ceiling. “And there’s a carbon monoxide detector in the kitchen anda fire extinguisher under the sink. Now, get going so you won’t have to drivethe whole way in the dark.”
“Fine,I know when I’m not wanted.” She squeals when I dig my fingers into her ribs,tickling her like I did when she was a kid. When I stop, her demeanor turnsserious.
“ThanksDerek. For everything. I know how much you sacrificed to save me and I promiseI’ll make you proud. I’m going to work with kids who were hurt just like Iwas.”
Mythroat tightens and I pull her into a hug. “Just live your life and be happy,kid. That’s all I want.”
Shesqueezes me, then steps back. “I am happy.”
“Andstay away from boys.”
“Noproblem. I prefer men now.”
“Realfunny, critter.”
“Don’tcall me that!” She shoves me, laughing, then returns to unpacking.
“Seeyou, Leah.”
“Bye,”she calls, her head buried in a box.
Thedrive back is interminable, but after seeing where she’s living I’m not asworried about her. She’s happy. Maybe I should try for a little happinessmyself.
Thepast year since I was released from prison, I’ve been partying, trying to makeup for all the lost time, block out the memories and the misery of those graywalls. I’ve never had trouble attracting women, and since I put on abouttwenty- five pounds of muscle while I was locked up, it’s become even easier.My bedroom has been a revolving door of women, mostly one night stands I pickedup at a bar. Just a little fun for both of us with no strings attached. Ithought I was happy with that, that getting laid and hanging out with myfriends was enough, but now I’m not sure.
Mywork makes me happy. In Safe Hands—or ISH—is the best thing I’ve ever done,made even better because I started the organization with my best friend,Landon. Jeremy and Justus came along later, but they are just as dedicated andtrustworthy, which is a necessity when hunting down online predators and childmolesters. All of us have hacking skills that help keep us anonymous and allowus to aid the police while also hiding our own criminal activities.
Weare criminals, never doubt that, but I’ve never hurt anyone who didn’t deserveit. We’re largely funded by our ability to hack the hackers and steal theirstolen funds, most taken from the sale of credit card and bank account numbers.I never have to worry about money. Our main concern is not getting caught whenwe dispose of the predators who don’t go in our reports to the cops.
Repeatoffenders and child molesters of the worst kind aren’t reported. Most have donemultiple stints for horrible acts against children and the system has failed tolock them up for good. Sometimes, the justice system fails, and we step in toclean up their mess.
WhenI was first released, banging random women, hanging out with the guys, andtracking the predators was enough, but now I’m not sure. It feels likesomething is missing.
It’slate when I get home and without the guys here, it seems so quiet. We’verecently moved ISH from my apartment to a house Landon inherited from his uncle,and while I’m glad to have my place back to myself, I’m not used to silence.Prison was always loud, with prisoners yelling and banging around all day andnight. All I wanted when I was inside was a few minutes of quiet, but now I’mnot sure how to deal with it.
Igrab a cold piece of leftover pizza from the fridge and eat it while kicking myshoes off before plopping on my bed. As soon as my back hits the wall, I canhear Ayda’s T.V. The opening theme song for The Walking Dead plays, remindingme I’m about to miss my favorite show. Grabbing my remote, I turn my T.V. tothe correct channel. While the commercials are playing, I can’t resist talkingto Ayda, curious whether she’ll still respond.
“I’llbet Daryl is your favorite isn’t he? Probably the reason you watch the show.”
Thesound of an exasperated sigh reaches my ears, and I think maybe she’s going toignore me this time when she finally replies, “Actually, I like Michonne.”
