Chapter Sixteen #2
A waitress wearing bouncy antennae and an alien-patterned apron stopped at their table.
She glanced at Pru first, then Aiden, and tested a polite, “Hola,” exhaling, relieved, when Pru said, “Hola, cómo estás?” They took turns ordering, laughing their way through items like Flying Saucer Burger and I Want to Believe Waffles .
Aiden sipped his iced tea, watching night fall outside the window while the rest of the band and Pru argued about superior dipping sauces.
He listened, laughing occasionally, and tucked his shoe behind Shay’s ankle.
Shay sipped his clear soda, cheeks flushed, glancing at the space between them in the booth, as if they hadn’t been naked together last night.
Aiden swayed their feet back and forth, ignoring the lightness in his chest.
Yearning had become a learned thing, a lived thing, and this was entirely different.
“Did you guys ever hear about what went down with Cassandra?” Dylan tilted his head, cringing.
“I read a few articles, and I guess they’re investigating someone named Catherine.
. . Everette. . . ? Elvis? I don’t know, anyway, the story is whack .
Like, baby-stealing, animal-killing, cult-stuff.
Apparently, that Cassie girl was into some wild shit. ”
“Whoa, no, I haven’t followed any of that,” Georgia said. She lifted her eyebrows. “Not to be a dick about it, but Cassie’s friends were pretty weird. Like, extremely weird.”
“Typical wannabe witches. Collecting bones, carrying tarot cards, wearing crystals. Creepy, but harmless,” Aiden said. “Cami has to deal with them all the time.”
Shay poked at his food. “They were nice, at least.”
“Yeah, nice ,” Dylan said, sarcastically. He wrinkled his nose. “Nice enough to not give a single shit about their dead friend? Too weird for me, man. Hail the Haunted was cool—can’t wait to jam with them again. But I’m glad their groupies are gone.”
“That’s fair,” Pru said on a laugh.
“Yeah, seriously. . .” Aiden turned, pausing with his mouth against the sweaty glass.
The diner—Blastin’ Off!—was a cozy, L-shaped building with a counter facing the kitchen and tables lined beneath stickered windows.
A couple sat opposite each other in an adjacent booth, but otherwise the restaurant was empty.
Except for a dainty shape seated against the wall, sipping an orange soda.
She wore familiar velvet gloves and met Aiden’s eyes over rose-tinted glasses.
He knew her cropped, teal undercut, her hazel eyes, and the tilt to her lips.
He tried, desperately, to blink her away.
But Laura remained, seated with one leg propped over the other, and mouthed hi , rockstar .
“Aiden,” Pru said, snapping her fingers. “We’re back to the alien museum. You in? Yes or no?”
“Yes,” he blurted, and tore his eyes away from the tarot-reading-witch-bitch in the corner. “Yeah, sure. ET exhibit. Fine, whatever.”
“You good, man?” Georgia asked. Her eyebrows pulled together, lips parting for a ketchup-covered fry.
The bell above the door jingled. When he glanced at the counter again, Laura had vanished. “I’m just…” Icy liquid sloshed against his lips, into his mouth, down his throat. “Tired, I think. Glad to be off the road for a minute.”
“Yeah, same. But next time Jacob wants to book us a pit stop, let me know,” Shay said to Pru. He offered a wilted smile and pointed to the flickering motel sign across the parking lot. “I’ve got travel points. This place isn’t awful, but we could be staying at a Hilton Garden Inn.”
“Okay, your highness, I’ll be sure to do that.” Pru flashed a sarcastic grin and rolled her eyes.
“ Highness ,” Georgia parroted, laughing softly. “Sorry to break it to you, Shay, but we’re not on the Chain Reaction payroll. Those fancy digs in Vegas were nice and all, but that’s really not our speed.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got the means, so.” Shay shrugged and fiddled with his crumpled napkin. “If we ever feel like an upgrade, I can probably figure something out.”
“I mean, if we wanna be fancy , we could start by scraping that fuckin’ decal off the back of the RV,” Dylan said.
The table hummed through sleepy laughter. Pru drained her coffee while everyone fished bills out of their wallets to cover the tab.
Maybe Aiden hadn’t really seen the tarot reader from last night.
Maybe he was straddling the line between asleep and awake, halfway dreaming about a dead girl and her strange friends.
Thomas might appear next. That would mean asleep , right?
Trapped. Except the cushioned booth beneath him said awake .
Shay nudging him under the table, the bell above the door, the desert smell—crunchy plants, cooked asphalt, cheap laundry detergent—all said, Aiden Moore, you’re awake.
“Set an alarm,” Georgia said, walking backward behind Pru. She caught Aiden’s eyes as his shoes beat the outdoor staircase. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Nine o’clock,” Aiden said.
In the middle of the sparse parking lot, Dylan climbed into the RV, and on the second floor, Shay unlocked a slouching door numbered: 113.
Shay held the door with his foot. “We’re talking,” he said, and he meant now .
Aiden heaved a sigh and walked into the dark room, feeling across the wall for the light switch. “Where do we start? The murdering you part, the almost murdering me part, or the party?” His fingers grazed the smooth switch and the lamp on the nightstand illuminated.
Time slipped, mimicking bare feet on black ice.
Death follows you everywhere.
Laura sat cross-legged on the bed with her hands folded around Shay’s journal.
She tipped her head, and a cool, round cylinder pressed against Aiden’s temple.
The floor flexed. Shoes , he thought. Gun .
It was both. Boots, actually. Embroidered shit-kickers.
And the gun, lengthened by a silencer. The woman beside him could’ve been the girl’s mother.
Brown eyes creased like a crop circle, flat-mouthed and harsh, narrow face shaded by a wide-brimmed hat.
Sallow teeth pulled at a scar on her lip—empty holes from a long-healed piercing.
Aiden was afraid in that oddly unselfish way people in love usually were, because whoever she was, she hadn’t come for him.
“Close that door, honey,” the woman said, shifting her deep-set eyes to Shay. She prodded Aiden with the gun, voice sweet and rough, like honey on sandpaper. “We’ll start at the beginning.”