Chasing Stardust: A Novel By Erica Lucke Dean - 11

Under Pressure

A hot gust ruffles my hair as the last particles of ash drift through the sky and float down the Mississippi River. Two down, only seven more to go. I peek at Dash over my shoulder. Unfortunately, I’ll be on my own for those.

Unlike Damian’s constant nagging from almost a thousand miles away, Dash relaxes on a bench, never once complaining while I choke back tears and say goodbye to Mom. All things considered, I couldn’t have asked for a better travel companion. But I know I can’t keep him forever. And maybe that’s for the best. It would be too easy to get attached . . . too hard to say goodbye.

I wipe my dusty fingers through the tall grass, then make my way to the bench.

Dash smiles as I sit beside him. “All done?”

I nod, focusing my attention on my gritty fingers. “I have sand under my fingernails.” As the words tumble out, I realize it isn’t sand at all. It’s Mom.

Dash bumps me with his shoulder. “At least you didn’t snort any this time.”

With his sweat-soaked hair pushed away from his face and his glasses tucked into his front pocket, he looks like Superman. All he’s missing is the suit.

I glance at his glasses. “Don’t you need those to see?”

He pulls them from his pocket and slides them on. They instantly fog.

“Can’t see much with them on.” He slips them into his pocket again. “But without them, everything kinda looks like an impressionist painting. I’m pretending I’m at the museum.” His lips twitch as he turns toward me. “You ready?”

“Yup.” My good humor vaporizes like water in a hot pan. “I guess you can take me back to Hicksville.”

“That’s it?” He wipes a drop of sweat from his cheek with the back of his hand. “No sightseeing? You came all this way to spread some ashes and leave?”

Unable to meet his gaze, I shrug. If I look at him, I’ll cry. I’d give anything to spend the day visiting all the places Mom went, but every minute I spend with Dash makes it harder to say goodbye. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me. I’ve known him for less than a day. Maybe it’s the emotional roller coaster I’ve been riding since discovering the existence of Mom’s diary, or maybe it’s the stark contrast between Dash and Damian, but if I don’t break free of Dash’s orbit soon, I won’t have to worry about getting attached, because it’ll be too damn late.

And I can’t forget about the ticking time bomb in my bladder.

“Don’t tell me your mom drove all the way to Memphis, took a picture, then left. I call bullshit on that.” Dash reaches for Mom’s diary. “May I?”

I hand over the journal, knowing exactly what he’ll find.

He wipes the fog from his glasses and then slips them on, holding Mom’s diary open like story time at the library.

“I knew it! They hit Beale Street . . . Sun Studio. Skipped Graceland because your grandma said it was a giant tourist trap—she wasn’t wrong about that. And look . . .” He taps the page. “They ate barbecue and deep-fried Oreos.”

“Okay, I get it.” My chest tightens as all the reasons for staying add up, making the reasons for leaving seem ridiculous in comparison. “That’s not nothing.”

“Got drunk at Jerry Lee’s,” he continues.

“Okay, stop right there.” I reach for Mom’s diary with a nervous chuckle. “I’m not getting drunk at Jerry Lee’s . . .”

Or anywhere else in a strange city with a guy I just met.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says with boyish innocence. “I wasn’t planning on drinking, let alone getting drunk. I’m driving, remember?”

I raise an eyebrow and fold my arms over my chest. “And if you weren’t driving?”

“Well, I seriously doubt I’d be drinking if you were driving, either, after the whole armadillo incident.” His innocent facade slips, the gears in his head turning as he holds my gaze. “You could , though, right? Without breaking any laws?”

“Of course.” I shift my attention to the swirling script on the page and mutter, “In Europe.”

He laughs. “But not here?”

His glasses fog again, saving me from his penetrating gaze.

“If you must know, I’ll be twenty-one in three months.”

He nods and releases a breath. “Good to know.”

With that subject firmly behind us, I stow Mom’s ashes and her diary in my tote, still torn about what to do next. Dash is right, I should stay and do all the things Mom did—and not out of some sense of duty, but because I want to do all those things . . . with him. But I also don’t want to get caught with my pants literally around my ankles when I need to pee and can’t get G-Lo’s personal protection undies back on in the damn Memphis heat. Thanks to countless hours of binge-watching Friends with Mom, visions of Ross and the leather pants plague my thoughts.

Dash bumps my shoulder with his. “Maybe you didn’t get to re-create the picture at the old auditorium, but you’re here. In Memphis. Breathing the same air your mom breathed, however long ago. You can’t really want to leave already. Let’s . . . I don’t know. Let’s go to Sun Studio and Beale Street. We’re in the home of the blues. We didn’t drive all this way to turn right around and go back, did we?”

“No.” My willpower deflates like a sad party balloon. “We didn’t.”

Excited, he dials up his smile. “Then let’s do this . . . Listen to good music. Eat good food. And experience what your mom did when she was here. What else do we have to do? Your car won’t be ready until Tuesday.”

“You can stop selling me on the idea.” Laughing, I nudge him and he slips right off the bench.

He’s right, and he knows it as well as I do. I can’t dump a handful of ashes and go home. Mom was alive when she came here, and I have a chance to truly follow her footsteps. I can’t turn my back on that.

“Hey, that’s fine.” Grinning, he stands. “If you want to camp out in the diner for the weekend, or waste half your budget on the Hicksville Inn where you can search for patterns in the carpet stains and watch The Bachelor reruns all weekend, I won’t—”

“Dash!” I drag my bottom lip through my teeth as an army of butterflies takes over my insides.

“What?”

A grin explodes across my face. “Let’s do it.”

His eyes widen. “Really?”

“Come on, before I change my mind.” I hook my arm through his.

He does a quick fist pump before towing me back toward the footbridge and the nearest trolley. “You won’t regret this.”

Two hours later, I am filled to the absolute brim with regret. Regret for eating my weight in pulled pork and barbecued baked beans. Regret for inhaling half that again in gator gumbo and deep-fried Oreos. And so much regret for every single drop of Memphis sweet tea that passed my lips.

The heavy wood and glass door falls shut behind us, barely muffling the live music blaring from inside the historic Beale Street café. My stomach sloshes in time with the sound of blues guitar, and the first real twinge of fear creeps into my consciousness as my bladder finally reaches maximum capacity.

“Don’t lie. You loved the gator, right?” Dash loops his arm with mine and tows me toward the river. “And the music. Too bad we can’t stay longer. I’ll bet it’s amazing after dark.”

The sound of a trolley bell in the distance steals my attention. If we catch the next one, how long will it take to reach the car? I rack my brain to remember how long it took us to get here from Hicksville. Can I hold it that long?

Dash pokes a finger into my side. “Hey! Earth to Zoey?”

My bladder spasms, and I let out a squeal, clenching my pelvic floor as hard as I can.

Dash roars with laughter. “Wow, ticklish much?”

“No.” I inch away from him, making him laugh even harder. “You just scared me.”

I’m not even lying. I’m terrified if he pokes me one more time, I’ll explode. Oh, God, please don’t make me pull these medieval torture panties down in some sketchy restroom on Beale Street!

Oblivious to my growing panic, Dash drags me toward another sweet shop. “How about some homemade fudge?”

“How are you even hungry? You ate more than I did, and I’m literally a breath away from bursting.”

In more ways than one.

“Fast metabolism. Come on, Zo-ey .” He says my name like a kid whining to stay up late on a school night. “You know you want to. Besides, this is the perfect opportunity to hit the restroom.”

“I’ll wait. I’m good.” I force a smile and block out the smell of sweets in the air.

“How can you possibly hold it that long?” He winces. “That can’t be good for you.”

It’s all I can do not to cackle at his expression. Laughing with a full bladder would be . . . unwise.

“I’m fine.” I keep lying, like the great big liar I am, and clench harder. Simply talking about peeing makes the urge more unbearable. And standing still? Nearly impossible. I dance forward, beckoning him to follow. “Come on, Dash. Let’s go. I’m exhausted and beyond full. If we hurry, we can make it to Mack’s before they close. I miss my backpack, and I’d pretty much kill to be able to change, uh”—I swallow another hysterical laugh—“my clothes again.”

“If you insist.” Dash sighs and pivots from the sweet shop, jogging to catch up. “But I’m starting to believe one of us is actually a psycho killer . . . and it isn’t me.”

A few blocks later, he swings into a bakery for a quick pit stop—his third since we arrived in Memphis. Just imagining the sound of a toilet flushing nearly brings me to my knees.

“How much farther?” I whine, my voice climbing another octave until it’s nothing but a breathy squeak.

At this rate, there’s no way I’ll make it back to Hicksville. If I clench any harder, something down there is bound to break. Medieval device be damned, I need to stop soon. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a nice clean Starbucks around the next corner.

“That’s it.” Dash stops dead in the street and faces me, all stony and hot. “I don’t know what kind of weird hang-up you have about public restrooms, but this is getting ridiculous. Just pee already.”

A whimper sneaks out of me before I can stop it. I’m so close to the breaking point, I can taste it. “Fine! You’re right. I can’t do it. I can’t hold it anymore.”

Dash releases a massive breath. “Jesus, finally.” Grabbing my hand as if he’s the one with the critical bladder situation, he drags me into a little café and walks me all the way to the ladies’ room. “I don’t know what you’re afraid of, but I promise I’ll be right here when you’re done. I’m not going anywhere. Okay?”

Blinking back tears, I nod and then scurry into the restroom, barely pausing to close and lock the door behind me.

After launching my tote onto the hook behind the door, I drag my shorts down my thighs, the taste of impending relief on the tip of my tongue. Goose bumps erupt over my skin as I struggle with the waistband on the stupid prison panties for what feels like hours but . . . They. Will. Not. Budge.

Then I remember G-Lo’s warning. “The tag!”

Heart stuttering behind my ribs, I snatch my tote from the hook and dig through its contents for the brown paper square with the secret code.

“Come on! Where are you?” Rising panic grips me as I dump my bag onto the filthy floor, dropping to my knees and foraging through the chaos. “No, no, no. Not again.”

Teetering on the edge of desperation, I pitch everything back into my bag and search my memory for the damn code. I vaguely remember the pattern, but no matter how hard I try to re-create it, I fail.

A wave of nausea washes over me, and goose bumps form on top of my goose bumps.

In the next stall, a toilet flushes, and the sound of rushing water echoes around me. “Are you kidding me, right now?”

Since I basically locked myself up and threw away the key, I have two choices: Stay in this bathroom forever or ask Dash for help. I yank up my shorts, and with as deep a breath as I dare take, stumble out of the restroom.

Dash is exactly where he said he’d be, oblivious to the tears streaking down my face. “We should stop at the charging station before we—”

“Dash?” I whisper his name on a sob.

“Zoey?” He glances behind me as if the source of my distress is anywhere but directly in front of him. “What happened? Are you okay? You look kinda sick. Was it something you ate?”

More like something I drank. My bladder spasms again, and I whimper.

“Say something.” He locks his concerned gaze on me. “You’re scaring me.”

“I-I have a problem.” My voice cracks.

He flinches, but to his credit, he doesn’t back away. “Like, a female problem?”

I freaking wish.

A hysterical laugh breaks free, and I choke it back, on the verge of losing it. “Not exactly. I, uh, my grandma Lola gave me a pair of . . . of special panties.”

“Special?” Dash cocks his head to the side, brows furrowing as he processes the new information. “Special how?”

Another spasm threatens to drop me to my knees, and I snap my eyes shut. “There’s a secret code to get them off, and I—” Tears spill over my eyelashes. “I lost it.”

He nods and blows out a breath. “So we get a pair of scissors and you cut them off, right?”

I look up at him through wet lashes and shake my head.

“No?” His eyebrows dart up his forehead.

“G-Lo said they’re practically indestructible.”

“Indestruct—” Dash chokes out a nervous chuckle and wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.

“She said I’d need wire cutters to get them off,” I whisper.

He shoves his hands into his hair and swears under his breath. “Okay, come on.”

He practically lifts me off the ground, dragging me down the street in a half run, half power walk.

We pass the trolley stop, and my body goes into a full-on spasm. “Aren’t we taking the streetcar?”

“Too slow.” He scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder. “Just . . . Please don’t pee on me.”

I swallow a snarky reply. At this point, my sense of humor is full-on drowning.

Like freaking Usain Bolt at the Olympics, Dash sprints the last few blocks, practically hurdling the summer tourists and chanting “please don’t pee on me” the whole way back to the parking garage.

When we finally make it to the car, he deposits me at the front bumper and opens his trunk. He pulls out a sleek black bag, and my first instinct is to run. But since I’m incapable of moving without my bladder spontaneously emptying, I stand, frozen in place, while he digs out a giant tool that looks like it would easily cut through bone.

“W-Why do you have that ?” My shriek echoes through the parking garage.

Dash cringes. “You said we needed wire cutters. These”—he gives the instrument of death a shake—“are the closest thing I have.”

“But why do you just happen to have a pair of bone cutters in your car?” A jolt of fear spikes through me. “I should’ve waited for G-Lo’s background check. Jeanie was right. You’re way cuter than Ted Bundy. I should’ve known!”

“They’re not bone cutters.” Dash rolls his eyes. “They’re bolt cutters.”

“But—”

“I’m on a cross-country road trip. I have flares and a flat tire kit, too. Does that make me a serial killer?”

My voice refuses to cooperate so I shake my head.

“Take these.” He extends the long handles toward me, and motions toward the back of the car. “I’ll be over there . . . if you need me.”

I snatch the tool from his fingers. “I won’t.”

Once Dash turns his back, I tuck the heavy cutters under my arm and fumble with my shorts. My trembling fingers can barely get the button through the hole to unzip. After peeling back the denim like a ripe banana, I grip the tool in both hands and bring the cutting end toward the edge of the death-trap undies. But either the handles are too long or my arms are too short, because I can’t quite master the angles.

“How’s it going over there?” Dash calls over his shoulder.

“Fine!” Another tingling ripple runs through me.

“Once you cut yourself free, you can use an empty soda cup—”

“Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate.” I rise onto my toes, hoping the action will somehow make me taller, or make my arms longer, or anything that will get the freaking mouth of the tool into my waistband. It doesn’t. And I can’t. Tears spill over my lashes and down my cheeks. “I-I can’t do it.”

“Need my help?”

I let out a defeated whimper. “Hurry!”

Dash’s eyes soften, but he eases toward me as if approaching a live grenade. His hands are no steadier than mine as he takes the tool from my trembling fingers.

Keeping his gaze locked on mine, he brings the bolt cutters closer. “I’m only gonna cut enough so you can get these off, okay?”

I nod, mentally preparing myself to strip out of my shorts the instant he cuts me free.

“Okay, here goes.” Dash opens the jaws wide and gently slides them into position.

The instant the cold metal touches my hot skin, I release a hard shudder. Then just as the cutter’s teeth bite through my steel-lined waistband, everything inside me lets go. Sweet relief rushes through me like a river breaking through a dam, and no amount of clenching will stop the flow.

The sound of running water echoes through the parking garage, and Dash’s eyes widen with horror.

“Shit!” He dances out of the way of the stream, climbing halfway onto the hood. “That’s a lot of pee!”

“It’s not my fault,” I cry. “I tried to hold it. Honest, I did. It was all that Coke!”

Dash bursts out laughing, cackling so hard he can’t catch his breath. Every time he gets himself under control, he crumbles into another laughing fit.

“Don’t feel bad, Zoey,” he wheezes. “I heard Bowie had a pretty bad coke problem once upon a time, too.”