Chasing Stardust: A Novel By Erica Lucke Dean - 9

Suffragette City

Becky throws me a smile, and I mouth “thank you” for letting me use the diner’s phone. Like everything else in BB’s, it’s retro—a bubble-gum-pink, wall-mounted model with a long spiral cord tethering the handset to the base and rotary dial that takes me several tries to figure out. I send up a silent thanks that G-Lo’s is one of the three phone numbers I have memorized.

“What should I do?” I pivot toward the dining room, wrapping the curly cord around myself in the process.

G-Lo took the news of the Betty’s fate a lot better than my estranged boyfriend. After making the walls in BB’s shake with his furious tantrum, Damian demanded I give him my exact location so he could come save me—an idea I shot down immediately. I can only imagine how he’d react if he knew about Dash. That I’d rather hitch a ride with a total stranger than allow my boyfriend to swoop in and rescue me should tell me all I need to know about our doomed relationship. For the first time in maybe forever, I’m glad my phone died.

“I can’t stay here, camped out in a diner for a week like some weirdo, but what’s the alternative? Hop in the car with a guy I met five hours ago and hope he doesn’t throw me in a wood chipper somewhere? Would you take that chance?”

“Is he cute?” G-Lo whispers through the phone as if she knows people are listening. Knowing Jeanie, she is.

With a nervous tingle blooming in my stomach, I glance at Dash, squirming in our booth across the room while waiting for me to decide his fate. Behind the glasses, his eyes draw me in, making me forget to breathe. Cute doesn’t come close to describing him. “He’s not bad.”

“I could never turn down a cute boy.” G-Lo sighs like a teenage girl.

“What if he’s a serial killer? Ask her that !” Jeanie screams in the background. “They said Ted Bundy was cute, too, you know!”

“Hold on, Zoey.” G-Lo whispers something, but I can’t make out what. After a few seconds of hissing back and forth, G-Lo comes back on the line. “What does your gut tell you?”

“Her guts will be telling the police what she had for breakfast if she’s not careful!” Jeanie shrieks.

“No they won’t,” G-Lo snaps at Jeanie. “Now, that’s enough. Go smoke a bowl while I finish talking to your sister.”

I can’t tell if she’s trying to scold Jeanie or soothe her, but Jeanie’s voice gets fainter as she takes her tirade into another room.

“Don’t listen to Jeanie, she’s had way too much oxy and not nearly enough reefer. Take it from an old hippie who hitchhiked all the way across the country and back without so much as a scratch. Trust your instincts. Your gut won’t steer you wrong.” G-Lo rambles on as if dictating a self-help book.

“I don’t know.” Keeping Dash in my peripheral vision, I lean against the wall and gnaw on my thumbnail.

As if he senses me watching him, he glances my way and smiles.

Cringing on the inside, I smile back and wave like an awkward teenager. “I don’t think he’s a psycho, but I haven’t exactly had time to psychoanalyze him, so how can I be sure?”

I was wrong about Junior—and T. J.—but I don’t mention either of them to G-Lo. She already has more than enough evidence to doubt my survival skills in the wild.

“Ask him what color crayon he’d be,” she says.

I snort. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I have no idea, but they always ask that in interviews. I’m definitely blue . . . with a swirl of chartreuse.”

I choke back a laugh. “I’m not trying to hire him. I’m trying to make sure he won’t kill me and wear my skin as a suit.”

“Then you should steer clear if he says he’s scarlet or crimson . . . too close to blood.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Life is an adventure, Zoey, but it isn’t without risk.” G-Lo rattles off her fortune cookie wisdom without a drop of sarcasm. “What if you took a picture of him beside his car? You could get his license plate in the photo and send it to me.”

“My phone died. Remember?”

“Oh, right. Does what’s-his-name have a phone?”

“Dash?” I roll my eyes. “Barely . . . but yes, I guess that’s pretty much all it does—call and text.” I remember the lens on the back. “Oh! It has a camera.”

“Good! Grab it and call me so I can trace his number.”

“You can do that?” I spin around again, tangling myself in the pink phone cord until the spiral is pulled taut.

“No, but I used to sleep with a private investigator in Cincinnati. The sonofabitch owes me one.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Last time I stayed over, I found an empty tube of wild cherry lube, a purple dildo, and a picture of his mother beside his bed.”

“G-Lo!” I’m half a second from shoving my fingers into my ears and singing lalala, I can’t hear you .

“Tell me about it! It was my lube!” She bursts out laughing, and it takes her several moments to collect herself again. “Send me a text from Dash’s phone—don’t forget to get his license plate number in the photo—and I’ll get Cecil to run it.”

I nod, sneaking another peek at Dash. “What do I do until then?”

“Did you pack the anti-rape undies?”

Her question catches me off guard, and I hesitate for an instant. “I did.”

“Good. Put those on. They’ll give you peace of mind, if nothing else.”

They’re more likely to give me a wicked case of diaper rash . . . or a yeast infection.

“If you say so.” I pull the heavy underwear from my tote and stuff them into the front pocket of my hoodie before anyone sees them.

“This could be the biggest adventure of your life, Zoey. Don’t fight it. Enjoy the ride!”

“All I want to do is spread Mom’s ashes and come home.” The lie stings on the way out. Despite everything that’s happened, I want the adventure.

“You’ll see.”

Her voice surrounds me like a hug, and I close my eyes, imagining her bony arms wrapping around me. “What about Jeanie?”

“Don’t worry about Jeanie. She’s so high, come tomorrow she’ll think she dreamed the whole thing.” She barks out a laugh. “And don’t worry about the car, either. The Betty will be fine. Trust me, I’ve run over worse things than a damn armadillo.”

I don’t even want to know.

After promising to call her as soon as I charge my phone, and to text her from Dash’s phone before setting one foot inside his car, we say our goodbyes. The instant I hang up, Dash is out of his seat and heading my way.

“What did she say?” He adjusts his glasses and gazes down at me.

“If I take a picture of you beside your car with the plate visible and text it to her from your phone, you probably won’t kill me.”

He nods, a mask of cool indifference on his flawless face. “That’s a fair assessment. It would completely ruin my alibi. I’d be an idiot to kill you after that.”

“Right.” I listen for my gut to send me some sort of sign. Other than a sharp twinge in my bladder, the only message I’m getting is that Dash is really hot up close.

“So we’re doing this?” he asks.

I nod, and his whole face lights up.

Unbelievably hot up close.

Still grinning ear to ear, he walks backward toward the counter. “I’ll order us burgers for the road—extra onion, right?”

“Yeah, but I don’t have—”

“You can Venmo me after you charge your phone.”

“Oh, um, Dash?” I wrap a finger around a loose string dangling from the bottom of my shorts, gripping it for dear life.

“Yeah?”

“If you were a crayon, what color would you be?”

His brow furrows and he cocks his head, but his smile stays in place. “What a strange thing to ask.”

I hold my breath, eagerly awaiting his reply.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Way too many colors to choose from.”

“Right.” I exhale, twisting the string into a knot before releasing it. “So many colors.”

While Dash orders food I can’t afford, I duck into the deserted ladies’ room to put on G-Lo’s anti-rape underwear.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

After relieving my bladder for what could be the last time in who knows how long, I fish the striped undies from my hoodie pocket and give them a few vigorous shakes in the tiny stall, cracking them like a whip the way Mom always did before pulling on new pantyhose. Then, with my bare feet resting on top of my shoes to avoid the puddle of what I hope isn’t pee surrounding the base of the toilet like a moat, I begin the weirdest game of solo Twister ever played. I step into the first snug leg hole, then shift my weight and shove my other foot through the second hole before tugging the garment from my shins to my knees.

“Damn, these are tight,” I mutter. At least one size too small. Maybe two.

Gripping the waistband until my knuckles whiten, I drag the European knickers over my knees, huffing and grunting while wriggling them up my thighs. Almost there. Just a few more inches. Damn it.

Shimmying down a freaking drainpipe naked would’ve been a hell of a lot easier.

A loud flush from the next stall echoes through the small restroom.

Then someone clears their throat. “Excuse me?”

With the unforgiving boy shorts wedged just below my crotch, I freeze in place and choke back a laugh. “Yes?”

“Could you pass me some paper?” the timid voice whispers. “This stall is completely out.”

Instead of earning my sympathy, her panicked voice sends me over the edge. With the fingers of both hands wedged into my waistband, I laugh. “I’m sorry. I . . . my hands are occupied at the moment.”

After a few seconds of silence, she clears her throat again. “I-I’ll wait.”

Once I’ve vacuum sealed myself into what basically amounts to Spanx-on-steroids, I pass what’s left of the TP roll to the lady in the next stall and finish dressing.

Dash is wearing a fresh shirt and a big smile when I step out of the restroom a few minutes later. “Ready to roll?”

“What’s all that?” I ask, catching a whiff of french fries.

In his left hand, he balances a drink carrier with four large cups, while his right hand clutches the extra-large white paper bag resting on his right hip. He rolls his eyes. “Lunch.”

“For what army?”

He laughs. “Just us.”

“How much do you think I can eat?”

He shoves away from the wall with his cool facade of feigned disinterest firmly in place. “Oh, this? This is all for me. I got you a Snickers. It’s melting in my back pocket.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.” A nervous chuckle catches in my throat.

His mask slips, replaced by a genuine smile. “I got you a cheeseburger, no pickles, extra onions, and a side of fries.”

Almost exactly what I’d ordered last night.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Hands full, he prods me with his elbow. “You ready? We’re wasting daylight.”

“Lead the way.” I reach for the drink carrier, and to my surprise, he lets me take it. Damian would’ve flexed his bulging muscles and flat-out refused my help.

Dash just smiles and leads me through the door.

Once we’re outside, curiosity gets the best of me. “Why four drinks?”

He eyes me as if the answer is obvious. “Two coffees and two Cokes.”

“Do we really need coffees and Cokes?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“Because, duh. Coffee is a necessity of life.”

“And the Cokes?”

“Trust me.” He points his chin toward the sun. “In less than an hour, you’ll be thanking me for that icy-cold beverage.”

I laugh. “If I drink all that, we’re gonna need to make a pit stop.”

“Would it be a road trip if we didn’t?”

My laugh turns into a groan as I consider the real possibility that I’ll have to pee before we get back.

“Still afraid I’m a serial killer?” he asks.

“Maybe?” The memory of wriggling into the sadistic panties is still fresh in my mind, and the inevitability of having to do it all over again strikes fear in me. Get in and get out. That’s the goal for Memphis. I can hold it until we get back.

Dash leads me around the side of the building.

I glance over my shoulder, wondering if I’d spoken too soon. “Where are you taking me?”

“I told you I had to be patient and resourceful.” He stops in front of a cherry-red Tesla.

And not just any old Tesla, either. I recognize the expensive vehicle from the cover of one of Damian’s many luxury cars magazines.

“Hang on . . .” My eyes follow the long extension cord running from the car to the building. “You drive a Model X and you can’t afford a decent phone?”

“I never said I couldn’t afford a smartphone. You assumed. I choose to use a basic phone. There’s a big difference.”

“It’s barely a phone at all.”

“Actually, it’s primarily a phone. And without all the other useless nonsense, it holds a charge for a lot longer with way less distractions. Plus, I’ll bet I get a better signal in rural areas than you do.” He scratches the back of his neck and clears his throat. “Best of all, my family can’t use an app to track me everywhere I go.”

Hmm, interesting. “Speaking of your phone . . .” I hold out my hand.

He stops and gapes at me. “I thought you were kidding.”

“Nope.” I wiggle my fingers until he slaps the phone into my palm. I crack open the clamshell and stare at the display. “How do you—” I click the menu button and find the option for the camera. “Ah, got it. Smile pretty for the camera.”

Dash poses at the back of his car with a stony expression that, somehow, makes him hotter. After taking a few snaps, I send the best ones to G-Lo and return his phone.

“I don’t know how you can use that thing. It doesn’t have iTunes, or Spotify, or anything.”

“There’s more to life than iTunes, you know.” Dash rests the burger bag on his hip while fishing the key fob from his pocket. He clicks a button and the front passenger door swings open on its own. He clicks another button and the rear doors open upward, like wings, folding up and tucking in above the sleek body.

“How do you listen to music?” I mutter, mesmerized by his futuristic vehicle.

Dash sets the white bag in the back seat. “Ever heard of this thing called a radio ?”

“There’s never anything good on the radio.”

With one more press of a button, the trunk opens with a quiet snick. “There is when you have satellite.”

“How does a college student afford a hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar car, anyway? You didn’t steal it, did you?”

“College graduate .” He grins. “And no, I didn’t steal it. It was a graduation gift. If I was going to steal a car, I would’ve picked something a little less flashy.”

My fingers itch to glide across the glossy finish, and I tuck my hand under my arm to stop myself. “Must be nice.”

“If you say so.” He snorts. “Gifts from my father always come with strings.”

“Still . . . could be worse. You could’ve gotten stuck with a ’73 Cutlass with an armadillo in the radiator.”

“True . . .” He grimaces. “One of the few perks of being Daniel Hammond’s only son.”

He spits out his father’s name like a curse, and I wonder if I should know who he is—a famous Hollywood director or music producer, maybe—but I don’t ask.

After loading the car, Dash runs around and disconnects the power cord from the diner outlet and then stows it in the back.

“How’d you get them to let you charge this thing all night long?”

“Resourceful, remember?” He taps his forehead. “Now, get in.”

I scoop a magazine from the front passenger seat and climb in, unloading the drinks into the car’s cup holders before setting the empty carrier in the back seat. Taking extra care not to scuff the white leather upholstery, I slide my tote between my feet. While Dash buckles himself in, I flip through the magazine’s wrinkled pages. From what I can tell, Tattle Tale is a little bit Rolling Stone and a whole lot National Enquirer , leaning heavily on salacious rock and roll news. Basically, the same tabloid garbage found in grocery checkout lines.

I recite the first heading that draws my attention. “Which heavy metal guitarist has the biggest—”

Face flaming the same bright red as the car, Dash snatches the magazine from my fingers and flings it into the back.

I bite back a grin. “A little trashy for a guy who reads On the Road for fun, don’t you think?”

“It’s not . . . I wasn’t—”

“It’s not . . . you weren’t . . . what?”

He shifts his gaze skyward and blows out a breath. “Would you believe me if I said it’s my mother’s?”

I snicker. “Definitely not.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Dash rolls his eyes and punches the ignition button. The car whirs to life, sounding more like a spaceship than a car, and we ease out of the lot.

After a quick pit stop at Mack’s for my charger, we hop on the highway and head toward Memphis with the most glorious, ice-cold AC pouring from the vents.