14 Life on Mars? #2
He leans toward me, his warm breath washing over my lips. “Sit quietly, wait for Itchy to come back, and hope like hell he takes us to town.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. What’s the worst thing that could happen?
Other than the occasional dog barking and the angry wail of a baby in the distance, the neighborhood is deathly quiet.
Then the deep, throaty growl of a motorcycle cuts through the silence.
One motorcycle becomes two, and two becomes three.
The roar grows louder and louder, making the windows in the little hatchback vibrate as a chrome army thunders toward us, engines snarling as they fan out in attack formation.
Dressed in collar-to-boot leather, with a massive beard almost as long as his flowing sandy-brown locks, and tattoos marking nearly every visible patch of skin, the clear leader of the pack climbs off his bike, his eyes alert as he approaches the trailer.
Oblivious to us sitting in the car, five similarly dressed men and one woman follow him through the front door. Almost instantly, angry shouting reverberates from inside the house.
“Zoey.” The panic in Dash’s voice pulls my attention from the trailer. “We need to get out of here.”
“What? Why?”
“Have you seen Breaking Bad ?” Dash pulls the passenger door handle, and it flies open. He jumps out and holds the seat forward so I can crawl out of the back.
My mind goes blank. “Is that the one with the Kardashians?”
“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t—” Dash’s whole body goes rigid as the shouting turns into a series of loud bangs. “Get out. Now!”
His terrified expression sends a jolt of panic rocketing through me. But instead of bolting from the car, I scramble over the gearshift into the driver’s seat. Dash isn’t the only one capable of being a superhero.
He leaps back into the passenger seat. “What are you doing?”
“Getting us out of here.” This is it, Zoey, your chance to show the world you’re a total badass.
My hands tremble and my pulse hammers in my ears as I grab the knob and put the car in drive. But instead of sliding in smoothly, the shifter fights me, and the gears rattle and grind. I yank my hand back and jerk my gaze to Dash.
“The clutch.” Dash motions toward the floorboards. “You have to press the clutch.”
I gape down at the three pedals between my feet. “Why are there—” As soon as the words pass my lips, dread washes over me. “I-I can’t drive a stick shift!” I recoil from the wheel and tuck my hands against my chest. Why didn’t I let Jeanie teach me when she offered?
“Yes, you can,” Dash takes my right hand, places it on the gearshift, and holds it in place with his.
“Use your left foot and push the first pedal to the floor.” The moment the pedal touches the floor, he guides my hand, shifting the car into gear.
“That’s it. Now slowly ease off the clutch and press the gas at the same time. ”
The little car jerks forward, then just as quickly coughs and shudders before stalling.
“Damn it!”
“It’s okay,” he murmurs as if soothing a frightened puppy. “Try again.”
With Dash quietly encouraging me, I follow his instructions again, this time jumping away from the curb and straight into a massive pothole.
“No!” I slam the steering wheel with both hands. “Not again.”
With the front right tire buried deep in the hole, and at least one rear wheel spinning uselessly in the air, the little hatchback kicks up mud like confetti before stalling again.
“Let’s go,” Dash orders.
Vigorously nodding, I grab my tote and climb out. We barely clear the back bumper before Itchy comes flying out the front door with three members of the motorcycle gang on his heels.
“My car!” He clutches his head in both hands.
“You won’t need it where you’re going.” The leader’s thunderous voice freezes Itchy in place.
Rain soaks my hair and runs down my face as I flick my gaze between the biker and Itchy, too paralyzed with fear to flee.
Itchy raises his hands and turns. “Come on, John, cut a guy a break.”
“You knew what would happen if you got caught peddlin’ your shit in my town.” The leader, John, pulls out a set of zip ties. “On your knees. Hands behind your back.”
“Are you guys undercover cops?” The words fly past my lips before I can recall them. I slap both hands over my mouth.
The biker winks. “More like the neighborhood watch.”
“Oh!”
A large hand clamps over Itchy’s mouth, muffling his screams as two bikers drag him into the trailer.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Dash grabs my wrist, his eyes wild as he drags me behind the Chevy. “Do you have a death wish?”
“I can’t help it! When I’m nervous, every thought in my head comes tumbling—” A siren wails in the distance, commanding my attention. “We need to get out of here.”
“How?” Dash raises his eyebrows. “You broke the car.”
I can’t think of a single comeback. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a magnet for disaster. But if my mom could dumpster dive and shoplift in broad daylight, I can sure as hell outrun a few out-of-shape bikers. I grab his hand and squeeze. “We run.”
“Solid plan.” Dash pulls me behind him. “Come on.”
We sprint toward the snarled shrubs at the edge of the next yard, but John and the dark-haired woman catch up to us before we get past the wall of greenery.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” the biker bellows.
“Please don’t kill us,” I whimper, licking rain from my lips and wishing I’d kissed Dash when I had the chance.
John looks down his long nose at me. “Do I look like a killer to you?” When I don’t respond, he exhales a heavy breath. “We’re just cleaning up the drugs in our town.”
“That’s good. Drugs are ... they’re ..
. my grandma smokes a lot of pot.” I shake off Dash’s hands as he tries to pull me behind him again.
I’ve got this. “That’s why we’re here. I was supposed to be spreading my mom’s ashes with my grandma, but my sister fell off the roof, and I crashed into an armadillo, and then I met Dash, but his car died.
Then we lost our ride. I swear I didn’t mean to set the man’s chickens free.
And I definitely didn’t know Itchy was a .
.. a freaking drug dealer! Did you ...
is he ...? No. Don’t tell me. I don’t think I wanna know. ”
John bursts out laughing, putting an end to my word vomit. “Sounds like you’ve had a shitty day.”
“You have no idea. This one—” Dash exhales a nervous laugh and glances at me. “Magnet for disaster.”
My mouth drops open.
“What’s this about your car dying?” John asks.
Dash blows out a breath. “My Tesla’s battery died a few miles past the Baptist church.”
John nods and then walks over to one of the motorcycles in the driveway and throws a leg over. “We’ll give y’all a ride and send a tow truck.”
I gape at Dash. “He’s kidding, right?”
“I’m dead serious.” John winks and pats the seat behind him. “Now, hop on.”
“Shouldn’t we have helmets?” I dart my gaze between the two bikers. I can only imagine what Jeanie would say right now.
John cocks an eyebrow, and Mom’s voice pops into my head. Just think, Zoey. This’ll make for a great entry in your own diary.
“Fine.” I groan and throw a shaky leg over, then settle into the soft leather.
John cranks the bike to life, and the vibrations rattle my bones.
He turns to the woman. “You ready, Kitty?”
“Sure am.” She blows him a kiss and climbs on her own bike, swiveling her head toward Dash. “You got a red S under that fancy shirt of yours?”
“No.” Dash flinches and turns a bright red. “No letters under my shirt.”
“He does have Superman under—” I start, but Dash’s glare stops me cold.
John chuckles. “Not even gonna ask.”
Kitty waves Dash over. “Come on. Don’t keep me waiting, pretty boy.”
With his face twisted into a sour frown, Dash climbs on behind her.
“Hold on tight!” John shouts. “And keep yer mouth shut or you’ll be pickin’ bugs from your teeth all night.”
With my tote wedged between my front and John’s back, I barely get my arms around him before his bike jumps forward over the loose pavement. We rocket down the highway, my hair flying behind me like a cape.
Less than five minutes later, we reach Dash’s abandoned Tesla—right where we left it, like the bright-red cherry on our shit sundae.