by Kylie Scott
"Better not go past the door," he muttered.
"No," said Chris, giggling again. "That'd be bad."
Bottles clinked against one another. Outside I could hear car doors slamming and lots of different voices. The flashing red, white, and blue were brighter than before, as if a whole squadron of cars had joined in with the light show. Please, God, let one of them do something constructive to get me out of here. I'd go to church; I'd do anything. I was only seventeen, still a virgin, for fuck's sake. And while I knew I'd probably never make prom queen, I'd at least like to live long enough to attend the damn thing.
"Nice," said John. "They've got Corona."
More noises. The pop of beer bottles being opened as the boys settled in to celebrate the whole hostage situation. I couldn't see the other kid, Isaac, just Chris the tweaker and John. They were sitting on the ground with their backs to the counter, hanging out. It was ridiculous. And they might've known each other, but I don't think John did drugs. At least, not seriously. His shoulder-length hair wasn't patchy and greasy like Chris's. Scruff covered his jaw, framed his mouth. But his lean, angular face didn't have the same sores or emaciated appearance.
"What's your name?" he asked when he caught me looking.
I licked my lips, trying to summon up some moisture. "Edie."
"Eddie?"
"No. Ee-dee."
A nod. "Eee-dee allowed to have a drink too, Chris?"
"Whatever," the guy mumbled, staring off at nothing.
John rose, carefully approaching me like I held the gun. You'd have thought the meth-head would be the bigger concern. Then the nutter--John, that is--winked at me. Not a come-on kind of wink, but a play-along sort of thing.
Huh. I'd read him all wrong. He wasn't trying to be like Chris. He was trying to manage him.
"Sit up," he said quietly, crouching down at my side.
God, it hurt. Moving, thinking, breathing, everything. I set myself right, leaning back against the edge of a shelf. Gray fuzz filled my vision, the world tilting this way and that. He popped the cap on another Corona, putting it into my hand, closing my fingers tight around the cold, wet bottle. The way he touched me might have been the only thing that didn't hurt.
"Drink up, Edie," he said. "We're being social, right, Chris?"
Chris huffed out a laugh. "Sure. Social."
"That's right," said John. "It's all good."
I only just stopped myself from snorting.
"Maybe hold it to your head," he said, a little quieter. "Okay?"
"Yeah."
Beer had never been my thing. Georgia and I were prone to liberating the occasional bottle from her mom's wine collection. All of it cheap and nasty crap. It wasn't much like she'd notice, let alone care. The beer slid down my sore throat, joining the churning and nausea going on in my belly. I willed it to stay put, taking deep breaths, swallowing it back down.
John nodded.
I nodded back, still alive and all that. "Thanks."
His eyes were intense, gaze heavy. In a pretty-boy contest, he'd have beaten the now-dead cute clerk guy easily. What a screwed-up thought. Who knew whose blood would wind up decorating the walls next?
"What school you from?" John asked.
"Greenhaven."
"Poor little rich girl," said Chris, words slurred. "Bitches, all of them."
I kept my mouth shut.
"Dillon always liked the Green girls." John joined Chris back over by the counter.
"Liked fucking them."
"That too," said John with a false smile. "Said it was easier, going with a Green girl. They couldn't hassle him at school. Less maintenance."
Chris chuckled.
"What do you think, Edie, want to go out sometime?" asked John. He couldn't be serious. The boy had to be crazy.
"Sure," I said, keeping the WTF off my face.
"What do you want with her?" Chris scratched at this chin, lips set in a sneer.
"I like blondes." John just smiled. "And Edie here seems cool with drinking stolen beers. My kind of girl."
Chris shook his head.
No words were safe, so I sipped my drink.
Drawing back his arm, Chris let his empty bottle fly, glass smashing against the rear wall. My shoulders jumped, the sound was so startlingly loud.
"Another?" asked John, calm as can be. Like he saw this kind of thing every day. Maybe he did.
"You." Chris jerked his chin at the silent friend.
"I'll get some more," said Isaac, voice shaking.
"Wish I hadn't left my stash in the car," said John. "Be good to pay you back, Chris."
Chris coughed out a laugh. "'nother time."
With a nod, John smiled.
A sudden obscenely loud trilling broke the silence, making my breath hitch. It was the phone. Just the phone. At this rate, I'd die of a heart attack long before the head wound could do its damage.
"Don't answer it," said Chris, body snapping to attention, glaring at all of us. As if we'd dare.
The ringing stopped, a moment later starting up once more.
"Bastards!" Chris struggled to his feet, keeping low as he took aim. Crack went the gun, again and again. It took him three tries, but he finally managed to score a hit. At least, the ringing stopped. "I'm just . . . just going to wait. Joanna, she'll come back. She'll have a plan. She's always got a plan. Probably have to ram a window or something, I don't know."
Isaac returned, handing out more beers.
"Cool," said John, lighting up another cigarette and exhaling a ring of smoke.
"You can go then." Chris smiled, flashing a mouthful of black and broken teeth. "We just have to wait."
John licked his lips. "You didn't want to get rid of Edie now?"
Frown in place, Chris turned his head. "Why the fuck would I do that?"
"Like you said, useless Green girl. We don't need her," said John, voice smooth, compelling. "Bet you she'll panic and mess things up, make shit difficult for you. Might as well send her out, right?"
"Wrong!" Faster than I'd thought possible, Chris grabbed the younger boy. "What the fuck you playing at? You think I'm stupid?"
"No, no. Wha--"
"Shut your fucking mouth," Chris snarled, his fingers tightening around the gun. "She's the only real hostage I've got. You think the cops would give a shit if I killed your drugged-up ass right now?"
"I won't panic," I said, not stopping to think. "I promise."
Face lined, gaze angry and a little confused, Chris turned my way.
"We just have to wait for Joanna," I continued, my breath coming fast. "Thank you . . . thanks for the beer."
Slowly, Chris eased back, the fury falling from his face. "That's right. We just have to wait for Joanna."
I didn't risk looking directly at John, to thank him for trying to help, to see if he was all right. Eyes down and mouth shut, that was safest.
"Won't be long now," Chris mumbled as if to himself. "It'll all be over."
I don't know how long I sat there sipping beer. Long enough for my head to stop bleeding, if not to stop aching. The whole County Sheriff's Office must have been out there by now, given the bright slivers of light shining in, the hum of a crowd.
A while back, Chris had started scratching, opening up sores. His trembling had also gotten worse. Calm as can be, John kept talking, telling stories he'd heard from his brother, asking after people they had in common. Empty beer bottles collected around us and his voice went on and on, husky and low. Probably on account of all of the smoking. The friend, Isaac, didn't utter another peep.
"Chris, son," said a man over a megaphone. "It's Sheriff Albertson here. I've had a talk with Joanna--I know this was all an accident."
"Jo?" Chris scrambled over to the front glass wall on his hands and knees, still gripping the gun. He peeked out from behind the safety of the magazine stands.
"Why don't we talk this over, just you and me?"
"No!" cried the tweaker, pulling at his short hair. "She's no
t . . . I can't see her."
John said nothing. His eyes were glued on Chris.
I couldn't stop the shaking, first in my arms, then my legs. Please, please, please. Somebody get me out of here.
"Get up." Chris rose to a stoop, standing over me. "Move, you fat bitch! Time to show these fuckers that I'm serious."
"N-no. Please."
He knocked the almost-empty beer bottle out of my hand, sending it spinning across the floor. Again he went for my hair, dragging me up to my feet. A cry caught in my throat, chunks of hair tearing out. I grasped for his hand, trying to ease the grip he had on me, the way he ripped at my scalp.
"Hurry up," he said, and the flat of his hand smacked against my face.
Blood dribbled from my nose, putting the taste of copper on my tongue. The right side of my face was throbbing. He shoved me toward the door, the gun pressed hard against my spine.
"Open it."
I squinted, staring out into the night. It was hard to see much. There was a lot of light, so many people out there, watching. No one doing a goddamn thing to help. All of me shook, tears, blood, and snot dripping down my face. My hands fumbled over the deadbolt, fingers numb. Then I flicked the lock, pushing the door outward. I held it open with one hand.
Chris's arm came around me, his hold like a lover's. Give or take the gun shoved under my chin.
"I want Joanna!" he said, yelling the words loud in my ear.
"Chris--" the sheriff started in his nice, calm voice.
"Now. Bring her out."
"She's not here, Chris. That's going to take a little time."
Behind me, Chris swore. "No. You get her here now."
"If I bring her out here, you need to do something for me. Why don't you let the girl go?"
Chris's response was less than happy. I was sickened by the rancid smell of him, and the sound of him breathing hard and muttering to himself echoed in my head, through my hollow bones.
"You're not listening to me. I'm in charge . . . I am. You need to see that."
"Chris--"
"Shut up! I didn't want to have to do this!" he shouted. "This is your fault."
I swayed, and pee ran down the inside of my legs, beyond my control. It puddled in my flip-flops.
"Hold on. Okay," rushed the sheriff. "I'm making the call right now. Let's keep calm."
Wonder if my mom was out there? I hoped not.
Something seemed to move in the shadows beside us. I couldn't see. All of the lights were blinding, intensifying the pounding in my face and the pressure of the gun. Chris tightened his hold on my ponytail. Finger on the trigger and still hiding behind me, he pointed the gun out in the direction of the sheriff's voice.
"You bring Jo here," he said. "And her car, too."
"Okay. Whatever you want, Chris."
"I've got three. And I will blow their fucking heads off, one by one, if you--"
John hit us from side on. Chris came down hard on my back as I struck the ground. The heavy shop door swung shut. A knee dug into my spine and Chris's weight lifted as he tried to rise. But another body, Isaac, joined in, arms punching and legs kicking, fighting for control. We were all tangled up, in each other's way. They might have been aiming for Chris, but I caught more than my fair share of punches. John's tackle had knocked Chris forward, however, and I was no longer pinned completely beneath him. Sheer terror drove my muscles. I struggled to get free, squirming and pushing out from under Chris's writhing hips and legs. Just above me, Isaac was desperately clutching at Chris's waving arm, trying to get the gun off him.
Meanwhile, John rained punches down on Chris's face, turning it to a bloody pulp. The pistol went off, the sound deafening. Someone screamed in pain, and blood painted the air for the second time this evening. Chris's weight shifted at the shot, and for a split second there was space for me to squirm out from under him. Free at last, I scrambled onto my knees. Isaac had both hands on the gun, twisting it in Chris's grip. Bang, bang, bang! After the last retort, Isaac stumbled back, wrenching the weapon free from Chris. Thank God. It clattered against the floor, landing right in front of me. Without hesitation, I grabbed it, scooting back on my ass until I could go no farther. Blood--I don't know whose--was misting up my right eye. But I could see well enough for this. Finger tight on the trigger. Barrel pointed straight at Chris's chest. Click. Click. Click. Nothing happened.
Oh shit. No ammo.
The door flew open and police crowded in with guns and bulletproof vests. Bright light blazed in from outside. Two of them wrestled John off of Chris.
It was strange. People's mouths moved, yet it sounded like we were all underwater. Every noise seemed muted, delayed. One cop crouched down beside me, hands sliding over mine, clicking on the safety before prying my finger off the trigger. At first, I didn't want to let it go. It might be out of bullets, but I could use it as a blunt weapon if necessary. Hammer the asshole's head in even. But the cop's hands were stronger than mine. Eventually, he won, giving the gun to someone else, who took it away. There was so much light, so much movement happening all around.
"Is it over?" I asked, taking it all in through one eye. The other was swollen, eyelid glued shut with dried blood.
Whatever the guy beside me said, I couldn't hear.
Man, the Drop Stop was a mess. Way worse than usual.
Chris lay still on the ground, his face like ground beef. Barely recognizable. Two officers stood beside John, who had blood dripping from his fists and a long, ugly gash high on his upper arm. Isaac lay crumpled on the floor, still. Gaze blank, he stared at the ceiling. His chest was dark, something soaking into the pale gray material of his shirt. I kept watching, but he didn't move. Not once.
Emergency medical technicians were the next to rush through the door, bringing their bags of equipment. They wouldn't have let them in if it wasn't safe, I guess.
It was over. I shut my one good eye and rested my head back against the milk fridge.
I walked out of there on my own two feet. Mostly.
An EMT gripped my elbows, carefully steering me toward one of the ambulances. They'd been pissy when I refused the stretcher. Chris was taken away strapped down on one, raging incoherently. Isaac and the clerk behind the counter got body bags. Meanwhile, the cops were still talking to John.
I huddled beneath a blanket, face turned away from the crowd of spectators gathered behind the police line. Media and other assorted curious douches surrounded the place.
"Edie." Mom was crying, her face red and worn. Her eyes widened, horrified at the sight of me.
The front of my shirt was covered in the red stuff, both dried and new. I pulled the blanket tighter around me. "It's not all mine."
Mom was not appeased.
"Here we go," said Bill the EMT, directing me to sit on the back step of the ambulance.
Every last bit of energy was gone. My arms felt ready to fall off, my head hanging down. Bill got busy, gently but efficiently tending to my face. The rest was really just bruises. His partner climbed into the back, handing him bandages, etcetera.
Lots of cop cars. Some uniforms were rushing back and forth between the parking lot and the Drop Stop, while others simply stood around. Bill answered Mom's questions in a gruff, no-nonsense voice. Repeatedly saying we'd be heading to the hospital soon, and the doctors there would tell her more about my condition. Mom kept asking him stuff regardless of his unchanging answers.
It was all just background noise. None of it seemed real. My friend Georgia hovered nearby. Her parents had arrived too, their faces pale and weary. Probably relieved as all hell it wasn't Georgia sitting in the back of an ambulance covered in blood, face all busted up.
Two Johns were being ushered toward a police cruiser, their hands cuffed in front of them. I blinked repeatedly, concentrated. Slowly he blurred back into one.
What the hell was going on? I tried to get up.
"Edie." Bill put a hand up to stop me. "Hey, kid. Where are you going?"
"I ne
ed to talk to them."
"I'm sure one of the detectives will want to talk to you at the hospital."
"No." I slowly stood. Whoa, nothing felt good. Not that I'd thought it would. But if it weren't for Bill's hold on me, my poor bruised ass would probably have hit the ground. Again. "I need to talk to them now."
"What you need to do is let me patch you up."
"No. Now."
Bill sighed. Then he helped.
"Stop," I said, voice horribly weak, even to my own still-ringing ears. "What are you doing? Why did you cuff him?"
The cop pushing John into the back of the cruiser frowned, closing the door. "Stay back please, miss."
"He didn't do anything."
A man in a rumpled gray suit stepped forward, giving me a professional smile. "Miss Millen? Can I call you Edie?"
"Get him out of there," I demanded, swaying on my feet. Not good. "He helped me. He saved my life. Christ's sake, his friend just died!"
His smile turned to condescending. "Edie, I'm afraid it's not that simple."
"What?" I wanted to scream in frustration. But honestly, I didn't have it in me. Wondered if they'd wait to continue this conversation after I had a brief nap. "Why are you doing this? I don't understand what you're doing."
The cop opened his mouth, doubtless to continue on with more of the same. Except John tapped on the inside of the car window. He didn't smile, didn't frown; he just looked at me. Blood speckled his face and stained the fresh white bandage around his upper arm. His light-brown shoulder-length hair hung around his face. There were clumps in it too. Out of the five people who'd been in the store, only he and I were left. Besides Chris, of course.
The car engine rumbled to life.
The tapping stopped, and John pressed a bruised and bloodstained palm up to the door window. Maybe it was his way of waving good-bye or signaling glad-you're-okay. But with the gray-metal handcuffs looped around his wrist, the gesture just made him look lost and alone. His expression didn't change, haunted eyes looking out from a pale, shell-shocked face. Nothing about this was okay. While I was shrugging off the attentions of Mom and Georgia and the nice ambulance officer, John was being carted off in the back of a police car.
We held each other's gaze as the vehicle slowly moved forward, more police clearing a way out through the crowd. Cameras and reporters pressed in like a frenzied mob. Once the cruiser was gone, they trained their lenses my way. I turned my blanket into a Jedi-style cape, hiding my face from view.