Ferocious (IOU #6)

CHAPTER 1 Rowan

CHAPTER 1

Rowan

D rumming my fingers on the steering wheel in time with the heavy metal song blaring from my speakers, I squint and scan the empty road ahead, then huff out a breath.

All right. Where are you?

It’s just after sunset, and I’m speeding north on a twisty, four-lane section of PCH, well past the county line from Malibu. The Pacific Ocean surges to my left, churning from a recent storm, and green-gray scrubby hills rise on my right. The setting is so majestic that they routinely film car commercials here, with the landmark Mugu Rock as backdrop. Beyond that, there’s nothing but strawberry fields for miles. A few cars zoom past me going south, then I’m alone on a vacant road again. Well, just me and Wilbur.

Biting my lip, I turn the music volume down to better hear the app’s robotic instructions. “In 1,000 feet, your rider will be on the right.”

I scoff. Wanna bet? There’s no one around. I still slow down.

Up ahead is a campground entrance. It’s November—Thanksgiving was yesterday—so I can’t imagine it’s a popular time for camping. But who knows, maybe my passenger, “Pierce,” (brand- new account, no ratings) went on a long one-way hike and is now catching a ShareARide home.

Or maybe he’s an axe murderer.

Equally likely? Or do I have too much imagination? My money’s on my imagination getting away from me, although I guess there’s a possibility that he’s a criminal. Takes one to know one, after all.

Do I care either way? Nope. As I’ve been telling myself since I accepted the gig: Surge pricing. Worth it. You don’t want to drive the hundred miles home without making enough to pay for the gas.

So, yeah, I’m taking a calculated risk. Deliver newbie Pierce where he wants to go, then hunt down some dinner. Food’s now a more pressing need, since I forgot to eat lunch, and my stomach’s starting to gnaw on itself like an ouroboros.

A flash of a phone light up ahead. I scan the app. The movement matches the dot on my screen. There he is.

I yawn. Today’s been a long damn day that’s part of a long damn life . I’ll never understand why Black Friday shoppers want to go to Walmart at two a.m. (and I have no idea how they were planning to get back home with their big-screen TV or whatever, not my problem). It’s been nonstop since then. I navigate toward my passenger—er, now I see I’m going to have passengers —and brake when I get close.

Two men are standing in the dirt next to a speed limit sign. At their side is a box big enough to hold a very small coffin—or me. Or me in that coffin.

Sheesh, Rowan. Don’t be so morbid.

Fine. It’s the size of a petite coffee table. That’s what normal people would think. Although why the hell are they out by a campground with a box? Is their camping gear in it?

The guys are larger than me, but that’s nothing new. At 5′4″ in shoes and a hundred and mumble-mumble pounds, I’m no one’s definition of a big, buff man.

But if you call me a twink, I’ll cut you.

Something’s off about these guys. A weighty sensation hits my gut, and my pulse quickens. My fingers find the familiar hard shape of the switchblade in my back pocket. Maybe I should drive on by …

Calm down. They’re regular ShareARide customers. You need the money. And you can handle yourself.

I steady my breath. These dudes aren’t that big. They’re just … normal. I’m the one who’s below average.

Stop thinking everyone’s going to beat you up. You’re not twelve.

One of the hoodie-clad men wiggles his lit-up phone screen at me in the universal signal for “Are you my ShareARide driver?” Though it’s hard to tell, he seems to match the description of the thumbnail photo of the rider: medium brown hair and a beard. His companion is built like a bulldog, squat and powerful. Neither of them is particularly handsome, which is shallow of me to notice, but hey, I window-shop.

I pull to a stop at the side of the road near them, pushing the button on my door to roll down the front passenger window. The bulldog-shaped dude stands so I can see him in my headlights, while the other one—taller—approaches the car.

“Rowan?” he asks in a reedy voice, peeking around Wilbur, who’s dangling from his spot up front. He reacts the way people usually do when they first see my hair and tattoos, as well as when they catch sight of Wilbur. It’s a restrained double take. Like they want to be cool, but I still surprise them.

I nod. “Pierce?”

“Yep.” Pierce lifts the handle to the front passenger door and opens it partway, then stops, a hand rubbing his throat. “Um. Can I …” He trails off and gestures at the large box sitting on the ground as if he’s trying to figure out how to fit it in my car.

My car’s an older, pre-owned Corolla. (I lied to ShareARide about how old my car is. X’s hacking skills are legendary—the VIN matches the plates and everything. I also fudged how old I am, which is easy to do in my weird-ass birth certificate situation.) But my car’s not what’s stopping him.

Wilbur, my heartleaf philodendron, is suspended from a macramé hanger tacked to the ceiling over the seat next to me. Wherever I go, Wilbur goes, just as he has for the past fifteen years. #PlantDad. Wilbur’s been my faithful companion ever since my nomadic childhood. He’s seen a lot. But with him in the front seat, there’s no space for anyone to sit, let alone to store a large box.

Which is precisely why he’s there: No one can get too close unless I want them to.

“Will it fit between you two in the back seat?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Pierce shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Do you want to move the plant?”

Now it’s my turn to shake my head, trailing a finger over Wilbur’s wide leaves. “Just put the box in the trunk.”

“Okay.”

I pop the trunk, then decide I’d better earn my tip. I put the car in park and get out to help Pierce maneuver the box. My bare arms prickle from the brisk ocean air. Should’ve grabbed my hoodie from its spot under Wilbur. Meh, this’ll only take thirty seconds.

I walk to the back and go to yank up the trunk lid, but before I can, Pierce opens the rear passenger door and dives headfirst into the back seat, his buddy already at the wheel. The doors slam shut as my car peels out, kicking up dust and rocks, charging up the road toward Mugu Rock as fast as an old Toyota can go. I watch as it bounces over a pothole, nearly losing the duct-taped bumper.

Wait. That didn’t … That couldn’t happen. They didn’t …

Then my heartbeat thunders. My eyes bulge, and my muscles tense.

My car!

Shit !

Adrenaline shoots through my body, and I see red. Literal red from the taillights of my fucking car .

“Fuckers!” I let out a primal scream, kicking at the dirt, then race after them. My body is shaking. My vision is cloudy, and my ears are pounding. “I’ll kill you!”

But it’s no use. I’m not that fast. My car takes off on a joyride up the coast and around a bend, while I’m left panting on the side of the road, thighs burning, anger boiling over.

It’s gone. I have no car, no hoodie. I pat my jeans pockets. Goddammit, they have my phone .

The only things on my person are my wallet—fat lot of good that will do, with the overdrawn bank card—and my knife.

And those assholes have Wilbur.

Tears sting my eyes, but I’ve learned not to cry when bad shit happens. I haven’t cried in eight years. I’m not going to now. Instead, I picture walls going up inside my brain. I retreat behind them, and no one can find me.

A calming breath. Through my nose. Like a bull.

What the fuck am I going to do?

I let out another scream, then pace and yell until I’m hoarse. Returning to the box, I kick at it, and it goes flying.

It’s empty.

Fucking scammers! I can’t believe I got conned. I can’t believe I lost Wilbur. I want to shred the box to ribbons, but that could dull my knife.

I sit down on the shoulder of the road with my head in my hands, the ocean crashing on the rocks across the way.

I will do violence upon the thieves. I’m adding them to my vengeance list.

Right now, though, I have to solve a problem.

It’s pitch black by the time I’ve made my way down the beach to civilization. I don’t know how far I’ve walked. I haven’t passed any houses, and counting speed limit signs doesn’t tell me distance. All I know is that it’s cold and I have no hoodie. Also, I’m hungry, angry, lonely, and tired, as my nice foster mom with twenty-seven years’ sobriety taught me to assess when everything was wrong with life. Not that knowing that makes it possible for me to change anything. I’m raging at the world. Pretty sure my feet have blisters. My throat’s dry, but there’s no water—no potable water. The air is sticky with salt and the cold beach humidity, and it stinks like seaweed.

At first, I considered flagging down someone and hitchhiking, but it’d be just my luck to come across creepers worse than Pierce—if that even is his name. So I keep trudging along the road, or down in the sand, depending on how wide the shoulder is, trying to keep my sneakers dry. I’m shivering uncontrollably.

Am I going to have to walk the whole hundred miles home to Lancaster? How long would that take? Will I collapse from hunger before I make it?

What’s going to happen to Wilbur?

Down the coast a ways, flames from a beach bonfire flicker.

As I keep walking, I reach a few cars parked along the highway, the first ones I’ve seen the entire time I’ve been on this march.

I must be into the northernmost part of Malibu, which is a long, twenty-plus-mile strip of coastline wedged up against hills. I’ll probably see the first mansion soon.

Must be nice to have no cares in the world. All the money to do all the things.

I pause in the inky night, watching the party of shadowed figures eating and drinking: some sitting in chairs, others standing and talking.

They’re playing some kind of loud metal music. When I get closer, I realize I recognize the band—it’s one of my favorites.

I park my ass in the cold sand and sit, watching them .

A plan hatches.

I’m going to observe for a while. See if an opportunity presents itself. At a minimum, I can rest after walking for miles and miles.

One man is sitting near the fire but off to the side, away from most of the others. Something about him calls to me.

He seems … lonely.

Easy prey?

I can stay where I am and watch. I’ll keep my distance until the right moment. Then I’ll make my move.