Lost Boy - Ker Dukey Page 0,6
her conquests here. Safer that way, according to her. Not to me. I wouldn’t say I like it when she brings strangers here.
“I’m not ashamed. If you mean did I come straight from a guy’s apartment, then yes.” She grins. “Give me a second to put on a pair of panties and I’ll give you a ride to campus.”
“Do I want to know why you came home without them?”
“Men like to keep them. A badge of honor.” She taps my nose with her spoon on her way down the hall to her room.
“It’s not a badge of honor if half the town is wearing it,” I call out, wiping my nose with a paper towel.
She’s back in less than a minute, pulling a pair of black panties up her thighs as she walks, hopping on one leg.
“Don’t be bitter,” she quips. “You could be doing this walk too if you just came out once in a while.”
Ignoring that statement, I say, “We have time for you to change,” I gesture to her midriff showing from her shirt missing half its material. Her skirt barely reaches the lower part of her thighs.
“Nah. We don’t. Gaby said the bakery dude gets there early on Mondays.”
“His name is Paul,” I remind her, knowing full well she knows. “Why are you covering for Gaby anyway?” It’s not like her to volunteer for someone else’s shift.
“She’s taking my Friday shift. I have a date.” She winks, biting her lip seductively for effect. “He has a friend?”
“Pass,” I tell her, rolling my eyes.
Charlotte’s the complete opposite of me. She’s a party girl, whereas I’m a loner. Despite our differences, she’s also my best friend.
God knows how we ended up this way, but here we are.
Tilting her head to study me, she stops at the front door, blocking my exit. My hand flies up to my neck. “What?” I ask, paranoia gripping me.
“Nothing…I’ve just never seen you wear your hair up. It’s nice.”
Her words don’t offer comfort. They confirm what I already feel: it’s not me.
My hand brushes over my scalp, gripping the hairband and yanking it free, allowing my locks to fall loose around my face. My security blanket.
“It’s fucking freezing,” Charlotte complains, blowing on her hands as soon as we settle in her piece of shit Nissan. The seats have holes and the air conditioning doesn’t work, but it’s dry and a ride.
She tries the engine, kicking it over, making it choke. “Fuck. Come on, baby.” She pets the steering wheel like it’s a living entity. “Don’t die on me today.”
“I can walk,” I offer, tugging on the stubborn seat belt.
“Fuck that. It’s raining.” She scoffs.
The engine kicks over, and she offers me a shit-eating grin. “He’s the only man who never lets me down,” she boasts.
“Why does it have to be a man?” I mock, finally clicking my belt in place.
“I only ride men,” she quips, clasping the gearshift and stroking it to get a rise out of me.
“You’re shameless.”
“Guilty.” She chuckles.
Condensation fogs the windows, making it almost impossible to see through them as she drives twenty miles per hour, squinting to see. “Should I crack a window?”
“If you want to get wet.” She snorts, then flips on the radio and sings along to Harry Styles out of tune while I watch the drops of rain slide down the passenger side window like tears on the cheek of sorrow. The tinkering of rain pounding the metal of the car is soothing, lulling me into a light sleep.
“Is there anyone else on the property?”
“No one’s alive.”
“Shit. What’s this?” Charlotte's voice slices through my memories. Blue flashing lights blur through the raindrops. She slows to a stop, swiping her arm down the windshield, trying to wipe the condensation away.
“What do you think happened?” I ask, a nervous bubble popping in the depths of my stomach.
“Car crash maybe?” She shrugs, gesturing to my window. “See if you can see anything.”
A tremor rattles my hand as I wind down my window and instantly get pelted with side rain. The flashing lights transport me back to my dream.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. You can come out now.”
“Lizzy?” Charlotte snaps, jarring me.
“I can’t see anything. There’s a crowd of people and a police officer turning cars around,” I mumble.
“Must be bad if they’re diverting traffic. I don’t know a way through to drop you on campus.”
“I’ll walk from here,” I tell her, unbuckling my belt and grabbing my backpack from the backseat.
“I have an umbrella in the trunk,” she offers.
“I’ll be fine.