by Shana Silver
A rush of water sends his strands down the sink drain while he shakes out the towel into the toilet to destroy the rest. I slide on crinkly plastic gloves and rub the black tar all over my locks. My burner phone ticks off the twenty minutes. Some getaway. Usually people who break out of jail run like their ass is on fire. Not wait around. I kill the time by splashing drops of the auburn dye around the sink and floor in case the FBI link us to this bathroom.
A thump thump thump on the door makes my teeth snap together.
We freeze like mannequins, the only sound the tick of my phone timer.
My mind supplies only one scenario: the police, standing right outside with shiny new handcuffs dangling from their fingers.
Colin risks a step toward the door and presses his ear against it just as someone bangs again. He hops back, rubbing his ear.
“Someone’s in here,” Colin shouts in a deep voice that would probably earn him lead baritone in choir.
“Hey, man, you almost done?” a muffled voice shouts from outside.
I sag in relief. Not the police. Just a guy who has to pee.
“Could be a while,” Colin yells back, then groans as if he has stomach cramps. A moment later the patter of footsteps outside retreats.
The timer goes off, and I nearly have another heart attack. I head toward the sink and dip my head under the tiny faucet. Cold porcelain presses against my neck as black swirls of dye mix with the clear water.
Colin braces one hand against my neck while his other runs through my hair, squeezing out the dye under the faucet. His soft hands glide against my skin, and the incorrigible part of me loads a snarky comment on my tongue (Haven’t you done enough already?), but the criminal part of me allows his aid because it means my disguise kicks in faster. And there’s a third part, the girl part, which enjoys every second of his touch, even if I’m still bitter about what happened the last time he ran his hands through my wet hair. After a few minutes, the water runs clear.
I toss him a change of clothes despite not being quite the right size, since we had to guess earlier. I rummage in the bottom of the bag and pull out the only clothes left. A way-too-short skirt and a cleavage-happy V-neck top. Ugh, Natalie. These were not the clothes I’d packed!
Colin’s eyes bug out. “Whoa. I think you have a warped idea of what being incognito means, because you’re going to be showing a lot of skin.”
I groan. “Scratch what I said earlier about a crew of four. Natalie’s just been demoted.”
“Ah.” He holds up his new T-shirt to me. It’s got Pokémon characters plastered all over it. And his boxers have heart-eyes happy faces. “Guess that explains why you brought me a T-shirt purchased from the kids’ section.”
“For someone so good at costumes, she has a warped idea of what constitutes a proper disguise.”
“But more importantly…” His eyes light up with an amused expression. “I haven’t forgotten your promise to take off your shirt. Is this the part where you strip?”
I make no move to look away. “No, you do. Go ahead—change.” My eyes zoom to his crotch in challenge.
“Count of three we both turn around. No peeking.” He holds my gaze. “One.”
I sigh.
“Two.” The corners of his mouth lift.
I spin around before he gets to three. In a mad dash, I shrug out of my jeans and shirt. The air conditioner hits my bare stomach for one open, exposed moment, but I duck my head into the V-neck shirt. As I’m doing so, I flick my face behind me and sneak a glimpse at Colin.
I catch his eye.
He’s peeking, too.
We both whip our heads back around at the same time. My cheeks and neck burn. With trembling fingers, I glide my legs into the way-too-short skirt and clear my throat when I finish.
My skirt grazes just below my no-frills cotton underwear, and the four-inch strappy wedges my (soon to be former) best friend left me are definitely not running-from-the-law appropriate.
I find a note from Natalie pinned to the inside of one shoe. The wedges are in case you need to kick him in the nuts. I was too afraid to arm you with stilettos, though, because you can’t actually stab him. We need him. I drink in the words three times before I stuff the note in my bra to keep Natalie close, as if she’s still beside me. Okay, fine, she’s back on the team.
Colin twists around, his gaze lingering on my new outfit for a beat too long. His too-tight jeans sculpt his muscular legs in a way his school dress pants always hid. Biceps bulge beneath his polo. He must have been working out during all that time cooped up in his house.
“I feel like I’m wearing a Halloween costume,” I say. “Sexy fugitive.”
He laughs. “Does that mean I get to be Sexy Pikachu?”
“Well, you’d have to be sexy for that to be true,” I say, and he rolls his eyes at me. “But you can totally be Loser Pikachu without even trying.”
“Okay, enough making fun of me.” Colin bounces on his toes. “Let’s go.”
I lean casually against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles. “And where do you think we’re going?”
“Wherever the next stop is in your near-perfect getaway plan.”
There’s no hint of sarcasm in his voice, and my skin prickles with goose bumps at his use of the word perfect. That’s the highest compliment you can give a criminal. Even if he did downplay it with a near.
He juts his arm toward the door. “Besides, we can’t stay in here forever. People need to use it.”
“As long as those people aren’t the police, this is our best bet for the night.”
His eyes widen in utter horror. “I’m not sleeping here.”
I raise a brow. “You have a better idea?”
“Of course I have a better idea.” And then, softer: “Can you please trust me for once?”
His words make something in my chest loosen. He’s right. I’m asking him to trust me. Help me. The least I can do is return the favor. “Okay, fine, we’ll do your idea. But first—” I slide two thin cards out of the front pocket of the backpack and toss one to him. “Memorize it.”
On mine, my old school picture scowls back at me from a fake California ID, photoshopped to transform my blond hair into a shoulder-length black bob.
Colin’s eyes land on the birthdate on his ID. “You made me a fake ID but didn’t even make it legal for me to drink? What kind of criminal are you?”
I grin. “That the only thing you noticed?”
His vision slides to the lines above. His name. His new name.
“Colton Buttz?” He groans. “What are you, five?”
I run my hand through my short locks. “Trust me, it’s better than my first choice. You should be thanking me.”
“Wait, let me prepare for the bad joke.” He sticks his fingers in his ears.
“Colton McLoser.”
“Yep. There it is. My ears are now scarred forever.” He snatches my new ID out of my hands and barks out a laugh at what I coined myself. “Fiona Queen? At least you’ve got your ego in check. Wait, why do you get to keep your first name and I don’t?”
“Because I wasn’t arrested.”
With an aggravated sigh, he wrenches the bathroom door open and stomps into the night air. It’s the first time all night that I’ve lost control.
* * *
Once we leave the gas station bathroom, cricket melodies cut the silence. My stupid wedges wobble on loose gravel that skids across the parking lot. Colin darts right past the gas station entrance, where bright lights spill from the tiny restaurant that houses several slumped-over truckers. A few large trucks are parked, engines off, their drivers passed out in their seats. He stops behind the largest truck’s trailer.
Someone else slinks inside the bathroom. Cars zoom past us, each one shining a spotlight directly on us. I’m even more open and exposed here, in my skimpy clothing, standing next to the boy I … can’t hate anymore now that we’re on the same side.
“And your plan is … stopping in the
open parking lot?” I invade his personal space until I win the battle and his heel slides an infinitesimal amount backward. Checkmate. “You’re right—this is so much better than a locked bathroom.”
He shoots me a dirty look and pulls my backpack toward him. “Tell me you packed lock-picking tools.”
I release a sharp, anguished sound into the night. “Yes, but—we can’t just hide out in the back of a truck. We’re trying to lay low. Not attract attention when we’re found trespassing!”
“Calm down. It’s only for a few hours, just to get some sleep before the s’mores adventure begins.”
I sigh and hastily unzip the front pocket of the backpack to grab my tools.
I kneel on the uneven gravel, the rocks indenting crop circles onto my knees, and slip the rake into the lock, just like the first time my mom taught me to do this. I was five, and we made a 3 a.m. adventure out of picking all the front doors in a neighborhood full of complicated locks. We didn’t break into the houses, just cracked their doors to prove we could. “You’re a natural,” she told me, her voice full of gusto as my small fingers worked. Her words seeped into my psyche, floating me on a puffy cloud. When she let me test my skills in a department store, where I pretended to be lost while she caused a panicked distraction so I could unlock the office and swipe the spare cash, I knew she loved me.
Now I make quick work with what I’ve got and pop the lock on the back of the trailer in two minutes flat. I spin around in time to catch Colin’s impressed blink.
We climb inside the dark trailer. Shelves line the entire cargo space, packed floor to ceiling with boxes, separated by only a thin row of space barely big enough for my shoulders. I squeeze into the recess of the trailer but stick close to the door to prevent the driver from hearing any movements. My back leans against the row behind me while my knees jab the boxes in front of me. Colin twists his body to stretch out his long legs, pressing his back into my shoulders.
I dig my elbow into his spine. “What about me makes you think, Yes, she looks like she’d be a good snuggler?”
He shifts until an inch of space separates us, his head leaning on a box in what looks like the world’s most uncomfortable position.
After a few moments, his snores fill the truck, echoing off the metal walls.
Darkness surrounds us, concealing us and hiding the most incriminating thing of all: the way the tension flees my shoulders. He was right. This is a way better hiding spot.
CHAPTER 11
I wake to the rumble of an engine purring beneath my thighs. The truck bed swerves, boxes gliding along the tracks. I bolt into a standing position but topple onto Colin, my hands gripping his shoulders like handlebars. His eyes fly open in confusion, then dart in panic. “What—”
“We have to get out of here!”
We scramble to our feet, gripping the metal rim of the shelves to keep from falling again. The truck gains speed, and my feet surfer-balance in the center.
“Hold on tight,” he says. “We’re gaining speed. If the doors open and you’re pressed against them…” He bangs one palm against the door for a sound effect. “Splat!”
His words grind deep into my chest like a drill. My hand tightens on the metal bar that hangs above the door, and his trembling fingers cover mine. He braces his other arm against the door and pushes, biceps bulging. Grunts escape from his mouth. On any other guy, this level of exertion would look sexy. But I prefer to attribute anything he does to slimeball.
The door doesn’t budge, and panic rockets through me.
“Count of three we kick,” I shout. “One. Two.”
“Three!” he finishes before I can, snatching the last word.
Our legs swing back in unison like we’re performing a choreographed routine with the rest of the Rockettes. Two feet slam into the doors. They pop open, and we lurch forward, our clammy fingers straining against the bar like a current is trying to tow us out to sea. An orange streak of morning light blasts in, making me squint against the butt crack of dawn. The yellow dashed lane lines speed beneath the truck so fast, they blur. We catch a glimpse of perky houses before they whip out of eyesight, replaced by a silver guardrail edging the road. No other cars, thankfully.
Colin gasps. “We’re on the freeway ramp!”
If we don’t jump now, the truck will reach deadly speeds. Without hesitating, I throw myself out of the truck. My feet hit the pavement with a hard slam that ricochets through my entire body. My torso falls forward from the impact, and I tuck my head into a somersault, rolling several times before I come to a stop. I splay flat on the ground, panting. Scrapes and tender skin throb all over my body, but I manage to push myself upright and hobble off the road.
Most parents send their kids to gymnastics for the fun of it. Mine sent me there to improve my getaway skills.
Colin flies out of the truck bed at a superhero angle, as if he’s soaring toward a daring rescue—and not his own. He twists his body too early, aiming for the small patch of grass that lines the freeway ramp. His shoulders crash into the grass, but his legs smash onto the hard pavement. He basically did a belly flop from a speeding truck directly onto a hard surface. His moans announce his failure.
“Colin! Are you okay?” I run to him and rest my hand between his shoulder blades. My palm rides the waves of his shallow breaths as the scent of exhaust dissipates in the open air.
He whimpers. “Okay, fine. You were right. Sleeping in the bathroom would have been a much better idea.”
“Oh thank God.” The tension in my shoulders eases. Both at the fact that he’s okay and that he conceded.
He squints at me. “Wait. You were terrified that I was hurt just now. Do you actually care?”
I flinch. “Of course I care. I need you.”
Something in his face deflates. “Ah. You only care because if I got hurt, your whole plan goes to shit.”
“No, it’s…” I wipe sweat from my brow. “You’re part of my crew. I care about my crew.” I jab my hand toward him to help him up, but he grips the silver railing for support instead, just to spite me.
A bloody scrape covers the entire length of his shin. He rests his weight on one leg at first, limping a few steps before walking at an almost normal gait. “Small sprain, I think.”
I offer him my elbow for support, but he shakes his head. “I can handle it.”
“We’ll go back to the bathroom to get you cleaned up,” I suggest.
“Your dream come true! I know how much you miss that place.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s like you can see into my soul.” I stop dead. “Wait.” A cold, cracking sensation creeps up my spine. I spin around frantically, taking in the uninterrupted panorama of the empty freeway ramp. “Tell me you have the backpack.”
He performs the same revolution as me, wincing with each pivot of his heel. “Tell me nothing important was in there.”
I rake a hand through my hair, surprised when the strands end so abruptly. “A couple burner phones. Most of the cash for today. Breakfast.” I set my eyes on his brown ones. “Oh God. Your ID?”
I pull my own ID from my bra, where I stashed it before I fell asleep last night. Phew, but remind me to tell Natalie that next time she packs a getaway outfit for me, it better have pockets.
Colin pats the pocket on his cargo shorts and pulls out two items. “Still have mine. And my mom’s photo.” He studies the photo for a moment and lets out a shaky sigh before sliding both back into his pocket.
I sag in relief and clutch my mother’s necklace, still tight around my neck. “Good. Everything else is replaceable. Natalie has extra burners.” Maybe this will be a good thing. Maybe the cops will find the backpack wherever the truck stops next and think we fled from there, not here.
He pulls out two twenties from his shorts pocket. “Glad I grabbed some cash from my room before we left.”
I groan. Why does he always have to one-up me? Even if this time it’s to my benefit. “Breakfast is on you, then.” As soon as I
say it, my stomach growls.
We hobble down the freeway ramp, flattening ourselves against the railing when a car speeds by. After several blocks, we come to our good old neighborhood staple: the gas station. A little bell jingles as he leads me inside.
“… O’Keefe escaped last night…”
My eyes fly to the TV, where Colin’s smoldering mug shot fills the screen. Because he can’t do anything without being aggravating, he looks gorgeous on his official record, too. Blood drains from my face. Every head in the place swivels toward us in the three seconds it takes for Colin to pivot and run right back out the door.
I rush after him. “Hey, you look different now. They won’t know.”
He lets out a howl of pain from his sprained ankle but charges forward. I surge my pace despite the stupid uncomfortable wedges. My pulse pounds loud in my ears with a thought that plays like a metronome, ticking down the seconds until my demise: He’s a wanted criminal, and I’m the accomplice. We run for several blocks, cutting through backyards when we can. Each step he takes causes a grunt of pain. I grit my teeth against the ache in my burning lungs. After about five minutes, I clamp a hand on his shoulder.
“No one’s—” I pant. “Following us.”
I lean against a tree in a gorgeous backyard with a tire swing hanging from a branch. My chest aches at the sight of it, at all my mother missed of me growing up, but it also serves as a reminder of what I’ll find at the end of this rainbow: a chance to fill the void she left with new memories.
“What—” He doubles over, bracing his hands against his knees, coming away with a smear of blood. He gulps air. “What do you suggest?”
“Lesson numero uno in being stealthy: Act normal. Don’t look guilty. The people in the gas station only noticed you because you ran like you were on fire.”
We mingle with large crowds of suited people heading to work on busy streets, the roads the police would assume we’d avoid. A quick stop at a drugstore provides us with a bathroom to clean Colin’s leg and some sunglasses to conceal our eyes. We split a few pastries from Starbucks, and each down an iced coffee as we walk. Our first date, how ridiculously quaint. We kill time by not staying in one place, always moving.