Not Looking for Love: Episode 6 (A New Adult Contemporary Romance Novel) (8 page)

What the fuck kinda car did I steal?
Or extract, as Greg put it, which is far more accurate.

Most likely this car's been involved in some crime, and a bad one at that. Murder. And this car is evidence. Which no one's collected yet and they won't now, since I stole it and am probably delivering it to the murderer right now. The nausea grows worse at the thought.
 

This must be how Mike's evidence, the stuff I planted, got fucked up. Gail and her father have no chance if these people decide to take them out. None at all. They won't know what hit them. And their only hope is me standing in the way of that.
 

I haven't been paying attention to following Greg, and he's suddenly gone. The nausea turns to full on stomach cramps. I can't fuck this up. Too much depends on it. But I don't have his number, and I have no fucking idea where they want this car.

I'm just about to call Mike and beg him to tell me what to do, when I spot Greg's Mustang waiting for me at a deserted bus stop.
 

I think of nothing else but keeping his taillights in sight for the rest of the way, don't look back, or sideways, afraid I'll lose him again.
 

It's almost two in the morning by the time I finally get back home. I'm still seeing just the taillights of the Mustang. The blood stains are covering those too now. And I really hope they'll get MaDog some other way, though I don't think that's very likely.

I pour myself a water glass of vodka and call Mike as soon as I'm back in the apartment. Tremors are still vibrating inside me, but my hands are surprisingly steady.

"What the fuck did you get me into?" I snap once he picks up.

"It's a little late to be calling, Scott," he drawls, his voice sounding nasal as it always does when he's doing coke. Which used to be all the fucking time last I hung out with him. Music is playing in the background, and I hear women laughing. I hope they continue to.

"Stealing cars from rich people is one thing," I say. "Destroying evidence of murder is something completely different."

"Just do as you're told, Scott, and don't think too much about it," he barks. "That's always been your problem, thinking too much. That, and worrying too much."

I hang up, toss the phone across the table, watch it collide with the wall.
Good. I hope it's fucking broken now.

But it's not, and Mike calls back at least ten times. I don't pick up though. I just take off my jeans and shoes, get into bed, watch some dumb movie, and then another one.
 

I can't keep my mind on anything but this exit-less situation I'm in now. I should just call Jerry in the morning, tell him everything. Call Gail and tell her everything. A part of me knows that would be the smartest thing. Because I know I probably can't handle this shit by myself. But another, much louder part is screaming I have to. Because she has no one else, and the police failed her once before. There's little reason to believe it won't again. Funny, since she's planning on devoting her whole life to the pursuit of something as fucking fragile and unsubstantial as the law.

By the time I finally fall asleep at dawn, all that shit is still a shapeless weight in my brain, and I'm so tired of trying to move it around, lighten it.
 

The doorbell ringing wakes me. I jump out of bed, and rush to the door, still half asleep, buzz whoever it is in. Because I'm hoping it's Gail, and I believe it is with every rushed breath I take right up until the moment Mike's standing in front of me.
 

"What do you want?" I snap, and head back inside.
 

It's getting dark like maybe I've slept for the whole day, but it might just be an overcast day.

"For you to put some pants on, for starters," he answers following me inside.
 

If I don't think too hard about last night, it actually feels like just a dream, so that's what I'm going with.

"You can't not answer my calls, Scott," Mike says, sitting down at the table.
 

"Fine, whatever." The more he talks the more real it all becomes. "Is that why you're here?"

"That, and to take you to see this awesome apartment in the city you should rent," he says.

"I'm fine here."

He snorts. "This place is a dump. You can afford a lot better now."

I pour some hot water over my instant coffee, because I can't be bothered to actually boil the water. It's too bitter and strong, but at least the room is not as fuzzy after a few sips.
 

"I'm not ready to move out yet," I say, leaning against the kitchen counter. I suddenly realize, I'm doing it because I don't want to be in the same room as Mike, and this is as far away from him as I can get in this small apartment. The thought scares me. When did I become this nervous wreck pussy?

I peal myself off the counter and walk to the table, sit across from Mike.
 

“Why can't you just stop this bullshit and let me get back to my life?" I ask. And I'll keep asking, for as long as it takes.

"That life's no good for you," he shoots back. "This is the right thing for you. One day you'll thank me."

I laugh hoarsely. It's possibly the saddest sound I've ever made. "Can't you just let me make my own choices?"

"I see you're not gonna be any fun today," Mike says and gets up, zipping up his jacket. "I thought we could go see the apartment and then have some fun. But I guess not."

Fun? What, with knives? He's so sick. There's no trace in his tone, his face that I've just asked him to stop making these insane demands of me, except for his nose twitching a little, but that's probably just from the coke.

"Answer your phone from now on," he says. "Whatever the time."

I shrug, finally say OK, when he won't stop glaring at me. Then he's gone, and it's dark outside and all I want to do is go back to sleep. Which I do, because with all this shit, I feel like I've been awake for weeks, and there's nothing much to stay awake for anyway.

The next couple of weeks pass in a haze of sleeping, drinking too much and answering Mike's calls, which are either about jobs or him telling me to move to the city. At least the jobs are sparse. I only did two others since the first one, and it was stealing cars from rich people, so at least there's that.

Sleep's not much help though. In the dream I just woke up from, I sat on the broken pier at the beach and watched Gail walking away, the pain of her retreat ripping my chest open. I've started keeping the downstairs door unlocked, so Gail can come in more easily if she's gonna. Which she probably isn't because it's been like a month and a half and none of those noises in the hallway that keep waking me up are ever her. Nor has she called. Which is just what I wanted, since it means she's over me. Completely. And that hurts worse than everything else combined.

I get my phone and call Mike, tell him I'm ready to see the apartment. I'm really not, but it seemed like a good idea so I went with it.
 

Mike's all chatty and happy on the way there. I stare out my window and hardly speak.
 

It's on the sixtieth floor of a brand new skyscraper overlooking the Freedom Tower. It's like the view's mocking me too. Freedom. My new life is not that much different than prison. I take the apartment on the spot, not even bothering to check out the bedroom or bathroom. I’m sure they’re fantastic. The apartment’s probably owned by Vlado and his people, so this is just another way of them keeping me in check, but I honestly don't care anymore. I have to start this new life for real eventually, and it might as well be today.

Mike's on the phone in the kitchen, making the arrangement for me to rent the apartment. I stand really close to the living room windows, trying to look down to the street. I wonder what it'd be like to just jump. My stomach cramps at the image of the pavement coming closer, the cold wind whooshing all around me. How long would the fall take anyway? Minutes? Seconds? I've never been good at physics, but I imagine it would seem like a very long time. Long enough to regret it, probably. The windows don't open more than a crack anyway.

"It's all settled," Mike informs me. "You can move in whenever."

My mind's still stuck in imagining the free fall, and it takes a few moments for his words to register.
 

"Awesome," I mutter. Gail could be waiting for me at Mom’s apartment right now. I should get back. This was a bad idea. She'll never be able to find me here. But she found me in Alaska. That memory brings more pain than joy now, kinda makes it hard to breathe, but they all do.

"I'll just get my stuff," I say, taking the keys Mike's holding out to me.

"Next step is getting you a new ride," Mike says, as I'm unlocking Andrew's car in the garage. "This family wagon has to go."

"I'm kinda used to it," I mutter. I couldn't care less about getting a new car.
 

"Wanna do something now?" Mike asks and I shake my head. The need to go see if Gail's at the apartment is a rising panic. I'm certain she’s there and I'm wasting precious time.
 

The drive back takes ages, and the hallway is just as empty and dark as it was when I left. She's not coming back. And I can't face another evening wishing she would, another night waking up at the slightest noise thinking it's her.

I pack my stuff even more hastily than the night I left her.
 
I'm back at my new apartment two hours after I left it.

It's fully furnished, in that minimalistic modern way, with just a couple of black leather sofas in the living room, and a huge screen TV. I'll have to get a second one for the bedroom, since I can't fall asleep without it on. One of the couches has a sofa bed and I sleep there. It'll work for now. I really hope I've managed to leave the dreams of Gail behind at my mom's place too.