by Heidi Ayarbe
“It’s done,” I say.
“No. It’s not done. You can’t do this to me. Leave me here after I found you. You can’t do this.” He kicks the back of my car.
“Why’d you go and do that?” I say, getting out and running my hand along the dent. “It’s just Little Car.”
Josh grabs my shoulders. “They came. Asked questions I wouldn’t answer. Dad has a lawyer; they’re all looking for you. I’ve been looking for you, but you left me—just disappeared. We’re in this together.”
“I’m not going to do the whole Romeo and Juliet thing. They’ll be easy on me. I have no record. You’ll be okay.”
Josh shakes his head. “No. This is not okay. You can’t leave me again. And . . .” Josh clears his throat. “I’ll never leave you again.”
I sit back in the car and close the door. “I’m going now. To Great Basin. Kind of like a pre-grad gift because it looks like I’ll end up graduating in prison. Anyway, after the great road trip, I’m turning myself in to the police. It’s not all that dramatic. I just need to say good-bye, and this might be my last chance to do it.”
Josh runs around the car and sits next to me in the passenger seat.
I shake my head.
He takes my hand in his and repeats, “You can’t leave me.”
“Stalker,” I say, and try to hide a grin. “I could totally get a restraining order.”
He laces his fingers in mine. “Together. Great Basin. Police. Together.” He buckles his seat belt and inhales. “This car gonna make it?”
“Doubtful.” The motor chugs, sputters, and wheezes. “I will always testify I did it on my own.”
“And I will do the same.”
“It seems we’ve come to an impasse,” I say.
“Nah. I’ll convince you. We’ve got about an eight-hour drive, right?”
“Maybe six—maybe seven.” I tap the dashboard. “Depends.”
“I never get tired of talking.”
“You’ll fall asleep in about ten minutes.”
“Wanna bet?”
“How much?”
“How much you’ve got?”
I open my wallet and tip it upside down, nothing comes out. “That’s it. A full tank of gas. A twenty-dollar gas card. And me.”
“Ahh, then I guess we’ll have to make the bet more interesting.”
Color rises to my cheeks.
“Well, let’s go.”
“Fear and Loathing in Great Basin.”
Josh catches on to the reference and smiles. “Road trip. Good-bye, past. Hello . . .”
“Jail,” I mutter.
Chapter 52
“WE CAN AFFORD CHEESE-
burgers,” Josh says.
“We’ve been on the road an hour, and you’re already hungry.”
“What? We’re supposed to fast, too?”
I shrug. “Fine. Cheeseburgers.”
“Two Cokes and fries.”
“What about gas?” I say.
He pulls out thirty dollars. “My allowance.”
“I think, considering the situation, we should probably go through the drive-through. I’m a person of interest, you know.”
“Totally.” Josh winks.
I roll my eyes.
“Okay. Ask them for a crown, though.”
“A crown?”
“Two! Two crowns.”
“Two.”
“Hey. If we have time, after Great Basin National Park, do you think we can get married in Vegas?”
I laugh. “No.”
“So you don’t want to marry me?” Josh asks.
I shake my head. “The whole conjugal-visit thing doesn’t really sit well with me. Plus maybe I’ll meet somebody in the can.”
The guy passes us our order with two crowns. Josh kisses salt off my fingers.
“You’re a tease,” I say.
“Nah. Just waiting for the perfect, first-kiss moment.”
I shake my head, look at the gas gauge and Nevada map. “I think we’ll make it to Austin before we have to gas up.”
He holds up a fry. “Cheers,” he says.
“Cheers.”
We both tap Little Car on the dashboard. “To Austin,” I say.
She burps and we drive away.
This has been her first road trip—open road, open windows, guzzling gas. I can see the gas gauge move toward empty. Criminy.
“We’ve still got a quarter tank,” Josh says.
“Let’s gas up and see what happens.”
Josh nods. “Use the debit card to gas up. Just to stay out of sight.”
I swipe the card. It doesn’t take. I swipe it again. The man speaks over the intercom. “Can’t get a reading. Can you please come inside?”
“Fuck,” Josh says.
The next gas station is far enough away that we’d run out before we got there. I feel like someplace this far removed will be safer. I just need to get to the Great Basin National Park.
“Let’s go,” I say. “We’ll buy some Pony Express souvenir. Something to commemorate the greatest road trip ever taken by . . . me.”
“How many road trips have you been on?” Josh asks.
“This one,” I say.
“Same here. My family’s more of a first-class ticket kind of family. Where’s the fun?”
I smile. “Let’s go in. It’ll be fine.”
I hand the man my card. He nods, his nose buried in a Fishing and Hunting News. “How much you want?”
“Twenty,” I say. Behind him, the game’s already in halftime. I stare at the score. Huskies are ahead. My stomach flutters.
Maybe we can listen to it on the radio. I turn my attention back to the man.
“You like basketball?” he asks. He’s young—way younger than he looks at first glance. His red, curly beard covers an acne outbreak like Grizzly Adams meets failed retinol. He has bleary eyes—bloodshot, dazed. He smells fermented—like he’s slept in the same clothes for the past year.
I shrug. “It’s okay. If you can get past the squeaky shoes.”
“Squeaky shoes,” he grumbles, and swipes my card through the machine—a sprinkle of crumbs stuck in the wiry hair.
I gas up the car. When I go back inside, Josh has piled key chains, snow globes, patches, and a couple of stickers on the counter. He’s still wearing his Burger King crown. “Pick your poison,” Josh says. “What do you want?”
“What’s the cheapest?”
“C’mon, Mike. Just pick one. Don’t think about the price. I owe you a gift.”
The guy watches us. My stomach knots. I glance at the game behind him. Third quarter has begun. Our eyes lock. His eyes change—like something’s clicked in his brain—a connection has been made.
I shake my head at Josh and smile at the man. “Ready?”
The register dings—one of those old, coffee-shop registers with numbers on tabs that rotate. He scribbles on the receipt and hands it to me, just as he pulls out the gun, pointing it at me. “I think you two oughta sit down. You’re worth about ten grand now.”
I read the receipt: Gotcha!
Chapter 53
I STEP BACK AND TRIP OVER
a Corn Nuts display—bags of nuts raining down. Josh jumps to help me and then there’s this loud bang. Deafening. An acrid sulfuric, ammonia smell fills the air.
My head hurts. I’ve banged it against the windowsill. I touch it. Warm blood on my fingertips. Everything’s blurry, my vision’s blotchy. I touch my face; my glasses have fallen off. “Josh?” I say. “I can’t find my glasses.”
He comes to me, placing my crooked glasses on my nose, a spray of blood on his clothes.
“Oh my God. He shot you,” I say. “You’re bleeding.”
Josh shakes his head. He looks from the man back to me, then places his hand on my stomach—bright red blood covering the palm of his hand. “Michal.”
My head feels like somebody’s drilled into it—piercing pain in my temples, a dull throbbing near my neck. “My head. It
hurts,” I say. “I’m fine, though. Really.”
Josh grins, relieved. He wipes his nose and laughs. “Don’t scare me like that. Please.” He gets some disinfectant and Band-Aids from the shelves. His Burger King crown sits crooked on his head.
Everything’s kind of slowed down. There’s a weird burning in my stomach, but it’s not like gunshot-wound burning or anything like I expected gunshot-wound burning would be. More like . . . I don’t know.
I feel a little woozy, but not so bad. I’m shot, after all. I look down at the bright red blood on my shirt. “Where’s Grizzly Adams?” I say.
“I hit him over the head with a Pony Express snow globe. I panicked. He shot you, and you were there, lying in these—”
“Corn Nuts,” I say. “Sheesh. Talk about silly.” I manage to wipe a couple of packs off. “Is he okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. He’s breathing. He’s not even bleeding,” Josh says. “C’mon, Michal. We’ve got to get to the Great Basin. Your destiny awaits.” He holds out his hand. “Michal?”
The End
“NOW THIS SUCKS,” I SAY.
Josh helps me sit up by the glass door. It’s covered with yellowed flyers and advertisements. Apparently everybody between Fallon and Austin has lost their cat. Grizzly Acne moans from behind the counter and farts—filling the store with a rotten-egg smell—worse than the gunpowder. He moans again and snores. Josh has tied him up with about ten yards of duct tape.
The lights outside sputter on in a soft yellow glow. The sky looks like raspberry sorbet. “It’s pretty.”
Josh flips the OPEN sign on the door to CLOSED. He kneels next to me. “You’re bleeding so much.” His hands fumble on gauze and napkins. He finally pulls off his shirt, balling it up and shoving it on my stomach.
I flinch.
“I’m sorry. It’s just the blood. There’s so much.” He leans over and kisses my forehead. “I’m going to make a call, okay? I’ll be right back.”
The cruisers appear like they were a mirage. But a crummy one, since mirages, on general principles, are supposed to be good and happy and filled with tropical fruits, muscular guys in turbans, and stuff like that. The cars rip along a shimmering strip of tarry highway—the loneliest road in America—between two billboards: THERE’S PLENTY OF ROOM FOR GOD’S CREATURES NEXT TO THE MASHED POTATOES and NEVADA: LEADING THE COUNTRY IN BEING JUST EAST OF CALIFORNIA. THAT AND BROTHELS (FLIP A BITCH . . . 5 MILES BACK). I’m not gonna go all Great Gatsby about the billboards because they’re not a symbol of anything at all.
Nothing is.
The cruisers come to a screeching halt in the parking lot, tires kicking up loose rocks from the half-melted asphalt, modern-day Keystone Kops with wailing sirens and clumsy, fishtail stops. When the burnout smoke settles, the cops pile out of the cars, guns drawn, crouching behind the opened doors of the cars.
I pull back the corner of a flyer advertising hand-knit Snuggies to get a better view. Four cops. The lanky one has midnight skin and talks into a radio. The next car over, two cops roll to find better cover. Albino maintains her position behind the car door. They’ve got to be using phrases like “clear the area,” “set up a perimeter,” “Starsky and Hutch will take the back while Ponch and Jon hold the front.”
Well, everything but that last phrase, anyway.
Josh is wearing his golden Burger King crown. It sits lopsided on his head. He kneels next to me, cupping my face in his hands.
Sweat drips down my temple. I’m so cold. But my hair sticks to my forehead and the back of my neck. I’m not what Josh would consider mirage worthy.
I never have been. Not for him.
Josh pushes my bangs to the side. I touch Josh’s cheek with my hand and shiver.
He’s managed to pile blankets on me—musty, red-checkered blankets he must’ve gotten from a closet or a back room or something. I didn’t even notice he’d gone.
One of the officers talks through the megaphone. “Michal Garcia. Josh Ellison. We know you’re in there.” He says my name wrong—like Michael, not like Mee-kal. Whatever.
Grizzly must’ve called the cops when I was tanking up and Josh was on a Pony Express shopping spree. He’ll get the reward money and be a big hero now. I hope there’s a camera, though. A camera that filmed it all.
It’s not like we’d rob a convenience store.
Ever.
Josh breaks open a window and screams, “Where’s the fucking ambulance? I called for an ambulance!”
“Who won?” I see confetti on the screen. “It’s hard to see much through these glasses.” I try to take them off but can’t lift my arms.
Josh takes off my glasses and dabs my face with baby wipes. “Michal?”
“Who won?”
Josh turns and looks at the screen. “U-Dub,” Josh says, his voice trembling. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It’s okay now. Everybody’s going to be okay. We won. The game’s over.”
“No. Nonononono, Michal. It’s not over. The game’s not over.”
I close my eyes.
“Michal?” He leans over, his lips press on mine—soft, slightly open. Cinnamon Trident, salty tears—sweet and gentle. He cups my face in his hands. “Michal?” He chokes, leaning his forehead against mine. “Please don’t go.”
I open my eyes.
Josh’s face is a little blurry. I try to move my hand up. He pulls it out from under the blanket, kissing my fingertips. I shiver. It feels like somebody injected ice water into my spine. “Please,” he says. “I love you.”
My stomach’s on fire, as if somebody made me swallow dry ice—a crippling blister-cold sensation. I feel the way blood drains from my body, leaving me. At first it pumped out fast. Now it bubbles. Slow. Sporadic, leaving me hazy, drowsy.
Josh wraps his arms around me. He leans forward and whispers a song. I can’t hear the words. I can just feel them—their rhythm in my ear, the pounding of his heart.
Mrs. Brady’s out of her coma, on the road to recovery.
We won the money to pay Lillian back.
Moch is going to be okay.
Lillian loves me. Lillian loves me.
And so does Josh.
I’m vaguely aware of the police breaking down the door, screaming for Josh to get on the floor.
“Where’s the ambulance?” Josh asks. “Michal?” Josh leans over. “Michal, can you hold on until the paramedics get here? Can you do that? Where’s the fucking ambulance?!” His screams echo in my mind.
Calm down. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.
But he can’t hear me. Or I’m not talking. I can’t feel if my lips are moving—everything’s become so still.
Josh is lying next to me, his face pushed to the crimson tiles with rough hands. Tears drip down his cheeks mixing with the sticky dark floor—slippery, smeary gray. The color is gone now. Except for Josh’s eyes—bright green.
Don’t cry. It’s all okay now.
It’s not like in the movies where everything flashes before you—scenes of regret or happiness. It’s like becoming a fish—slipping underwater.
Josh frees his hand, reaches it out, lacing his fingers in mine.
It’s so clear. I am wanted.
Acknowledgments
IF ONLY GETTING A BOOK
out there was as easy being as a wizard standing behind a curtain, or clicking your heels in snazzy red shoes. . . . This book is in your hands because of a slew of people who worked incredibly hard to make sure it got there.
Thanks to the phenomenal team at HarperCollins and Balzer + Bray, including: Caroline Sun, Olivia deLeon, and Emilie Polster—publicists and marketing director extraordinaire. Huge, giant, never-ending thanks to Renée Cafiero, who has to be the most brilliant mind in copyediting south of the North Pole. To Michelle Taormina in Design, who created a breathtaking cover. Sara Sargent, for seeing this through. And finally to Alessandra Balzer and Donna Bray for taking a chance on an unconventional western.
This book would be nowhere wit
hout the exceptional insight, editorial eye, and patience of my editor, Ruta Rimas. Thank you so much!
I have the fortune and privilege to work with the best agent south of the North Pole as well. Thank you, Stephen Barbara, Super Agent, without whom my odd ideas wouldn’t get very far.
Thank you to the amazing children’s writing community and my critique group.
I’m so grateful for my friend Gwen, who not only let me hide in her house for days on end to work on this novel but also offered full-on catering and twenty-four-hour coffee service. You’re a writer’s secret weapon.
I thank Dad and Rick for being the most gentle giants I know.
And if there is a wizard behind a curtain, it’s my husband. Cesar lost me to a world of online gambling and crime for much of 2010 and 2011. Thank you for your patience and support and patience. I’m back!
About the Author
HEIDI AYARBE GREW UP IN NEVADA AND
has lived all over the world. She now makes her home in Colombia with her husband and daughters. She is also the author of Compulsion, Compromised, and Freeze Frame. You can visit her online at www.heidiayarbe.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by Heidi Ayarbe
FREEZE FRAME
COMPROMISED
COMPULSION
Credits
Cover art © 2012 by Sarah Loven
Cover design by Michelle Taormina
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Copyright
Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
Wanted
Copyright © 2012 by Heidi Ayarbe
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