The dealer in black, intimidating in build, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his silence telling me all I need to know. I drop the joint.
“The money, Vic,” dude in black growls, holding his hand open. The streetlight casts enough of a glow on his features for me to get a quick shot of his face on camera.
Vic mumbles something I can’t make out, a confession. This whole thing went from bad to worse fast, as I expected. I feel it in the air. I can’t see very well behind these carts, so I lift one foot and touch it down. Toe, heel, toe, heel, dodging pebbles and rocks scattered over the pavement. I stay hunched down step-by-step until I can look around the shopping carts. I refocus on the scene as Mullet pulls something out. I peer around the cart for a better look as the slide of a gun snaps into place, releasing an echo that shoves my nerves into overdrive.
Freak.
I panic, all concentration lost. Dad had me training with firearms by the time I was seven. Still, nothing can prepare anyone for this.
Think.
A bullet is in the chamber now. Means there wasn’t one there before. This guy is trying to intimidate Vic and it’s working. It’s working on me, too. At best, these guys want to scare Vic, get what they want from him. But these dudes could very well be high on drugs, screwed up in the head, like Dad said.
The meaty guy in black seizes a fistful of Vic’s shirt. He’s a good three inches shorter than Vic, yet he still manages to spin him around and shove him up against his car.
“Get the money, Vic,” he says, his lips curving into a twisted grin. “That sister of yours, the one with the tight little body? I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on that.”
Julianna. Something lurches inside me as his words ring loud and clear. Vic shoves against him in a flash of rage. Clearly pissed, the dude in black smashes Vic’s face, knuckles thudding into flesh with a nauseating thump.
He sinks punches into Vic’s ribs and stomach. The sight guts me out, leaving me immobile. Useless. Staring.
My hand wraps around one of the rocks at my feet before I think about what I’m doing. I’m officially crazy. Desperate. No time to back down now.
Vic isn’t putting up a fight and he’s smart. He’s outgunned.
One, I count and swallow hard. Two. No way is this going to end well, but I wind up anyway, committed to instinct against what is probably my better judgment. Three. I pitch the rock over the carts, sending it flying in a high arc toward the other end of the empty alley. It crashes into the rocky landscaping at the edge of the asphalt.
Both dealers reel around toward the sound, facing away now. Vic turns and looks straight at me.
I shake my head slowly. Twice.
“We got company, Vic?”
“No.” Vic shakes his head. “Not that I know of.”
Mullet walks to the edge of the alley, his grip tight on his gun as he investigates. Dude in black has both hands knotted into fists. Vic looks like he’s holding his breath. I realize I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I take a shallow breath in, a quiet, controlled process that makes my lungs burn. In . . . out. In . . . out.
“It’s nothing.” Mullet returns, giving Vic a death look. “I want the rest of the money in hand by next Friday.”
“You got it,” Vic says, wiping at the blood on his lip.
The dude in black pulls out what looks like a sucker and hands it to Vic. “To tide you over.” He laughs, his open hand smacking Vic’s cheek twice.
Mullet flicks his wrist. “Get outta here.”
Vic doesn’t waste time. He’s in his car the next second, his clunker roaring to life. Then there’s a pause, like Vic’s second-guessing, holding back. For me.
Don’t, Vic. Get out of here. Get out.
At last he takes off, and the dealers move toward their car.
I grip my phone, ready to catch their license plate. Call the police.
My phone makes a deafening beep, a discordant echo that shakes every cell in my body and puts my pulse on hold. I muffle the sound too late. I glance down.
EMERGENCY ALERT: DUST STORM WARNING IN THIS AREA TILL 11:00 P.M. . . .
The realization of how loud it was hits me in slow motion. I look back up, veins surging, my senses heightened as I find both dealers’ full attention drawn my way.
Buh boom, buh boom. My heart thrusts against my rib cage. Emergency alert—stupid message intended to save lives is about to end mine.
Both guys hunch down, their guarded expressions curious, agitated. . . hungry.
Buh boom, buh boom. It beats in my ears now, rushing blood. Raw fear. Every nerve ending charged with pent-up adrenaline.
Run. Run.
Their eyes strain for a nanosecond before zeroing in on me. It’s time.
My feet hit the pavement, rocks kicking up as I push off into a full sprint.
I jump the half brick wall, glancing over my shoulder to find the dude in black in hot pursuit behind me.
I pick it up like I never have before and dart into the road, headlights blinding me as an SUV screeches to a halt. My arm flies out, muscles clenching with fear. The hood meets my hand, sending a shot of pain through my wrist and knocking my iPhone from my grasp. My phone crashes to the pavement, flips up, and collides into the ground again. I scoop it up. The SUV driver lets his horn wail, long and loud.
Can’t let it shake me up. No time. I sprint through the parking lot, arms pumping, legs flying. This is no video game.
I imagine a bullet whizzing past my head. I imagine worse.
This is not happening.
Any sane person wouldn’t shoot, right? Not out in the open like this. But sanity could be long gone for these guys, like Dad said.
Dad
911
I bring my phone up to eye level as I dash around a row of cars. A crack slices through the screen and tiny fissures radiate out from it. I curse.
I dare a glance behind me as I approach the mall entrance, relieved. I’ve lost my tail. I hope. He’s nowhere in sight. For now.
I whack my phone against my other hand. Nothing. I curb my speed at the last second and swing the door open, sliding in. A lady jumps aside and gasps. I pant, my throat burning, a sensation of hot liquid trickling down.
“Sorry,” I breathe out and tear down the empty hallway. I scan for security and push the power button on my phone to no avail. Shattered. Useless. Dead.
I slow my pace and look back. I imagine guns in a mall. A shooting. Because of me. No.
They can’t find me.
A memory springs up, a story my dad told me about a fugitive he and two other agents stumbled upon. It turned into a chase. Through a mall. The fugitive was smart. Bought a new outfit, slipped out through a utility door, and got away.
I slide into Buckle and grab the first hat I walk past. Snag a shirt. I’m at the register four seconds later with my wallet in hand.
The employee smacks her gum, looks me over like we have all the sweet time in the world. I realize I’m panting, sweating, and starving from moving forty-nine boxes and escaping a gun-wielding drug dealer.
“You know,” she says, “there’s still twelve minutes before the mall closes if there’s another store you’re trying to get to.”
“No, I’m just . . . sort of in a hurry.”
She scans the hat as I glance behind my shoulder. Still no one. I wonder if I could be this lucky.
“This is snaz.”
I whirl back around. “Huh?”
She holds up the hat, alternating glances between it and me. She smiles. Giggles even.
Oh, jeez.
“I love fedoras,” she says and winks.
“Fedo-what?”
“Fe-dor-a,” she breaks it down like I’m dumb and holds up the plaid hat. “This is a fedora hat. The green and blue will go good with your eyes.”
I slap my debit card down on the counter and she gets the hint, picks up the pace. “Thank you,” I say, trying my best not to be rude. An idea springs up. “Hey, can I use your
phone?”
“You don’t have a cell?”
I hold up my shattered iPhone. She makes a sad face at it. “That sucks. Here,” she says, and holds out the store phone. “What number do you want me to call?”
I pause. Saying 911 might not go over so well. I check the entrance behind me again, wondering if 911 is even necessary. Or I could call the nonemergency police number, a number I don’t have. I could ask this girl to look it up for me, but she’d think I was a nutcase after I dashed in here like I did.
Or I could tell her everything. Maybe she’d think it was cool, like she’s part of something big. People love this stuff. Usually.
I think about the dealers, what their next move might be.
Would they care if I got away? Would they give up? Hopefully they think I’m no real threat. But I am. I have their voices—their faces—recorded.
The recording.
I take my phone in hand and locate the SIM tray.
“Do you have a paperclip?” I ask, knowing I’ll need something small to pop it open.
Her eyebrows scrunch together.
“Actually . . .” I say, snagging a pair of earrings from a stand. I poke the end of an earring in the hole of the SIM tray to pop it open. The tiny card falls into my palm. I shove the useless phone back in my pocket.
The employee snaps her gum again, pulling me back. Both of her eyebrows are winged upward now. “What number?”
“Huh?”
She holds up her phone again. “You still wanna make a call?”
I could call Dad. I curse the fact that he had every right to lecture me on drugs and friends. That and Mom’s farewell warning to be safe makes me realize how messed up this is. They’d kill me.
“You know what?” I say. “Never mind. Thanks anyway.”
I grab the neck of my T-shirt behind my head and whip it off with one pull. I grab the shirt and hat from the girl staring at me with wide eyes. “Thanks.”
I walk out, pulling the new shirt on and situating the hat. I toss my old shirt and shattered phone into a nearby can. Walking to the nearest retail kiosk, I hide behind it and peer down the emptying hallway, SIM card in hand. Still no drug dealers. I glance down the hallway behind me, pretending to be immersed in shopping. I reach for the first thing at hand, touching something fluffy. That’s when I turn and realize I’m at a stand of stuffed animals.
“Which one you want?” the employee at the kiosk asks, a Vietnamese lady who has to crane her neck to look up at me.
“Uh,” I stammer, throwing a look around. If I’m lucky, the dealers didn’t see me recording them. But what if they did? I don’t want this SIM card anywhere near if they find me. My eyes settle on a row of potted plants. Do I hide it? Not here. But where?
“I say, which one you want?”
I snap to, redirecting my attention to the lady smiling up at me.
“I’m just looking,” I say, scanning the stand for a polar bear, Lizzy’s favorite. No polar bears. I snag a white dog instead—close enough—and glance behind me again. I give the dog a quick once-over, my eyes settling on a small opening in the seam where part of the stuffing inside can be seen—and I get an idea.
“Actually, do you deliver?”
She looks at me like I’m stupid. After everything I’ve gotten myself into tonight, I’d have to agree.
“What?” she asks.
I hold up the dog. “Do you deliver? You know, like a flower delivery only with a stuffed dog instead?”
She shakes her head.
I pull out a twenty. “You know what, I’ll buy it anyway. Keep the change.”
I start down the hall, tugging the seam in the stuffed animal to make it wide enough. I search right, left. I begin to think I might have lost them for good.
I shove the tiny SIM card inside the dog, wedging it deep into the stuffing. I walk alongside what few shoppers remain in the mall. Blending in. Hiding. I pull the brim of my hat down, glancing from side to side. They’re gone. Gone.
That’s when it all crashes in: the nerves, the adrenaline, the gun, the sprint away from my closest brush with real danger. I grip the dog between my palms and my hands begin to shake.
And here I thought moving to Gilbert would be boring. Ha. Senior year has already thrown out more action than I bargained for and it hasn’t even started. I stretch the muscles in my neck, heading for the nearest exit. And then I see her.
Her smile lassos my attention, dissolving everything else around me. Long dark hair. She blows a strand away from her eyes as she works. She hands something to a customer, her eyes flashing a stunning blue under the bright lights of the mall.
Staying out—and I mean way out—of her life is for the best. Distancing myself from Vic, preventing the inevitable clash. My dad, the FBI agent. Their mom, the convict. But then I remember Vic’s drug dealers, the way they threatened her, and something kicks in, an inborn drive to step in and protect. I curse Vic’s name, sizing him up in my head and wondering how a throw down between the two of us would end.
I almost walk away, but I hesitate. At the very least, I should make sure she gets to her car safely after work. I almost take the first step toward her, but something holds me back. Gut instinct? Or maybe fear that I’ll cause more harm than good. I dither back and forth, unable to make up my mind. Unable to take my eyes off Julianna.
CHAPTER 4
Julianna
I hand the lady her chocolates: last customer of the day, thank heavens. “Have a better day.”
She looks up, offers a weak smile. “Thanks.”
Her nose is red, her eyelids a bit puffy. I see this from time to time at The Chocolate Shoppe. Her smile spreads into something more genuine and she shakes her head, like she’s brushing off the last of her tears. “I will.”
This is what I love about working at The Chocolate Shoppe: everyone leaves happier than when they arrived. At least that’s my goal. People don’t walk into a store full of chocolate to check a chore off their to-do list. Emotions drive them in. Excitement on a special occasion, satisfaction after an accomplishment, love at the best of times, cravings at the worst of times, and depression during those worst of the worst of times (ahem).
I heave a deep breath when she leaves, gearing up to close down for the night.
Suz, my boss, steps in from the back. “Here you go,” she says and plops down a few rags and cleaning supplies. “You tidy up the front and then I’ll take care of the rest, okay? You don’t want to miss your bus.”
“Thanks,” I say as she disappears again, and I recall our earlier conversation. Her daughter Ginger and her niece Lily will both be old enough to work here once school starts. What does that mean for me? Fewer hours this year. I slide a jar of sprinkles and a bottle of caramel aside and start wiping down the ice cream showcase, ready to go home. I can’t afford fewer hours, not with Mom in prison and Dad dragging his feet on his projects. Not with Vic stealing money again.
I grit my teeth and reach out for an extra rag, bumping the bottle of caramel in the process. I gasp, my lungs placing all demands for air on hold as I watch the bottle teeter. I lunge for it, but it dives off the other end of the counter before I can reach it, rousing visions of myself on hands and knees wiping caramel from the checkered tile. Missing my bus. Walking home.
“No!” I choke out.
A hand flies in, catching it like it was nothing. I breathe out, amused at the terror spiraling to a halt within me. I grip the counter, catching my breath and feeling like an idiot. But oh, so grateful that I won’t be on my hands and knees tonight.
I look up to find two very green eyes staring into mine. I blink twice. Green. Such an unusual, captivating color. Maybe because, in desert Arizona, we don’t see it much.
He smiles, a flash of white perfection that’s enchanting enough to disarm anyone.
“Got it,” he says, one side of his smile lifting into a crooked grin with killer dimples. Dimples are dangerous.
“Thanks,” I say. “I owe
you.”
“Rough day?”
I should be offended. I look like crap, huh? Do I, buddy? But for some reason, his deep, concerned voice takes the edge off. My brother Vic could be on drugs again, my hours at work are being cut down by half, my mom is in prison, and my dad is being his normal self (enough said). Oh, and in a little over four months I’ll be competing in a—drumroll: look at me now in my chocolate-splattered apron and picture this—beauty pageant.
I blow my side bangs away from my eyes and almost laugh. “You have no idea.” I check the clock. Three minutes until closing. “What can I get for you?”
His eyes lock on mine and he keeps smiling that curious grin of his, like he sees something amusing. He gives me a look, a slight arc of the brow like he’s waiting for me to say something. Almost like he’s waiting for me to remember him.
“Have you been in here before?”
His smile broadens, his eyes flashing with anticipation. “No, why? Do I look familiar?”
Something’s definitely funny to him and I’m not catching on. Is he toying with me? He’s supercute with that fedora hat and all, but he’s not my type. At all. Way too clean-cut. Probably shaves first thing every morning and shines his shoes, a bag of potato chips and an ESPN game constituting his highest form of adventure. A jock. Perhaps even a player, one of those dudes who hunts for chicks at the mall. A mixture of irritation and embarrassment rushes in at that thought, making my cheeks burn.
“No,” I say, getting my spunk back on.
My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it. It’s probably Trish or Mindy or even Lucas, calling to see if I can hang later. It buzzes again and again.
“Go ahead,” he says.
“No, it’s fine,” I say as it stops. “I should have turned it off anyway. Sorry.”
As if on cue, it starts buzzing again.
He shifts over to the displays of chocolate and puts on a mischievous grin. “No, really, go ahead. I need a minute to decide.”
I peel my eyes away from his dimples and sneak a look at who’s calling. Vic. What the weird? Vic never calls. If I hadn’t already ignored four text messages from him within the past twenty minutes, I wouldn’t even consider this. What if it’s about Mom?
Between Now & Never Page 4
