Joyride

  This is all my fault. He knows how prejudiced his dad is. He knew it was a bad idea to bring Carly here, to the lion’s den. Not just tonight, but any night. Still, he wanted her here for reasons he can’t explain. He’s never brought a girl home before. Never brought anyone into his sanctuary. This house only had room for one girl: Amber. Except that’s all changed. Carly is allowed here. More than that, he wants her here. The house feels less empty with her in it.

  But these are the wrong circumstances. He never wanted it to be like this. He wanted their first kiss—because, by God, there was going to be at least one kiss between them if it killed him—to be extraordinary. And it was … until the mighty Sheriff Moss had interrupted it. He thought his dad was supposed to be two towns over, giving a speech at the American Legion.

  What must Carly be thinking right now?

  And why didn’t I trust my instincts? He knew to keep her away from his father for as long as possible—for forever, if he could pull it off. To hide her—no, protect her—from exactly this. And now he’s blown it.

  “That’s a shame,” the sheriff says, his tone full of false sympathy. “Of course, I’m sorry for your loss. I was hoping to have them over for dinner. You know my wife, Sherry—have you met Sherry yet?—she makes the best enchiladas this side of the border. And what’s not to celebrate? It’s not every day my son brings home a girl. He usually reserves this sort of thing for his truck or, more appropriately in your case, an abandoned barn somewhere.”

  “You son of a bit—” This time even Carly can’t hold him back. Arden flings himself over the counter. His father moves out of the way just as Arden slams into the fridge. Smooth as butter, Arden is pressed against the fridge, his father’s hand tight around his throat.

  “How many times do we have to do this, Arden?” his father growls in his ear. “Why the back-and-forth? Why the battle?”

  “I’m not Amber,” Arden chokes out. “I won’t give up.” His father could control Amber with words, and if not words, then actions like these. He can’t control Arden, and it eats at him, Arden knows.

  Arden hears the sound of metal scraping against … what? Then clink clink clink.

  “Let him go,” Carly says. He peers around his dad’s shoulder and his stomach drops. Carly has the granddaddy of all kitchen knives in her hand. Clink clink clink. She taps it against the counter. Then she points it at a bemused Sheriff Moss.

  “Carly, don’t,” Arden pleads. Even with the knife, he knows his father can overtake Carly. And because she’s pulled the knife, he can hurt her and get away with it. His father knows all the gray-shaded boundaries of the law. He’ll cry self-defense. He’ll cry breaking and entering. He’ll cry anything he needs to cry to win.

  The same way he cried at Amber’s funeral without feeling a thing.

  “Are you attempting to assault an officer, young lady?” His father laughs. “You’re making it too easy for me.”

  “I’m Mexican, remember? We’re experts at butchering pigs, Sheriff.” Still, she takes a step backward—much to Arden’s relief. The knife trembles in her hand. If Arden sees it, his father sees it. His father sees everything.

  The sheriff tilts his head at her, but doesn’t loosen his grip on Arden. “You’d better be ready to use that.”

  Carly’s jaw clenches and unclenches. Her eyes glisten but she doesn’t yield to the tears threatening to spill out. She blinks once, twice. Lowers the knife slightly. “Let him go. Please.”

  Arden feels as deep as a shot glass. She’s trying to protect me. This is all backward. “He won’t hurt me,” Arden tells her. “Just put the knife down.” Please God, make her put the knife down.

  The sheriff snorts. “This is getting exciting, isn’t it, Carly? Tell you what. For showing a little spine, I’ll let you walk out of here. Go on. Don’t let the door hit you where the Good Lord split you.”

  She takes another step back, giving Arden an apologetic look. “I can’t … I’m not leaving without Arden.”

  Arden struggles against his father, but the sheriff tightens his grip to the point of cutting off air. “Just let her go,” Arden gets out between gasps.

  “I tried to, son. Seems she’s too ignorant to recognize an opportunity when it presents itself.”

  “Aren’t you an elected official?” Carly says, her voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t need a scandal like this on your hands. Think about everything I’ll say to the press.”

  His father stiffens then. It’s the best possible thing Carly could have said. Even though her body language screams that she’s bluffing. “It’s your word against mine, now, isn’t it? You think anyone with a brain will believe you over me?”

  His father is right. No one would believe Carly, even if Arden backed up the story. Even if they did, his father has connections everywhere, at every level of government. Relationships he’s built over decades of time served. But Carly has him by the balls right now. Because no matter what happens to her, this incident would be plastered all over the news. Carly has a bagful of seeds in her hands. Seeds of doubt. And it’s something the sheriff won’t—and has never—risked. The smallest chance that this could tarnish his reputation has Sheriff Moss backed into a corner.

  The conundrum is all over the sheriff’s face. Arden takes advantage of his father’s now-relaxed grasp. “We’d be willing to find out, wouldn’t we, Carly?” Arden says, breathless. “All she has to do is snap a pic of us right now with her phone, right? A nice little Moss family photo.”

  Arden and Carly both know she doesn’t have a phone. But his dad doesn’t. To his father, words are bad enough. But pictures? Those are much more difficult to explain away. With a disgusted snarl, the sheriff abruptly releases Arden and shoves him toward Carly. “Get out of my house. Don’t you ever bring that tramp here again, you understand?”

  Carly begins to back toward the exit to the kitchen, keeping the knife in position. Arden rushes to her, putting himself between her and his father. Together, they edge toward the front door, never turning their backs on the threshold of the kitchen. Carly is shaking badly; the knife wobbles in her hand now. She doesn’t need it anymore, Arden knows. His father will let them leave. This situation is over.

  Maybe she’s going to use it on me when we get in the truck.

  Nineteen

  “Well, that was traumatizing,” I say, slamming the truck door behind me. I buckle up as quickly as possible, laying the knife carefully on the seat between us. My heart thumps in a wild rhythm. I hope Arden doesn’t notice that I’m about to shake out of my own clothes. “We’re dumping this. Tonight.” I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. Not now, not thirty seconds ago in the Moss residence kitchen.

  Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod. I just pulled a knife on the sheriff of Houghlin County—the extremely prejudiced sheriff of Houghlin County. How could Arden have grown up in this kind of environment and not be at least a little racist himself? Or is he?

  But that’s not fair and I know it. I’ve never picked up a single prejudiced vibe from him. He can be dense sometimes, and self-involved, but he’s never so much as hinted at being racist. In that regard, he’s more like his uncle, Mr. Shackleford, I guess—or at least, I hope.

  Because now I’m all in with Arden. And I know it.

  Arden’s face is expressionless as he puts the truck in drive. We speed out of the cobblestone driveway and make a hard right, hopefully toward the closest exit of this godforsaken neighborhood.

  “You think he’ll press charges? Will he tell Julio what I did?” Dios mio, but my heart palpitates with the thought of it. Adrenaline courses through my body, making me replete with unspent energy. I pop every knuckle I can. My knee bounces uncontrollably.

  “No,” Arden says finally. He answers as if I’ve asked him if he wants mayo on his sandwich. Emotionless. Final.

  He takes a left, then a right at the next stop sign. He slows to a crawl. This isn’t the way we came in. “Where are we going?” My hands are fidgetin
g fidgeting fidgeting. I wonder if this is what being on crack feels like.

  “Somewhere. Anywhere. Home. I’m taking you home.”

  “Do you think he’ll come after us?”

  Distracted, he glances at me. “No. No, he won’t. It’s all a mind game, what he just did. He wouldn’t want a public confrontation. It wouldn’t suit his image.”

  “Are … are you mad?”

  Maybe his dad’s words got to him. Maybe he regrets spending time with me after all. Maybe I’m going to go insane if he doesn’t start talking.

  I’m startled out of that line of thought when he slams on the brakes, pulls over on the curb. We’re halfway on the sidewalk. I’m pretty sure the homeowners association here would have a fit.

  Arden faces me suddenly. I’m too stunned to stop my mouth from hanging open. His behavior has never been this erratic before. He’s always so self-assured, like he’s found equilibrium in the universe or something. “Mad? At you? You’ve got to be kidding. You think I’m mad at you?”

  “Well, I mean, I’m not sure if you noticed, but I pulled a knife on your dad.” I’m ready to defend my actions though. They’re at the tip of my tongue in case this escalates into an argument. In case Arden is losing his mind like I feel I am.

  “I have a deranged father and you’re the one apologizing. That’s classic.” He beats his hands against the steering wheel. “It’s me who’s sorry, Carly. I should never have brought you there. He wasn’t supposed to be home.”

  I think I might be sick. “Did you … did you bring me there to—” I can’t even say it. Because what if he did bring me there for … for …

  “No! I knew you would think that. After all those things he said. God, I’m so sorry, Carly. So, so sorry.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out what you’re apologizing for,” I say. No, I yell it. Because I’m a little excitable at the moment. And if he didn’t bring me there for the intimate setting, then what could he possibly have to apologize for?

  “Those things he said. The way he insulted you. I knew how he felt about … about…”

  “You’re apologizing for your dad,” I say as if I’m coaching a witness at court. “Because he was mean to me. Because of where I come from.”

  “Yes.”

  “But not because you kissed me?” And then introduced me as your girlfriend? I didn’t imagine that part, did I? I know I’m being vain here, absolutely know it. It’s not that I’m not angry at all. I am. I’m super-offended. I mean, Arden’s father dissed my ethnicity, and therefore my family. Therefore Julio, who is the hardest-working person I know. I should be foaming at the mouth, telling Arden to turn the truck around and let me have another shot at his arrogant dad.

  I think of Mama and Papi and the struggles they go through to put food on the table back in Mexico. They basically live in a shed—our trailer is luxurious compared to their little shack. We all work so hard for one another, to make something better for ourselves, for our family. We are people, and Sheriff Moss looks at us like we’re rats. I saw his face. The disgust there when he looked at me. Like his son had just kissed roadkill. How can such a hateful man have persuaded so many people to give him this much power?

  I should have attacked him like a rabid dog, on principle. I shouldn’t have been afraid, I should have been ferocious. But then again, wouldn’t that have proven that his opinion of me is true? That I’m a wild animal, incapable of complex human feelings and thoughts and emotions? He would have pointed that out to Arden right away, I know it. No, attacking him is not the way. Losing my temper is not the way. Losing Arden is not the way.

  But neither is losing who I am. I’m going to figure this out, I will. The sheriff won’t catch me helpless again.

  And I can’t imagine there won’t be an “again,” because Arden and I just kissed. So maybe that’s what I’m asking. If Arden and I are going to be a thing, I’m going to have to learn to deal with his dad a little better than pulling a knife on him every time he opens his mouth.

  But that kiss. I can’t forget that kiss. My lips still swelter from that kiss. They’re still swollen with eagerness to do it again. And I’m pretty sure that makes me a bad person. Because I’m full of all this rage about what the sheriff did—what he said—and yet I’m thinking about Arden kissing me.

  I’m a straight-up psycho.

  Arden leans back against the door, giving me a long hard look. His eyes focus on me as if he were seeing me for the first time. “Not because I kissed you? I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  I throw my hands up in the air, mainly because I still don’t know what I’m asking. “Did you mean to kiss me, Arden? Or are you apologizing for that too?” My instincts tell me to open the door and run before I embarrass myself further.

  His mouth falls open, and he gives a dazed look. “You’re serious?”

  I nod, aware that I’m holding my breath.

  He closes his eyes and exhales. “Oh, I definitely meant to. I’ll never be sorry for kissing you.” And just like that, he’s on my side of the truck, pulling me into the crook of his arm. He rests his chin on the top of my head. “I’m just sorry it happened like that. That it will always be tainted with my dad going ape shit right afterward.”

  “And the part about being your girlfriend?”

  “I was getting around to asking.”

  “Liar.”

  He laughs into my hair. “Haven’t you figured out that I’m afraid of you? I’ve been alluding to this for days now. You either suck at taking hints or you’ve been avoiding it. And I need to know which one.”

  “I thought you just wanted it for show. Not, you know, for real.” Which is the truth. I thought he just wanted to give in to the rumors and let everyone think that they were right about us so we had a valid reason to hang out with each other. Now that they were actually right about us … How do I feel about it?

  “Well, it is partly for show. To show everyone that you’re not freaking available.” He pulls away completely then. “Wait a minute. Is this your way of rejecting me? You’re not going to be my girlfriend?”

  My hand has a mind of its own as it pulls his face closer to mine. I indulge myself by taking in a deep breath of his masculine scent. “I am so your girlfriend.” And then I kiss him. Arden Moss. But he’s no longer the Arden Moss. He’s my Arden Moss.

  His response is hungry but not feral. He doesn’t do anything I’d imagined Previous Arden would do to his oh-so-willing victims. He doesn’t try to cop a feel. He doesn’t put his hands up my shirt or down my jeans. He just holds me. Holds me, and kisses me like I’m the thing he’s been craving since life began.

  * * *

  School becomes exciting in a weird sort of way. We thought by acting like a couple, everyone would just stop staring. But they don’t. We turn heads, Arden and I, as we make our way from class to class holding hands. Arden makes it a point to kiss me as he drops me off at calculus—a class we don’t have together. I make it a point to stand on my tiptoes and accept his lips. Screw the Public Eye. What harm am I doing? If anything, I’m acting more normal than I was when it looked like I was rejecting my Arden Moss.

  He walks me to all my classes. We enjoy scandalizing our classmates as much as we enjoy the kissing. After the day is done, we go to the media center to drop off my borrowed laptop. It feels good to hand it over to Mrs. Goodwin and say, “I’m turning this in. I don’t need it anymore.” I’ve decided to tell Julio that the school upgraded—that way he won’t question where the new one came from.

  Mrs. Goodwin is shocked. Maybe she’s shocked that I’m turning it in. Maybe she’s shocked that Arden Moss is holding my backpack open in order to do so. Maybe she’s shocked that I’m wearing a laced-up bodice shirt and wedges instead of a T-shirt and tennis shoes.

  Maybe she should get over it.

  “Uh, thank you, Carly,” she says.

  “I have a new laptop,” I can’t help but tell her.

  Arden grins at me. I grin back. L
ife is good.

  * * *

  “So, the point of mudding is to get your truck stuck?”

  Arden rejects my proposal with a scoff. He changes gears and mashes the gas again. The tires spin and spin but we don’t move forward. Mud shoots everywhere. The woods around us are no longer visible through the red clay caked onto all the windows and windshield. “We’re not stuck. And point? There’s no point to mudding. It’s just fun.”

  But by the tone of his voice, it doesn’t sound like he’s having fun. It sounds like he might be a bit frustrated. Which is why I shouldn’t say, “It’s like the road took a crap on us.” But I do.

  He flashes me a disgruntled look. “A little dirt never hurt anyone. Matter of fact, I’m pretty sure dried mud is what keeps this truck in one piece.”

  Switching us into reverse, he braces his arm on the back of my seat and turns around, I guess to get a better view of us not going anywhere. “How often do you get stuck?”

  “We’re not stuck. This is just a puddle for ol’ Betty.”

  “My. God. You named your truck?”

  Again with the gear changing. I love the natural bulge of his biceps when he’s grasping the steering wheel. But not as much as I love the natural bulge of his biceps when they’re wrapped around me.

  “She’s not just a truck.”

  “Oh, but she is.”

  “And we’re not stuck.”

  “But say we are. Then what—”

  “We absolutely, positively are not stuck, are we, Betty?” He pets the dashboard before revving the gas again but to no avail. Then his butt rings. He pulls himself up enough to dig in his back pocket for his phone. “Yeah, man?” he answers.

  A male voice greets him on the other end, but I can’t tell who it is or what he’s saying. “We’re on our way,” Arden says. “About fifteen minutes out.” Then, “We hit a hole right past the old creek sign … Yeah … No, we’re not stuck … Everyone’s there already?” He scowls at me. “Well, maybe you’d better come get us then.”