All It Takes (5 page)

I drive until I come to the old thrift store just on the edge of town. It’s too out in the open, and I know I should keep looking for a better spot, but I’m completely exhausted and I just can’t make myself look any longer. I pull into the parking lot, and drive around until I find a spot mostly in the shadows, and park the car. With a sigh, I shut off the engine and wait until everything has gone silent before I turn to look over my shoulder at the backseat.

It’s a good thing that Star didn’t get a close look at my car, I realize. Because I still have my blanket and pillow back there—snagged from my room when Mom finally relented enough to let me inside to get the last of my stuff—and it’s pretty clear what I’ve been using it for.

With a sigh, I climb over the center console and settle into the backseat, where I lie in the dark and wonder how the fuck my life ended up this way until I finally fall asleep.

Chapter 5

Star

I
’ve managed to make it through just over half my breakfast unscathed when Lacey slides into the booth across from me. She does it so suddenly I actually flinch when I see her sitting there. The girl is like a freaking magician. She’s just lucky that my fight-or-flight instincts didn’t take over. If they had, the coffee I was holding would have ended up all over her crisp white T-shirt before either of us could blink. I’d been hoping that her whole lecture on the evils of Ash had ended the other day, but by the look on her face, I’d gotten my hopes up for nothing. I glance down longingly at my breakfast plate, empty save for the three slices of overcooked bacon and the last slice of toast.

Damn,
I think as she pins me with a look.
So close.

“What the ever-loving hell is wrong with you, Star?” she says and I cringe. Her voice is so shrill, it’s like nails on a chalkboard.

Be cool,
I tell myself. Chances are, she’s talking about my deal with Ash—which is probably all over town by now, considering just how avidly people had been watching us over the last day and a half—but there’s always a chance she could be referring to something else. And since I’m not about to start digging my own grave here, I just paste an innocent look on my face and kind of blink at her, like I’m confused.

I’m not confused.

“What do you mean?” I ask, and I suddenly find myself wishing that I’d bothered to take drama in high school, instead of avoiding it like the plague. Maybe then I’d be a more convincing liar. Well, not
liar,
exactly. Not yet, anyway.

Either way, she isn’t fooled. I watch, trying to keep a reaction off my face as Lacey lets out the most dramatic sigh ever made by a human being over the age of five and kind of flops down on the table between us, folding her arms over her head like she’s building herself a cocoon. Either she took drama, or this is just some kind of hold-over from when we were little. I’m having flashbacks of the second grade, of us playing in the sandbox together. I remember building lopsided sand castles, and then Lacey, with her tiny blond pigtails blowing in the breeze, acting as though the world were ending because I wouldn’t be a princess with her. Because every castle needed a princess apparently. In my defense, who the hell would want to be a princess when they could be a dragon instead? I know I wouldn’t. Second-grade Lacey hadn’t agreed with my logic back then, so, judging by what is happening in front of me as I calmly drain the last of my coffee, I’m not holding out a ton of hope she’ll be swayed by my argument now.

I’d just assumed she’d grown out of using hysterics to make her point—I was wrong.

I look around the diner, frantically. I’m going to need way more coffee for this discussion. The middle-aged blonde waitress from the other day is back, but when I try to flag her down as she passes by, she just glares down her nose at me and keeps walking.

Yep,
I think.
Word has definitely gotten around.
That would explain the death glares she’s been giving me all morning. But then again, it wasn’t like she’d been super friendly to me before Ash and I met, either. Maybe she is just an angry person. Could be.

You’d better cool it with the looks, lady.
I think as she walks past me.
Your tip is rapidly dwindling down to nothing.
I turn a little in my seat and shoot her a glare of my own as soon as I see her back is turned, smiling a little when she disappears into the kitchen, and I know I’ve gotten away with it. At this point, I’ll take any victory I can get, no matter how insignificant. I turn back to Lacey, and instantly regret it. She’s left the private sanctuary of her arm-cocoon and is gazing at me with huge, almost cartoon-like eyes, like I’ve betrayed her somehow.

I sigh and gaze down at my empty mug. I definitely need more coffee for this.

“Why, Star?” she asks, her voice cutting through the quiet din of the diner with way more force than necessary. I have to bite down on my own tongue to stop myself from telling her to keep it down. People are already turning to look. Great. Just what I need. More attention. “Why would you talk to him after what he did?”

I pick at the last of my bacon, which is yet another disappointment in itself. They make it way too crispy here. It’s almost charred. I shrug and pop a piece in my mouth, anyway, but I’ve timed it badly and I’m stuck trying to chew like crazy to get it down while the blonde waitress makes another round. I’m not being at all subtle in my attempts to flag her down, but with my mouth occupied all I can do is wave in her direction. Which I’m
doing.
I’ve got nearly my entire arm flapping about, but even though I
know
she can see me, she still doesn’t come over. Instead she just stares at my arm like
it
has now managed to offend her delicate sensibilities somehow, and turns on her heel and walks away.

Swallowing the last of my bacon, I sigh and slump down in my seat, defeated. I’m never going to get out of here. The service here is terrible, especially with the blonde in charge. I miss the waiter from last night, the one with the hipster jeans. He at least acknowledged my existence, even though he looked like he’d been ready to bolt like a frightened deer at a single movement from Ash.

The blonde waitress disappears into the kitchen yet again, taking the full carafe of coffee with her.
And there goes the rest of your tip,
I think and turn back to Lacey. I have to stifle a groan at the sight of her. Apparently ignoring her little outburst just made things worse. She’s managed to get herself so worked up now that there are actual
tears
shining in her eyes. Is this what I left behind when I went into foster care? Dealing with a spoiled brat? Child protective services outdid themselves, if that was the case. Because I’m pretty sure that if I had to grow up with her, one or both of us would be dead by now.

Lacey reaches out and grabs the hand I’d laid down on the table and pins me with a look, her fingers digging into mine. “Don’t you realize how dangerous that guy is?”

Ugh,
I think.
And that’s enough of that.
I can’t help rolling my eyes this time, and I shake her hand off as gently as I can before leaning back in my seat and crossing my arms over my chest. “Look, Lacey,” I say, trying to choose my words carefully. Very carefully. I don’t want any further dramatics. I just don’t have the energy for them today. “No offense or anything, but really? Just stop. I have a million things to worry about right now, and Ash isn’t one of them. So thanks for the advice, but I’m good. And quite frankly, this is none of your business. This is between Ash and I.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but I cut her off before she can get a word out. I’m done. I’m done with the looks and the tall tales and whatever else the people of Avenue want to dole out like candy on Halloween. I’m done.

“Seriously,” I say, my voice firm. “None of your business.”

We sit there in silence, kind of glaring at each other across the table. It’s like something out of one of those Old West movies, like we’re facing off at high noon, waiting to see who will blink first.

Luckily for both of us, today is my day, and Lacey’s the one that falters.

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes and hauling herself out of her seat. “I need to get to work, anyway.” She’s already a few steps away from the table, having tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder in what I’d been hoping was a sign that our conversation was over, when she stops and whirls back around. “But just so you know,” she says, “when you wake up dead in a Dumpster somewhere, I’ll be expecting an apology. A good one.”

Oh, sweetie,
I shake my head as she flounces off toward the back of the diner and disappears through the door marked
Employees Only. I don’t think you thought that sentence through.

I wait until I’m certain she’s not going to come back out to make an amendment to her final words before I turn back to what’s left of my breakfast. Shoving the last bites into my mouth, I reach into my purse to check the time on my phone. I’ve got half an hour before I’m supposed to meet Ash at the house, so I make a quick decision and tug the plastic-covered menu from its resting place behind the ketchup bottle. I flip it open. Since I don’t know if we’ll be stopping work for lunch, I figure I might as well get Ash something for breakfast. I don’t want him to die of hunger midway through the job, and honestly, I feel a little bad for how people keep talking about him behind his back. Besides, the breakfast sandwich looks good, and if he doesn’t eat it, I will.

This time, when the blonde waitress walks by, I don’t give her a chance to ignore me. As soon as she steps close enough, I reach out and grab her arm. My grip isn’t hard, but it’s enough to stop her in her tracks. She seems genuinely startled for a second, but then that passes and she shoots me a disgusted look, like
how dare you touch me, you peon,
which is pretty rich considering it’s coming from a middle-aged waitress at a crappy diner. But I drop my hand, anyway.
Sorry, lady,
I think.
But if you’re rude to me, I’m gonna be rude to you.

“Can I get the breakfast sandwich please? To go?” I ask. “And the bill,” I add quickly, because if I let her go now, she’s never going to come back again. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t hurl both the sandwich and the bill at my head from a distance, judging by the look Leslie—as her name tag reads—is giving me.
Yeah, you’re not getting a tip.

“Fine,” she snaps, reaching down and snatching the menu off the table like she’s afraid I’m going to use it for evil and keep adding things to my order just to piss her off. Honestly? I’m tempted. “Will that be all?”

She’s got such a sour look on her face, I can’t help it. I start to grin. I prop my elbows up on the edge of the table and rest my chin on my folded hands and smile at her sweetly. “Yep,” I say. “That’ll about do me.”
You’re lucky I don’t report you to your manager, you hateful woman,
I want to say.
You’re in a service industry. Service means not being a witch to your customers.
But I keep my mouth shut, and just keep smiling at her, even though my face is starting to hurt. Because it seems to piss her off even more.

“Fine,” she says, and turns on her heel and stalks away. Just before she gets out of earshot, though, I hear her mutter, “Inked-up little brat,” and I can’t stop the loud snort that escapes me.

Seriously? That’s her problem? My tattoos?
I glance down at my arms. Other than the line of Latin that runs down the back of my right forearm and the names on the sides of my fingers, none of my tattoos are even visible. They’re all under my clothes, and even then, there’s nothing offensive about them. And, come on, this is a diner. It’s not like I showed up at church during Easter Mass with full sleeves on display. I don’t even have sleeve tattoos.

Well,
I think, letting my grin fade into a smirk and tilting my head forward so I can hide it behind my curtain of dark hair.
Why don’t we fix that?
I reach into my purse and uncap the black permanent marker I’ve been using to label boxes at the house. Then, holding out my left arm and resting it on the tabletop, I grip the marker as steadily as I can. And then I get to work.

Ash

I
’ve only been at the house a few minutes when Star pulls into the driveway. She’s out of the car, dark hair swinging around her shoulders, and as I watch her walk toward where I’m sitting on the front porch, I wonder if I should mention the package right away or if I should wait. Luckily, her eyes zero in on it before I have to decide.

“It has your name on it,” I tell her. “I’m not an expert or anything, but if it matters, I’m pretty sure it’s not a bomb.” I take one last pull from my cigarette before stubbing it out and pulling myself to my feet. She’s halfway up the walkway, a confused look playing across her face, and I don’t blame her. The box was just
there
when I got here, wrapped in brown paper and twine and absolutely freaking
huge.
It is the size of two of those Bankers’ Box boxes my Dad used to haul home from work put together. And it has Star’s name on it.

“Jeez,” she says, pulling the strap of her purse off her shoulder and dropping it down on the porch with a thud before kneeling down to get a closer look at the box. I’m kind of impressed. Not by the kneeling, I’m not a total freak, but by the fact she’s just willing to toss her bag around like that. My ex-girlfriend would have killed herself before she let anything happen to her purse. But then, Gina wouldn’t have been caught dead cleaning out a house like this, so I suppose that’s just the way it is. Different folks, and all that shit. “I wonder who . . . ” her voice trails off, and I turn bodily around to look at her, wondering why she stopped talking. As I watch, a grin spreads across her face, and she lights up like fucking sunshine.

“What?” I ask. “You figure out who sent it?”

“Yup,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate. Instead she just sinks down further until she’s sitting cross-legged on the porch, and tugs the box closer.

She looks like a kid at Christmas.

“So . . . not a bomb, then?” I say, but I can’t help the smile that I know is pulling at the corner of my mouth.

She turns to look at me. “Definitely not,” she says, and then leans over to reach for her bag. But she doesn’t actually move or anything, just starts waving her arms at her just-out-of-reach bag, keeping the box close.

“You’re so weird.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I can actually feel the color drain from my face. Fuck, I think. Already I can feel the panic start to rise up in my stomach.
I’m such an ass. She’s definitely going to fire me now.
But instead of getting pissed, she just throws back her head and laughs, and, unable to stop myself, my eyes trace down the long column of her neck, down to the neck of her T-shirt, where I can see just the barest edge of the tattoo I’m sure is hiding beneath the fabric.

“Trust me,” she says, still grinning, “you’re not the first one to tell me that. Not even close.” She’s still trying to reach for her purse without letting the box get out of reach, and she hasn’t canned me, so I figure it must be pretty important. I reach out and nudge the bag toward her, and for the first time I notice the tattoo on her left arm, a flock of birds in flight, scaling the distance between her wrist and her elbow. It’s nice. Pretty. She grabs it and gives me a quick “thanks” before dumping the bag into her lap and starting to dig through it with more focus than I’ve ever seen on anybody.