and not just one but two Mexican Bajas, or as some call them drug rugs, that I would probably live in when I didn’t have to wear the fucking blazer, an old Army jacket that is lined, and a brand new pair of those black rubber Birkenstock slides. How much did I spend? Because even the poor get to Black Friday with the rest of them—under a hundred dollars, which happens to be less than the Birks that still had the tags on them. Today was, by far, my best thrifting day ever.
With the extra money I made from tips on Thanksgiving—the biggest from Patrick Steel—I stopped at Target and splurged on cabin socks of varying lengths and colors, two sports bras that I will only wear on gym days, toiletries, and everything I need for tonight’s treat—s’mores.
I stopped and washed everything at a laundromat next to the YMCA, where I snuck in and showered, a trick I learned while growing up when we traveled and got back just in time to toss my treasures in the dryer. I immediately threw the gray, purple, and black drug rug on, and it felt so damn good.
Pulling onto the road leading to the lake beyond the trees, I am transported in my own personal heaven-like headspace, with Zeppelin’s “Ramble On” playing, a first song Mom and Liberty played every time we got in the vehicle for yet another move.
Nearly through the trees, singing at the top of my lungs, I am happy for the first time in a couple of days. I feel that balance returning, like maybe I didn’t hit the reset hard enough. Then I see a vehicle, an older model Ford Bronco, sitting in front of my lake.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I grumble as I come to a stop.
I’m about to throw it in reverse and back the fuck out of my secret spot when the driver’s door opens and someone, a man, steps out and waves me forward.
“Pfft,” I say. “Do not beckon me.”
When he reaches in his pocket, my badass bubble bursts as I think about the old-school slasher flicks that played in the quad on the inflatable movie screen all night on Halloween and fear sets in as I think, This is not how my life ends.
My phone rings, and I jump and look toward the man, who is holding something up.
A phone.
I look at my phone and see a local 732 area code. Reluctantly, I hit accept but don’t say anything.
“Savvy, it’s Tobias Easton.”
Tobias is the president of Seashore Academy’s student body, and he and three others basically run the school and the underground parties, fights, and gambling in the area, along with the stupid app, The Seashore Sound. Neither the local police nor Whitaker call them on any of the illegal activity. He’s the head of all the assholes, the elite.
“Heather contacted us. Told us what was up and asked for my advice on how to deal with the situation.”
“Is that what I am?” I huff. “A fucking situation?”
“I—”
“You may have the cops and Whitaker on a leash, but let me tell you something, Easton, I’m nobody’s bitch. So you, your uppity wannabes, and the boys’ club can fuck off and take those horrible excuses for women with you.”
“Nobody wants to put you on a leash, Savvy,” he says with a smile in his voice. “And I have no desire to leash anyone. I’m counting the days until graduation to get the hell out of here.”
“Like I should trust you.”
“I’m thinking you’d rather deal with me than Harrison, Kai, or Miles, which is why I’m alone.”
“If you kill me—”
“If I kill you?” He laughs like he’s annoyed. “I fuck up my chance at Colombia. I’m not willing to do that. I’m also not willing to help keep your ass out of trouble if you don’t come talk to me. So, let’s chat so I can get on with my day.”
When I don’t say anything, he lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “Savvy, it’s me and you figuring this out, or she goes to Whitaker. I’ve had her mark you as checked in. So, you decide. But before you do, remember that you made a deal after your arrest.”
“Wait—how do you know about—”
“I know everything.” He hangs up the phone and tosses it back into his truck. Then he walks around and behind it and grabs what looks like wood from out of the back.