Cover Model (24 page)

“Get the fuck off the road! You’re drunk and riding without a helmet! Park somewhere until you sober up, you fucking idiot!” He floors it and turns onto the freeway onramp.

I kick my bike into second and goose the throttle. My engine screams. I swing left as the Camaro cuts into the apex of the turn on the right. I clear 60 as I whip through the curve, planning on beating him through it so I can get in front of him and slow down, forcing him to stop. Me and Ryan have watched every
Fast and the Furious
movie multiple times. We both drive like street racers whenever we get in a car. It’s a dick thing. Now it’s worse. There’s pussy on the line.

The Camaro fades left as it begins to exit the turn. I’m in Ryan’s blind spot when I realize the racing line he’s cutting leaves no room for error. Too bad I’m the error he didn’t plan on. He’s going to fade all the way left, using every inch of available asphalt at the end of the turn. He’ll cut it as close to the cement guard rail as he can. The only problem is there isn’t enough room between his car and the rail for me and my bike. Not only am I in his blind spot, my foot peg is nearly scraping the ground as I lean way over.

I’m invisible.

It’s too late to do anything. I’m already committed to the turn. If I have to change my line at the last second and stand the bike up too soon or brake suddenly, I’ll lose the front end and high side. My bike will flip over and I’ll fly through the air and land on the freeway at 60 miles an hour.

Without a helmet.

Or Ryan’s 3,500 pound Camaro will crush me against the guard rail.

Only one way out of this without dying.

I honk the bike’s nasally horn and hope Ryan hears me with his window rolled down.

He does.

I will regret my actions for the rest of my life.

The Camaro wheels to the right and I squirt past through the narrow gap. I manage to get the bike back to standing. Tires screech behind me. The Camaro swerves wildly right then left, the front bumper scraping against the cement guard rail. The car’s nose dives as it cuts back to the right and loses the rear end.

It starts to spin.

The whole time I’m hissing under my breath, “Shit, shit, shit…”

The car glides sideways and 360s on the pavement before sliding right up the safety wedge at the start of the right side guardrail. Sparks explode in an orange spray as the car’s frame scrapes across the top. The car slides balanced for a second before tipping off to the right. It spirals down the slope of the dirt shoulder like a football before slamming to a stop against the cement culvert pipe at the end of the ditch. A huge cloud of dirt billows into the air.

I skid to a stop on the side of the freeway and jump off my bike, leaving it to fall over on its side. At four in the morning, the freeway is eerily empty. I run along the patterned concrete wall. I can’t see Ryan’s car in the ditch until I clear the wall. I stop, grabbing the guardrail. It’s a steep drop down to his car. I vault over the edge and slide down the slope, my boots kicking up dirt.

POOMPH!!

A cloud of flame billows up from beneath the car which lies on its left side. It leans so far over the roof rests against the slope. I would pull Ryan out the driver’s window, but it’s buried in the dirt.

“Ryan!” I shout, not sure what to do.

Flames flicker inside the engine compartment, glowing out from the gaps in the twisted metal. The front windshield is a shattered spiderweb dripping with golden dewdrops of firelight. I can’t see inside the car.

I don’t even bother calling 911. There isn’t time.

I climb on top of the car, which at this angle is the car’s right side. I whip out my knife and slam the butt into the passenger side window glass.

The flames in the engine are getting bigger.

I have to get him out.

“I’m gonna kick the window out! Cover your eyes!” I don’t even know if he can hear me. I stomp the shattered glass with my boot heel. The window folds in a crumpled sheet of glass and plastic laminate, hanging inside the car. I don’t want it falling on Ryan’s face but I don’t want to slice my fingers open pulling it out. I hesitate for a second before ripping off my leather jacket. I stick my hands in the sleeves like I’m putting it on backward and grab the window glass through the leather. I tear the glass back and fold it over the car door.

POOMPH!!

Another burst of flame.

Ryan screams.

“Fuck, man! I’ll get you out! Hold on a second!” I drop my jacket and lean through the window to see how he’s lying.

Face first in a puddle of burning gasoline.

Fuck.

I lean through the passenger window up to my waist and grab his arm with both hands. When I pull, I start to fall into the car. I don’t have any leverage. I need to hook my legs around something but there’s nothing behind me except air.

Ryan screams again.

“Pull your face out of the flames, god damn it!”

He just screams.

—scream-scream-scream-scream—

I lower myself feet first into the car and grab my jacket. I pull on his arm again, trying to stand him up. He moans. He’s caught on something. The seatbelt. I whip out my knife and flick the blade open so I can slice it off. It takes me forever to find the belt. I try to reposition Ryan, but it’s so tight it won’t let go.

The whole time, Ryan’s face is cooking in the fire.

By the time I find the belt, the flames are up to my elbows. I can feel the heat hot on my face. I narrow my eyes. I’m not going to have any eyebrows or eyelashes at this rate.

I reach down to get a good grip on Ryan’s face so I can lift him up. I hope his neck isn’t broken. As soon as I start to lift, I feel flames burning the skin on my hands. I don’t care. I pull him to his feet. There’s almost no room inside the sideways car. The heat is burning through my leather boots and baking my jeans. “Stand the fuck up!”

Ryan groans and slumps against me. At least his face is out of the fire.

We lean against the sideways bucket seat backs.

The passenger window is as high as the top of my head.

“Can you stand up?”

He groans.

“I have to do a pull up to get out of here. Then I’ll pull you out, okay?”

He groans again. His face is a glistening charred mess.

I lean him against the seats. If he can’t stand up and he sinks to his feet, I won’t be able to reach him.

“Stand the fuck up, Hansen!”

He groans a little more strongly.

I grab the door frame and heave myself out of the car. I lean in and hold my arm out for Ryan. “Grab my hand, Ryan!”

His head lolls against his chest. He’s starting to sit down. The flames are up to his waist. I can’t even reach him this far away.

“
STAND UP GOD DAMN IT, OR I WILL KICK YOUR FUCKIN ASS!!
”

He lifts his head like it weighs a million pounds. His eyes look like boiled eggs shining out of a blackened chicken sandwich. He struggles back to his feet. But he just stares at me.

I don’t know what I’m expecting. He just slammed his Camaro into a cement wall. I’m surprised he’s even alive. But I know one thing. I don’t want my best friend dead.

“
GRAB MY FUCKIN HAND, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT!! GRAB IT RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!!!!
” If he doesn’t take my arm, I can’t get him out of the car.

POOMPH!!

Another puff of flames pops up from the dirt near the back wheel.

“
THE FUCKIN TANK IS GOING TO BLOW, DUMBASS!! GIMME YOUR ARM!!
”

He stares at me like he doesn’t understand.

I start to weep. “
Damn it, Hansen! I can’t lose you, you dumbshit! Gimme your fuckin arm!
”

He stares at me blankly.

I think he’s giving up. “Please, man. Gimme your arm. I’m begging you.” I’m crying full tilt now. “Please…”

He closes his eyes.

“No! Wake the fuck up!”

His arm slowly rises, his torn up face tightening with effort.

“That’s it! Lift it! Gimme your arm, man! I’ve got it! Come on! There!” I grip it above the elbow and at the wrist. Then I squat down, my boots balanced on the edge of the window frame and I fuckin lift with everything I have. He weighs a fuckin ton. That shit about dead weight is totally true. I’m gonna pop a hernia lifting him. My head pounds, my teeth clench, but the second I have him out up to his waist, I fall back, pulling him as I go.

He drops against the car door.

For a crazy second, I nearly tumble back off the top of the tipped over car but Ryan’s weight pulls me back and I lean to the side and drape him over the door. I drop to the ground and pull him over the edge. He falls against me and we drop to the dirt, him all over me. I roll him off and grab him by both wrists and drag him as far down the ditch away from the Camaro as I can get us.

When I lower him into the dirt, the gas tank blows.

I shield Ryan with my back, kneeling over him.

Flames shoot up in a huge greasy cloud of black smoke. Now would be a good time to call 911. But my phone is in my leather jacket and it’s somewhere in the burning car.

Ryan groans.

I look down at his messed up face. I don’t even recognize him in the faint orange glow of the flames. His crispy skin is peeling off in flakes and there’s blood everywhere. But he’s not dead. “I left my jacket in your car, you fucknut.” I chuckle and smear tears from my face. “You owe me a new one.”

His face crackles into a smile, “You owe me a new car, fucknut.” His words come out all garbled and he coughs hard and wheezy, his red and black eyelids clamping shut from the pain.

Chapter 15

ELECTRA

PRESENT DAY.

“What happened then?” I ask, still standing on the bright summery North Valley High School field with Connor. “Was Ryan okay?”

Connor is squatting on the grass, twisting a blade he plucked during the story around his finger. The blade of grass is so tight, it makes the tip of his finger blood red. He drops the blade and stands up slowly. “I need to show you something. Come on.” He starts walking across the field without looking back.

“Wait, Connor!” I jog on my toes so my two inch heels don’t sink into the grass.

He stops, looking at me, his face forlorn.

I’ve never seen Connor looking like this. Then again, before last week, the last time I ever saw him was
before
Ryan Hansen crashed his Camaro. I can’t imagine what Connor has been through over the past seven years. While this recent revelation paints Connor in a whole new light, I can only wonder what happened to Ryan. Maybe I’ll never find out.

We walk toward the parking lot in front of the school and climb in my car. Then it hits me.

We’re going to a graveyard. My stomach sinks.

Connor directs me to a random suburban neighborhood a few miles from the school.

“Where are we?” I ask.

Connor climbs out of the car without answering. He waits for me on the sidewalk. “Try not to say anything about his face.”

“Whose face?” I ask as I follow him up the cement path leading to a modest two-story house.

On the front step, Connor knocks on the door but thumbs the latch before anybody answers and sticks his head inside. He hollers, “Anybody here?” He steps inside.

I reluctantly follow, feeling like an intruder.

A woman old enough to be my or Connor’s mom comes walking out of the kitchen with a pair of gardening gloves in one hand. Is this Connor’s house? I’ve never met his parents. I have no idea.

“Oh, hello, Connor,” the woman smiles.

“Hey, Mrs. H.”

That’s when I figure it out.

This is Ryan Hansen’s house.

Mrs. Hansen smiles at me. “Who’s your friend, Connor?”

I’m about to speak when Connor cuts me off, saying, “This is Lex. She went to school with me and Ryan.”

That was weird. Ryan wouldn’t know me by the name Lex. Nobody from North Valley would. Whatever. “Hi,” I smile at her.

“Well, any friend of Connor’s is a friend of ours.” Mrs. Hansen seems really nice. “Would you two like anything to drink?”

“I’m okay,” I grin.

She says, “Connor, you know where everything is. If you two change your mind about that drink, help yourselves. I’ll be out back weeding. I swear, those dandelions have a thing for my rose garden.”

“Sure,” he mumbles.

“Okay,” I say uncertainly.

Mrs. Hansen’s brows knit with concern. “Was Ryan expecting… a
guest
?”

Why does all this feel so awkward?

“Maybe we should come back later,” Connor mutters.

“It’s okay,” Mrs. Hansen says. “Let me just tell him you’re here. What was your name again, sweetie?”

Connor doesn’t answer. He looks at me like he’s seen a ghost.

“Lex,” I say to Mrs. Hansen.

She nods. “I’ll go upstairs and tell him. Just a sec.”

We wait in the living room. It is
super
uncomfortable. An old grandfather clock ticks loudly in the silent room. I have a terrible feeling about what is about to happen. I don’t even know what that is, but I’m extremely nervous to the point of nausea.

A voice echoes down the stairs, “I don’t remember anyone named Lex, but if Connor knows her, I’m sure I do.” The voice must be Ryan, but the words come out in a strange mumbly nasal lisp. Shoes then jeans descend the stairs with a noticeable limp.

My stomach flops before I see his face. His hands and arms are covered in disfiguring burn scars.

Oh my god.

Now I realize why all the curtains are shut in the middle of the day and the house is so dim. I see Ryan before he sees me. The handsome face I remember is now a grotesque mask, the scarred flesh red and puckered and melting. But it’s real and thoroughly disturbing. And it’s Ryan Hansen. My heart breaks seeing him like this. But I don’t want to be rude and stare or let it show that it’s affecting me. I try to act normal.

“What up, C,” Ryan says when he sees Connor.

I unconsciously take a step back. Not because I’m afraid but because something about this entire situation is horrifying. After all the old memories Connor dredged up about grad night, and what he revealed about what happened after I left, I can only wonder: what the
fuck
was he thinking bringing me here? Does Ryan still think about me? Does he wonder what would’ve happened between us if he’d found me at home and apologized for Connor? Did Connor tell Ryan that we slept together? What will Ryan say if he finds out? I’m not about to tell him. But what if Connor suddenly blurts it out here and now? This is wrong on so many levels I can’t begin to describe it.