Blood to Dust
“Shut up,” we both say in unison, still staring each other down. I really want to kill her, and really, really want to hit that shit. I’m not going to lie, though, part of her charm is the fact that she’s fearless, no matter my size and track record, even though she’s been burned by men before.
Tough cookie, but delicious all the same.
“This truck’s in good condition,” I grit. “Whatever’s left from the trade ends up in my pocket.”
“Fine,” she shrugs, turning her attention back to Hussein, who is grinning from ear to ear, still planted on his front lawn. His unkempt grass is the opposite of Mrs. Hathaway’s lush, green one. It reminds me that on a normal day, I would’ve hit the road by now on my way to her house to avoid traffic. It’s not like me to not show up. I’ve never taken a sick day in my life. But I won’t risk my neck in the name of etiquette. After all—Godfrey hooked me up with the job. I’ve no idea how tight he is with Stan Hathaway and how far his accountant is willing to go for him.
Prescott and Hussein exchange words while I continue staring at the back of her head, wondering how the hell I got here and why I am placing my future in the manicured hands of a twenty-five-year-old blonde from suburbia. We’re going to trade Stella for a beat-down, black Corvette. Tinted windows. Nevada license plate. Rough state. When Hussein leaves for the back of his lot and rolls around the corner with it, I snort out a laugh. I’m not sure what year the car is, but suffice to say we’re about the same age.
Hussein slaps cash into Pea’s hand and she gives me the difference without counting the bills, before awarding the middle-aged man with a hug and a tap on the shoulder.
“Take care of yourself, Prescott,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously. I nod a goodbye at him and climb into the driver’s seat. I can barely fit into this low, small car with my height and width. My knees touch the steering wheel and I need to bend my neck if I don’t want my head to hit the roof. Shit, my nose is almost touching the windshield.
“Good choice, Prescott. Next time, why don’t you fix us up with a fucking unicycle? That’d be fun.”
“Hey!” She throws her bag to the backseat. “It’s not my fault you’re the size of a Costco warehouse. This is a great car. Looks like the Batmobile.”
“It’s beat-down and old,” I retort.
“Beatmobile,” she concludes. “We shall call it the Beatmobile.”
“I liked you better when you were blindfolded and locked in my basement,” I murmur, starting the car, the rumble of its engine roaring to life.
“And I liked you better when you were locked in a cell in San Dimas, watching your youth waste away.”
Yeah. I fucked up bad by telling her I would ditch her after this week. The worst part about it? I didn’t even mean it.
Shit, I didn’t even think it.
Planning ahead requires attention, and right now, the only thing I’m focusing on is staying alive and killing Godfrey and Sebastian before they kill us.
Where am I going after this murder crusade? Canada? Mexico? What am I going to do in Mexico? My Spanish isn’t good enough to live there. Unless I plan on sticking to ordering food and swearing at soccer teams for the rest of my life. Then, I’m good.
No. I’ll move to Canada, which will give me the language advantage. But fuck, the weather. It can get real cold. Although, I’d be one state away from Iowa. Prescott could visit me all the time. . . Wait, what the fuck am I thinking? Visiting me in. . .whoa. Slow down there, stud. She’s just a brat who’s using you to get ahead in the game. You should be doing the same. Get your head out of your ass, Nate.
Thankfully, Miss Fucking-off-to-Iowa smacks me out of my reverie. She throws the stress ball at my forehead and it bounces back into her hand.
“Earth to Nate. This is the direction we’re heading. And it’s jammed as hell.” She points at the GPS with the hand that clasps the ball. “We won’t get to Los Angeles for another six to seven hours, if we’re lucky.”
“We’re good. We’ll just have to stop at the first L.A. mall we get to, take photos for our fake IDs and get some more money. We’ll hit downtown L.A. before dinnertime, give your guy everything he needs, check into a motel and wait it out.” I signal the blinkers and swerve onto the highway, rolling down the windows and letting the hot, dense summer air breeze into our car. The noise of the outside swallows Prescott’s delicate voice, but I can still hear her yelling through the wind.