Love on the Run

by Gemini Jensen

  “Can you open the cabinet and grab my make-up box?” She points beneath the sink, as pulling out her phone and chooses her “favorites” playlist for us to listen to as we get ready. Fergie’s voice drifts from the speakers, creating the ultimate mood for getting all glammed up.

  Pulling the rather large, three-tiered make-up box, and yes it’s literally a box, from beneath the sink, I place it on the counter space near the flatiron.

  “You could open your own Ulta,” I state, amazed by her supply. She giggles.

  “I hardly ever use this stuff. I have an Ipsy subscription and most of it just gets added to the ‘save for later’ section of my make-up. Dude, you have to let me do your make-up for you! And your hair! Like a quick little make-over that you get to see only at the end as a surprise. Oh, please Sloane,” she begs, clasping her hands beneath her chin.

  Tonight, I’m stepping out of my comfort zone. Lyra’s already chosen two outfits for me. She has her favorite but included a second option in case I was uncomfortable in it. I hate to tell her, but I’d probably be uncomfortable in either one. I have no clue how to Vamp up my make-up to go with either one of my choices. I always go for the lighter, barely-there looks. She has insisted earlier that I can’t do that tonight. So, here I am, clueless as hell and not knowing where to begin.

  “Fine,” I concede, allowing her to take control of my overall appearance tonight from head to toe.

  “Eeeeeek!” she squeals, pulling out about seven make-up brushes and other objects I’ve never seen in my life. I have to admit, it’s kind of freeing, not having to fret or overthink, allowing someone else the control to do it for you. I take a deep breath and close my eyes as she begins.

  Thirty minutes later, the lid of the lipstick tube snaps shut.

  “Okay, are you ready to see your newly made-over, sexy, bad-ass self?” she moves her shoulders side to side in a semi-sexy, semi-goofy hybrid dance move as she asks. She sure does dance a lot when she’s in a good mood, but her goofy attitude one of her best attributes. Her personality is infectious and just as beautiful as her outward appearance.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I remark nervously. She grabs my shoulders and spins me around.

  “Wow!” I say aloud. Saying I was impressed by her artful skills would be the understatement of the year. My sleek tresses are silky and smooth, highlighting the length of my hair. My eyes are smoky, with slightly winged eyeliner and lashes that are 4x longer than they would naturally be. A deep vampy-red shade stains my lips, and it’s insta-lipstick-love. My reflection stares at me wide-eyed. Shocked, and feeling like a million bucks and then some.

  “I look like I belong in Cosmo,” I state in awe. “You’re amazing. But what about you? You’ve been working on me the whole time.”

  “Oh, it won’t take me but five minutes. You go put on your outfit. The hot one, well, hottest one,” she corrects, “and by the time you’re done, I’ll be through with my hair and make-up. Don’t worry, I’ve got this all figured out.”

  I turn to go into the bedroom, but she throws in one last thing.

  “And Sloane, make sure it’s the best outfit. I had that one in mind when I did your make-up,” she smirks.

  Oh, the sneaky bitch.

  She knew full-well that deep-red lipstick wouldn’t match the pink, slightly more modest outfit.

  Narrowing my eyes, I march out of the room.

  True to her word, she emerges five minutes later, make-up looking pristine and hair piled on top of her head in a messy up-do of sorts. I once read in a women’s magazine that when it comes to styling an up-do, the messier the sexier. Apparently, she read the same one.

  “You’re lucky it’s warm this weekend, or this,” I motion down my body, “wouldn’t fly. I get cold easy.”

  “But it’s warm, so you’ll get over it. By the way, you’re looking bona fide fine as wine,” her country twang comes out a smidge. “But here, if you think you’ll be chilly, put these tights on.” I reach out to catch the black pair of tights she throws my way.

  “When you get your get-up on, you’ll look like a freaking southern belle turned sultry,” I state, eyeing her daisy dukes and cowboy boots laid out across the bed. Lyra gives a slight curtsy in response, as she walks over and begins “suiting up” so to speak.

  Bunching up the toes of the stockings, I carefully slip it up one leg and then the other. I eye myself in the full-length mirror one more time, feeling overly suggestive, and surprised that I kind of like it. Donning a black, leather mini-skirt, matching lace-up boots with a chunky heel, and a black spaghetti strap tank-top with mesh cut-out along the neckline, I’m giving a chic-goth kind of vibe. Something I usually wouldn’t rock but am digging regardless.

  Lyra steps up beside me, white jean shorts appearing painted-on, rustic brown cowboy boots that likely cost way more than you’d guess, and a floral patterned crop-top.

  “Bring on the Harvest,” she states in appreciation.

  Chapter Ten

  Technical Grand Theft Auto shouldn’t be as easy as one, two, three. But it was. One, we lifted the key from its spot in the hallway. Two, we made sure Gray was on the opposite side of the house when we cranked it. Three, we drove to the party.

  Adrenaline hums through my veins, high on life and excited about tonight. We pull into a field beside a mansion of a barn. I say that, because it’s about twice the size of the Knightley’s barn and their barn is huge. Music is blaring from within and it would appear at least half the school here tonight.

  God, please don’t let this party get broken up by the cops.

  A monstrous bonfire burns out front of the entrance, where at least 30 people are gathered around, each person sporting a beer can like it’s the new fashion accessory.

  Lyra’s phone lights up just as we turn off the engine, and she pulls it up in front of her face, squinting to read the message.

  “Come on, Robbie’s over here. I told him I’d pay him double to pick us up some bitch beers, and he’s got a ‘G’ of ‘dro,” she says, easing carefully out of the sedan so that she doesn’t mess up her hair.

  “Um, Okay.” Whatever the hell that me

  ans. I might be all for going to the party but I’m still on the fence about the whole partaking of the goods. I’ve had a glass of Mom’s wine on my 16th Birthday, and she only agreed to that because she’d been all moody and consumed most of the bottle already. That’s the extent of my history with any type of substance.

  I follow closely behind her as she weaves her way in and out of the crowd and over to the side of the barn that’s less populated. Walking straight up to a ginger-headed kid with hair down to his shoulders and a toboggan, she flashes him a hand full of cash. When he holds out his hand, she shakes her head.

  “Let me see what you brought,” she orders, all business. The dude, I’m guessing Robbie, rolls his eyes and drops a baggie in her palm. Holding up her cellphone for light, she inspects it before opening it to take a whiff.

  “Feels a little light to me, but whatever. Where’s the booze?” she asks.

  Robbie lazily reaches behind the square bale of hay he’s sitting on, producing two 6-packs of some colorful bottle of some sort. Lyra hands him a twenty and a ten, saying “this is for the booze.” She pulls out another twenty and states, “this is for the smoke.”

  “It’s 25,” Robbie argues. Lyra shakes her head, “Maybe so, until you decided to pinch out of it. You’ll take what I give.” She shoves the baggie in her pocket, then hands me a 6-pack while taking the other.

  “You should be in business. You dominated him,” I laugh.

  “I grew up surrounded by men, it was only natural to become that way,” she remarks nonchalantly.

  She leads me over to a few of our acquaintances from school, nice ones who actually speak to her time and again, and plops down on the same type of haybale Robbie was on, just as a song I’ve never heard in my life blares through the speakers causing a lot of the guys to hoot and holler.

  Now
I’m using countrified terms. Oh, great.

  “Who is this?” I turn to Lyra as I ask, which earns me a jutting of the chin with an arched brow. “Who is this on the stereo?” she clarifies.

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Who is this? It’s Hank Williams Jr! Seriously?” Her voice raises in shock.

  I shrug as she lifts a bottle from the box depicting Blueberries and Lemons, unscrews it and hands it over.

  Hesitantly, I lift the drink to my lips, still halfway indecisive until I watch her take a long hard pull of her own. A sweet lemonade flavor burns as it slides down my throat. It would almost have a decent taste if it weren’t for that slight burning sensation, but I take a few more sips anyway.

  In less than a minute, Lyra has already finished off her drink and is pulling out a tiny piece of paper along with the baggie she acquired from Robbie. I watch in apt fascination, nursing my bottle, as her skilled fingers roll and fashion a cigarette-shaped object. Reaching into her back pocket, she produces a lighter, flicking it and holding the object between her lips as she lifts the flame to the other end.

  She inhales, and seconds tick by before she releases a gush of smoke from her lungs, coughing slightly at the end. Lightly pinching it between her fingers, she passes it over to me. I take it from her, but don’t immediately take a drag.

  “How does this make you feel?” I glance at her apprehensively, unsure of what my next course of action will be at this point. Mom would literally kill me if she knew I was considering this, but I force any thoughts of my mother out as soon as they enter. Talk about a serious mood killer, stressing over getting in trouble before you’ve even begun enjoying yourself.

  “Relaxed, unless you overdo it,” she giggles for some reason. “Just take two hits, and wait a bit to see how you feel. If you want more later on, then we’ll smoke more.”

  I’m still unsure of the whole thing, but this is a party, and she’s the only person I’m comfortable with around here. Not to mention, relaxed sounds pretty damn nice right about now.

  I mirror what I just observed her do, and nearly hack my lungs up in a fit of coughing on the second hit. My response elicits more giggling from her as she takes the joint back from me.

  About five minutes later, everything is amusing. My laughter is uncontrollable, and whenever I finally put a can on it, Lyra starts up again, which causes me to giggle at her absurdity. We’re both oozing with silliness and happiness, but it’s fun.

  “Come on, let’s head over to the bonfire,” she stands, handing me another opened beer, which I take impulsively, desiring the burn of the alcohol to subdue the much more prominent scorch left from my smoke-induced coughing fit.

  Making our way through the staggered body of students strewn about in little groups, we settle in next to the fire, falling into conversation with a few guys from Lyra’s Chemistry class. There are three guys altogether, and I notice that one of them, the one with bronze colored hair, isn’t talking to her. But, he is housing a pained expression as he looks her up and down while she speaks with his friends. She aims the conversation more toward the other guys, hardly looking over at him, although her body is naturally angled more in his direction like she’s aware of him and wants him to notice her.

  Interesting. He gives a slight shake of the head as if trying to break free of whatever thoughts he’s having, then finally speaks up.

  “Hey guys, I’m going to go grab a few brews, you guys need more?” he asks his friends.

  “Yeah man, thanks Nash,” one of his friend’s replies, before the other throws in a “me too.”

  Nash begins to head in the direction of the barn, only taking two steps, before he stops and spins around.

  “You girls good on beer?” he asks the two of us but looks directly at Lyra. I note the surprise on her face, as she holds up her bottle, momentarily speechless.

  “Good,” she croaks out. He nods his head, hesitating as they make eye-contact for another brief moment, and then proceeds over to the barn.

  That’s when it dawns on me, that name, Nash. He’s the only one of the Hudson’s that survived the crash Lyra’s Dad was involved in. And he clearly thinks she’s attractive from the way he was eyeing her. He also clearly isn’t pleased about that fact, from the pained expression on his face.

  Really, really interesting.

  “Come play Cornhole with me,” the guy standing closest to Lyra suggests to her.

  “Wanna play cornhole, Sloane?” she turns to me.

  “Um, I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds kind of dirty,” I laugh.

  “It’s kind of like throwing bean-bags and trying to make them in a hole. Sort of like horseshoe, but different.” For some reason, Lyra seems like she wants to hang out with this guy, and I don’t know whether to give them a little space or be the watchful eye who makes sure nothing bad happens.

  “It’s just on the side of the barn over there that has the floodlights,” he cocks his head in the direction he speaks of.

  “You guys go ahead. I’m kind of chilly, I’ll enjoy the fire another minute then head that way,” I reply, leaning into the heat of the fire. One side of me feels nice and cozy from the fire’s heat, while the other can feel the bite of the night air across my skin.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay,” Lyra asks hesitantly.

  “Of course. Go have fun, and I’ll see you in a few,” I insist. She pops open another bottle for each of us, handing me one. It’s then that the second guy speaks up.

  “I’ll stay with Sloane and keep her company,” he states in mock-chivalry.

  “Thanks, Jeremy,” Lyra remarks, before hooking her arm through the other guys, (not Jeremy unless they both have the same name) and disappears into the crowd. Jeremy turns to me and extends a hand.

  “I’m Jeremy,” he declares, as we shake.

  “Sloane. But you would appear to already know that,” I assert.

  “Small town,” his eyes twinkle in the light of the fire, as he checks out my attire. “You’re looking mighty fine tonight, Sloane. How come you don’t have a man yet?” he asks outright.

  And here we go with the unwanted advances.

  “I haven’t found one I wanted.” I purposely allow my voice to snap in hopes he’ll catch on that I’m far from interested.

  “Until tonight?” he prompts, laying it on thick.

  “Until never.” I take a step to distance myself from him.

  “Well if you don’t want a boyfriend, you probably shouldn’t wear something like that,” he motions up and down my body, checking me out again. “An outfit on a body like that grabs the attention of every male who see it.”

  What is it with guys? I have to dress a certain way when I’m looking for a boyfriend, but be modest when I don’t want one? Hell, no. I’ll dress sexy when I feel like it. Maybe I want extra confidence that day, or to feel good at least. I harrumph at his stupid comment.

  “If you say so, but Lyra insisted it was proper party attire and I liked the outfit,” I explain.

  He seems to chew this over, his mouth flattening for a few seconds as he’s silent.

  “You ready to go find them?” Jeremy asks, glancing back at the barn.

  “Yeah,” I agree. I’d love to stand here by the fire for a little longer, but not with Jeremy, he’s making me feel uncomfortable and edgy as if something negative is brewing in the air.

  Eager to be reunited with Lyra, we head over in the direction of the Cornhole games. Only, when we get there, there’s no sign of either of the two, and two other couples are playing instead. Panic seizes my heart. What if I shouldn’t have left her alone? What if she’s in danger, or needing me, or those horrible girls from our school are giving her a hard time?

  “Maybe they just went in the barn. It’s even bigger inside than it looks from out here,” Jeremy remarks, leading us in through the main entrance of the structure. Music is blasting so loud it’s nearly impossible to converse at this point, the beat pulsing so intensely that my heart feel
s as if it’s pounding out the same tempo. I allow Jeremy to lead us since he seems to know the layout of the place, first checking all over the first floor the barn, and then climbing the steps to the loft.

  “Why would they be up here?” I shout over the music. Jeremy glances back over his shoulder, throwing his voice in my direction.

  “Maybe they wanted some privacy.”

  Lyra doesn’t really seem like the type who goes around sticking her tongue down just anyone’s throat, and while she did seem like she liked the guy she was hanging out with, it was more of a friendship vibe than a sexually interested one. But maybe there’s something cool up in the loft, like more party games. Beer-pong or darts maybe?

  As we ascend the top of the steps, my eyes take a moment to adjust to the much darker area, and when they do, I spot about 8 couples spread about the area. The name of the loft should be “The Hook-up Cave,” because it’s about as dark and dreary as one, and hooking up is the main focus here. There’s no games up here either unless you count human cornhole as one. Several pieces of old furniture have been moved up here for storage, covered by white sheets, creating an eerie atmosphere.

  It only takes about 30 seconds of scanning the room, walking around a bit, for me to realize my best friend isn’t amongst the group of those sucking face. I literally watch a guy and girl dry humping right in front of me.

  Ewww.

  Disgusted, I turn away.

  “Well, they’re definitely not here,” I remark to Jeremy, taking the last sip of my now warm, citrusy beer. Just as I finish it up, Jeremy produces another one.

  I’ve lost count of how many I’ve even drank, but I’m well aware of the fact my whole world is off kilter and I keep stumbling every few feet. If I wasn’t in such a carefree mood, I’d be embarrassed as hell.

  “Thanks.” I reach for the bottle and nod my head.

  Last one, Valley.

  I make a move to go back down the steps and join the rest of the party, but Jeremy continues to block my way. I try to brush past him, but the only thing that happens is my body swaying forward and back again. Jeremy snakes one hand around my neck to steady me, and I lean into it, not from enjoyment but so that there is more distance between our faces. The way he’s studying me makes me think he’s going to kiss me.