TAG (15 page)

The outdoors and I have never quite agreed on much. The one time I slept outside was at my friend’s house in her backyard when I was twelve. She pitched a tent and we ate junk food all night and
gossiped
about all the cute boys at school. A million mosquitos stung us and then her older brother came out and scared the crap out of us with fake growling noises in the middle of the night. That was the end of that. We spent the rest of the night on her bedroom floor. “I can
survive.”

“We’ll drive into the canyons as far as we can go, and we’ll have to hike from there. It could mean a couple of nights in a tent, though.”
Camping. Tents. Bugs. Ugh. “Oh,” I say. He places his hand on my
thigh, a gesture that calms my nerves and kind of turns me on. “I’ll protect
you from the bears. Okay?” I look down at my leg, at his hand, and I clear my throat, looking back up at him with an arched brow. He grins in return and his hand slides up an inch higher, but I slap his
arm.

He pulls his hand away. “I’m sorry. Sorry. I told you, I’m very forgetful.”

“Oh right. I’ll just have to keep reminding you.” I roll my eyes, trying to force away the smile inching across my cheeks.

He pulls off an exit into a gas station and throws the truck into park at the first pump. “Want a snack for the road?”

“Only if it’s a thousand calories or more. If not, I’m all set.”

His dimples deepen on his cheeks and he nods his head at my
request. As he’s stepping out of the truck, he reaches into his back pocket and retrieves a blue book. He tosses it onto my lap. “You’ll
need this.” I open it up and find my picture and information printed on a shiny new passport. I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Hey,” I catch him before he runs inside. “Why don’t we just fly there?” Regardless of how much I hate flying, it seems silly to drive across the country.

“Besides that you hate flying,” he says with seriousness. “Reaper is too close to knowing our location and the best way to lose him is to drive. We’d be too easy to track if we flew. He has connections deeper than you could imagine.” Oh, I can imagine.

He closes his door and jogs into the gas station. I pull out my phone and look at the blank screen. No texts and no calls today. I’m not sure that’s the worst thing, though. I send Sasha a message,
telling her I
miss her. I look forward to the day when it’s safe for me to be
around her again. She responds back quickly, telling me she misses me too. She knows I only text her when I have a feeling of looming danger. Then again, I wake up each day, wondering how I’m still alive.

Tango’s door reopens and he drops in a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a couple of sodas. “Now this is what I call dinner,” I say. “Oh, do you want money for gas?” Not like I have much. Dad hasn’t deposited any money into my account in three weeks, which I
now understand since he’s camping out in the canyons in Mexico.

“Oh, you mean, you actually have money?” he asks, playfully, throwing in a wink for an extra measure of smugness. Every time this man winks, smiles or blinks, my insides become mush.

“Some.” My voice rises into a whine.

“I have this, but thank you for offering.” He closes the door again, and I feel the truck jerk to the side as he shoves the hose into the gas tank. I hear him coughing from outside the truck, reminding me of the true situation. He’s not doing this for fun. He’s doing this for a last
chance at life.

When he gets back into the truck, I watch him wiping his mouth off with his sleeve. “You okay?” I ask.

His hand moves down to his chest and he presses it with the
heel of
his palm. His skin is flush, but his cheeks are rosy. “Can I say
something to you that I haven’t been given the opportunity to tell
anyone?” For a minute, I worry about what’s going to come out of his mouth, but he doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I’m scared.” And his two words knock
my heart into my stomach. “I don’t want to die, Cali.” If I were
standing, I’d fall to my knees, feeling as though I’ve
had the
wind knocked out of me. Mom never told me she was scared of dying. She always told me it was God’s plan for her, and she was okay with becoming an angel for Krissy and me. Although, now I
question the
existence of angels, seeing as Krissy certainly didn’t have one the day she was summoned to death. I guess Mom didn’t really become an angel. Krissy didn’t have a chance to tell me she was scared, but it’s all I could see on her face when the knife was pressed against her throat. Tango’s the first one to admit this type of fear to me, and
regardless of his positive attitude that he seems able to maintain, it shows me the weakness within him. His feelings are the truth; it’s easy to see that.

It takes everything I have not to weaken and act sad for him. I have to be strong for him, because if the tables were turned, I know that’s what he would do for me, or anyone in his situation. “You’re
not going to die,” I say, unsure whether I should be making such a statement. “This is exactly why we’re going to Mexico.”

He reaches over to me, looking like he’s about to take my hand. And I’d let him if that’s what he needs right now.

He does take my hand.

Then drops my hand onto the seat next to my leg, giving him free rein to steal the box of doughnuts off of my lap. I laugh silently and look out the window into the darkness, which reflects his face
looking at the back of my head. He’s smiling and must not realize I can see him.

CALI

I MUST HAVE
passed out somewhere between the Connecticut border and wherever the hell we are now. It’s almost two in the morning, and I’m somewhat delirious. I straighten my posture and glance out into the dark sky brightened by the thousands of city lights. I pull down my mirror and use the subtle glow to check my after-sleep appearance. Yikes. I smudge my smeared eye makeup off from below each eye and wipe the remnants on my jeans. Lovely. Maybe I was drooling too.

“Sleep well?” He looks over at me for a second.

“Yeah, where are we?” My voice comes out hoarse and sluggish. I’m totally exhausted.

“Just entered Philly.”

“Really? That’s it?” That sounded more like a whine, but I’m already starting to feel cramped.

“Lot of traffic going through New York and Connecticut. Things will speed up over the next few hours, though.”

“Are we driving through the night?” I couldn’t do that. I’d be that asshole who falls asleep at the wheel and drives off a bridge.

“No way. I’ve had my days pulling all-nighters. We’re only driving for another hour or so. We’ll have to find a place to crash.”

The highway is dark and absent of the lights that shone over us just a few miles back. The tall pine trees are as black as the road, and
raindrops cover the windshield, each one coming down faster than the one before, warning us of an approaching downpour. The
droplets soon turn to a funnel of water cascading around the truck.

Seemingly alone on this wide-open highway so late at night, the
rain is mesmerizing—soothing, actually. The radio had been turned off and the noise of clapping thunder and the splashing puddles
being shot up into the undercarriage surround us. Visibility grows fainter and a
sign indicating a nearby motel invites us off the exit. The road is flooded and water is seeping over the island, separating the two lanes.

We pull into the motel parking lot with a blinking vacancy sign, and I see him looking over at me. “Sorry about this—it looks pretty run down, but visibility is rough and it’s making me more tired.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s fine, Tango, really. I’ve stayed in worse.” I’m not sure I’ve ever stayed in anything more than a two star hotel, actually.

 “You’re a lot sweeter when it rains, huh?”

“I like the rain.”

 “Well then, I hope it never stops raining,” he says softly.

I feel a rush of warmth wash over me and I’m questioning how long I can maintain this wall I’ve built up in front of me. He always says the right thing.

We both step out of the truck, and I somewhat expect him to run through the rain to the check-in office. But he doesn’t. He waits for me as if the rain isn’t coming down like the water from a
showerhead on the highest massage setting. He’s unaffected. And soaking wet in only a t-shirt. I reach back into the cab, pull my bag out, and sling it over my shoulder. When I hop out, he pulls his sweatshirt out from behind his back and holds it over my head. “Ready?” I want to stop and comprehend the adorable gesture, but we both pick up the pace and jog toward the front entrance.

“Thanks,” I say as we approach the front door. He doesn’t respond, just places his hand on the small of my back as I walk
through the front door. It feels like we’re together and it comes off as a natural gesture, but we’re not together. Maybe that’s just who he is, a gentleman. I’m not sure I’ve ever come in contact with that type of man, and I’m not sure I’d want anything different now. I decide not to remind him of the ‘no touching’ rule this time.

Tango moves ahead of me and greets the old man hovering over the counter. He looks as if he might be asleep. He looks like he’s beyond the age of retirement. The wrinkles on his face have their own wrinkles, and his jaw juts out, hanging slightly open. He should
be at home in a warm bed, not staffing a front desk of a motel. I feel horrible, and I want to help him to a chair and drape a blanket over him. He doesn’t flinch when Tango approaches the desk or when he clears his throat. Instead, a loud snore erupts from his nose and he shifts around a bit. At least we know he’s not dead. “Excuse me,” Tango says loudly. He still doesn’t budge.

Tango places his hand down on the bell and it rings loudly,
startling the man as his eyes snap open wide. “Oh uh. Oh, sorry. Uh. I must have—you guys aren’t with the cops or nothing, are ya?”

“Hey, man, we mean no trouble. Just need a couple of rooms,” Tango says. I think I had this guy pinned wrong, and now I’m
wondering why he’d be fearful of us being cops.

“I have one room left.” He laughs once with only his breath. “It’s your lucky day.”

Lucky would have been having two rooms.

“I’d pay with cash. This place is kind of sketchy,” I whisper in Tango’s ear. He nods with agreement and hands the man sixty bucks. In return, the man hands Tango a gold key hanging from a green rubber keychain with the number 104 in gold print. As we’re
walking away,
the man flops back down over the counter, and his snoring commences almost immediately. Guess we brought quite the excitement.

We follow the hallway through a set of glass doors, and the smoky
corridor opens up into a long passageway covered in worn red carpeting, white tiled walls and drop ceilings.

We approach room 104 and Tango slides the key into the lock. The door doesn’t open smoothly, so he nudges it with his shoulder. The red carpet ends abruptly at our door and turns into a contrasting forest green shag rug that lines our motel room. There’s one full-size bed, one kitchen chair and a pedestal to use as a table, I’m guessing.

The bathroom is so small; a normal-size human would have to stand over the toilet in order to close the bathroom door from the inside. It’s almost hard to believe the health inspectors have overlooked it. Although, as I know well, everyone knows someone.
Sometimes it’s for the better and sometimes, not so much.

“I’m so sorry, Carolina. This place is vile.” He pulls the thick white synthetic curtain away from the window, creating a sticky tearing noise. “Just a dumpster with some rats looking around,” he
laughs.

“Nice. Just like the Ritz, I’m sure.”

“Haven’t been?” He looks back at me curiously.

“I haven’t been to a Hilton, never mind a Ritz,” I snicker. Not
everyone gets to enjoy the highlife. “My dad sent us money, but it was hardly enough with my mom being a full-time mom and dad for us. She didn’t have time to work because of various school
schedules. She did the best she could, though.” I’m saying way more than I’ve ever felt comfortable telling anyone. I need to shut up.

“Sounds like you had a pretty good mom, huh?”

“Yeah, she made my first nineteen years pretty good.” I nod my head, trying to remember each detail of her face, the certain smile she had just for me. We were her life. She didn’t need more than us. We were enough. And she was enough for us.

“So you and Krissy were alone for the two years after your mom
died. Then Krissy was murdered?” he asks, looking unsure about each word he says, almost as if he thinks he should tip-toe around the subject. Krissy and I were so lucky to have each other after she died. Dad was around for maybe one day, and then we were on our
own.
She was eighteen and I was nineteen, so we technically didn’t need anyone to take care of us. We slept in our parents’ bed for six months after she died. We stayed up late most nights, reminiscing, telling jokes, and feeling like mom was sitting next to us on the bed. The three of us were
so close that Mom felt more like a third sister. There wasn’t an untold secret between us three. We were all best friends, as close as family could be. And the thought of how much I miss both of them right now kills me, and I feel my eyes fill up with tears just at the mention of their names.

I suck in a deep breath. “Sorry, what were you saying?”