Page 10 of Along for the Ride

He pulls onto the shoulder, and we climb out of the van. Gentry pops the hood, speaking every foul word he knows under his breath, and I drop to my knees. A dark, wet trail runs from where we were on the road to where we rolled to a stop. I place the sweet smell and rise to my feet.

“Cracked radiator,” I tell Gentry, lifting my eyes to a face so twisted with anger I don’t think it’s possible to untwist it at this point.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He brushes his hand through his hair. “Wehaveto get this done.”

I whip out my phone to call a tow. What else can we do? Gentry rips the cell from my hand and holds it away from me. “Chill out. I’m just trying to call for a tow.”

“And what? Have them tow away the van full of weapons and stolen money? I’m sure they won’t even notice the blood on your gloves. Fuck, Karson. Think with your head for once in your life.”

I lean against the steaming van and pull a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. I light it, which enrages Gentry to no end. He looks like his head might combust and throw his brain matter all over the grass, and I should feel bad for bringing him to this level of pissed off.

But I don’t.

“So we hitchhike?” I ask, bringing the smoke into my lungs.

“Another stupid suggestion. Who the fuck would pick up two men like us?” Gentry throws his hands down on the hood as he slams it closed.

I shrug. “It will look like one man until I pop out and get a gun on them.”

“That’s—” Gentry starts, his voice curt and ready to rip me a new asshole. “Actually not a bad idea.”

Did my brother give me a fucking compliment? Am I dead? Where are the flames and heat of hell?

“But you need to be the face,” he says. “No one is going to stop for a a man my size. They still may not stop since you’re a man too, but you’re slightly less imposing.”

“Sorry I didn’t have access to the prison workout system for the past six years,” I say with another drag on my cigarette, and that almost sends Gentry off the deep end. It’s not a good time to poke the bear, but I can’t help myself.

“Just get the goddamn bags. We’ll keep the pistols, but I’ll ditch the long guns in the woods. I’ll wait there while youtryto flag down some chump.”

I won’t just try. I’ll show Gentry my ideas can be as good—if not better—than his.

ChapterFive

Leana

I’m fucking tired. I’ve been on the streets for a week, but it feels like much longer. It feels like an eternity. This was easier when I traveled as a ballsy teen. Back before I was hooked on pills and looked like death warmed over. Back when my blue eyes were still filled with hope.

I stand with my sign, waiting for the bright glint of a few measly coins to land in the small cardboard box at my feet. If I’m lucky, someone will toss in a half-eaten meal or a flat soda. Mostly I get men yelling, “Show me your tits!” as they wait for the light to change. Shit, I’m so desperate, I’ve considered it on more than one occasion.

Sweat collects on my brow and trickles toward my eyes. I wipe it away before it can reach my lashes. My sunburned skin heats my fingertips, and I’m not sure how much more I can take. The heat is killing me. What little water I take in is converted to sweat in my body’s desperate effort to cool down. Running back to Mickey with my tail between my legs seems like a terrible idea, but it’s growing more tempting by the day.

I lift my hand to my forehead and shield my eyes from the harsh glare as I look at the motel across the road. They would have water. They might even let me use the lobby bathroom so I can cool my face and rinse the grit from my skin. If I ask nicely enough, maybe I can score a Tylenol for this pounding headache as well. I’ve come toward the end of my stash of drugs, and what little I use is only enough to keep the shakes away.

I fold the cardboard sign and tuck it under my arm. My cardboard box netted little more than a wad of trash from a bratty kid in an SUV, so I leave it behind. When the coast is clear, I walk across the road and work my way through the parking lot. Despite the glorious rush of cool air kissing my skin, I feel as if I might pass out by the time I walk through the sluggish automatic doors. Black ink spots dance in front of my eyes and obscure my vision. I reach for a display of travel brochures to steady myself, careful to keep it from crashing down.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” the woman behind the desk asks.

I stumble forward and lean against the lobby counter, my chest feeling heavy with every inhale. “I just really need some water. Do you have any?”

The woman looks around before reaching beneath the desk and handing me two bottles. “They’re for guests, so don’t tell me if you aren’t one,” she says with a tight smile.

I nod and rip the top from one of the bottles. Even though the liquid is room temperature, it soothes my cracked lips and coats my parched throat. I chug until I think I might puke, forcing myself to stop as my stomach begs for one more sip. It flows from the sides of my mouth, and I’m wearing half of it by the time I lower the bottle. The woman reaches beneath the desk once more and passes another bottle to me before motioning toward the automatic door with her chin.

I get the message. She’s done her good deed for the day and now I need to make myself scarce. The homeless are unwelcome by everyone, even those who feel the slightest twinge of pity for our sorry situation. We’re looked down upon, but only when someone takes the time to look at all. Most won’t even meet our gaze, as if they think we harbor some contagious disease they might catch by acknowledging our existence.

“Thanks,” I tell her, wiping the back of my hand along my mouth. I sigh as I leave the comfort of A/C and brave the heat once more.

The sun is taking no prisoners today.

---