The Right Kind of Wrong (7 page)

It sounds ridiculous. "Yeah. No."

"C'mon, Kara. Be a little daring for once. I'm game if you are."

"This coming from the person who just refused to share the tiniest bit of personal information about himself."

"If you really want to know, you can ask me again and I'll have to answer."

I roll my eyes. "Honestly, I really don't care. I was just bored and wanted to keep you talking."

"Mmhmm."

What's the worst that can happen? Most of me really doesn't want to play this dumb game but there's a sliver of me that wonders what I could learn if I played. "Fine. But I'm not promising I'll answer all of your questions."

"Didn't figure you would. You wouldn’t play if you didn't have some sort of control."

"You want to play or not?"

He turns down the radio. "Okay, you want to go first?"
 

I look at the speedometer and hit the cruise button. We're going an even seventy mph. I know he expects me to ask the most obvious question about Jenkins' class, but I'm saving that one. "Why did you choose Sacramento State?"

He looks surprised. "Taylor Washington. He's pretty popular in the film world. Brilliant. Won't touch anything that has Hollywood written all over it. He's all indie. My parents owned a pretty upscale camera shop. He was a regular. That's where he told me to go. So that's where I went."

"Just like that?"

He nods. "Just like that."

It must have been easy choice. My memory threatens me with another college conversation with my grandparents but I refuse to let it surface. "Your turn."
 

Vince doesn't hesitate. "Why didn't you want to come back to Iowa?"
 

I take a swig of my warm coke. It offers no comfort. My head says
lie
but my heart says tell the
truth
. I don't know which I should follow. I swallow. "Three days before the start of my freshman year, I was going to withdraw. Neither of my grandparents were particularly healthy and I was worried about them. Especially my grandfather. We'd just found out his cancer had spread to his lymph nodes."
 

My throat starts to close as the memories flood back. "Basically, I didn't want to leave them. My father… well, he's another story for a different time. But they needed me. And I left them. I didn't have a chance to come back before..."
 

Vince rests his hand over mine on top of the shifter. The heat of his hand feels good. So damn good. But I hate looking vulnerable. I pull away.
 

I wipe a few rogue tears from my cheeks. "This is why I didn't want to come back. But I'm fine. Seriously."

"Okay," Vince says. "Your turn."

He couldn't have known his question drowns me in my own guilt.
 

So part of me doesn't feel bad for asking him the question that's plagued me since Jenkins' class.
 

"Why'd you do it Vince? What was so hard about the project that you had to cheat?"
 

His jaw sets and he clears his throat. "I knew that was going to be one of your questions."

"So spill it."

"Fuck, Kara. It's not that simple. It's not like I woke up and said I want to ruin an entire semester for both of us and decided to cheat."

"Then how was it?" The moment I ask I want to take it back. I'm not sure I want to know. I've been completely content hating Vince. He's arrogant, flaky and he almost ruined my college career. But what if his story doesn't match up with the Vince I'm starting to tolerate. The Vince I'm actually starting to like.

He shakes his head, opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"I... I don't have an answer. I don't know why I did it. I just did. I was an asshole. It was a dick move, and I didn't care about you or the grade or anything else until afterwards. Then it was too late. That's it."

An honest answer. Finally. At least he admits how selfish he was. "I see."
 

"You probably hate me just as much as you did, right?"

"Your turn," I say avoiding the question.

"Do you love him?"

I nearly throw the car in park right in the middle of the highway. "What? Who?"

Vince snorts. "You know who. Kyle."
 

"That's none..." Then I remember the rules. And what do I care? "No. I don't love him. I mean, there were some... no I don't love him."

"Then why did you do it?"

"Sleep with him?"

"Yeah."

I look at the long stretch of road ahead of me and try to come up with an answer. "I don't know."

But I do know. I just don't want to admit it aloud. I'd actually have to say I slept with someone for the validation. To feel wanted.
 

Vince is quiet for a minute. "I guess we're more alike than we think."

I think about that for a long time. He's right.
 

I sigh. "Maybe we are."

C
HAPTER
T
EN

The only thing more boring than driving through Wyoming is driving through Nebraska. I lean my head against the car door, the cool glass a contrast to the warmth in my cheeks. It feels good. We've been driving almost two days straight and I'm ready to get out of this damn car.

"We're still stopping at that museum, aren't we?" I’m anxious to be anywhere but where I am.

"Yeah."

"Good. I need to stretch, walk, eat. Do something other than sit in this car."

"Your GPS says we'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes feels like an hour. Since our twenty questions game, the conversation is stilted and forced. Pleasantries, which is odd since we've spent so much time crammed inside a car together. We pull into the parking lot of a building that looks like a huge shed.

"Are you sure this is the right place? This looks like tractor storage or something. Not a museum. Plus, no one is around. It's creepy."

"I'm pretty sure this is it. C'mon, let's go in." He swipes his camera from the middle console and we walk toward the front door. A small window displays a closed sign and behind it is pure blackness.
 

"I don't think…" I don't have time to finish because Vince reaches for the brass doorknob and my pulse quickens. This feels bad for some reason. Really bad.
 

The door opens right up.
 

"Shit, yeah! Someone forgot to lock up. Look, I found our way in," he says proud of himself.
 

I shake my head. "Oh, no. We're not going in there. "

He gestures to the emptiness. "Are you blind? There's no one here."

"That doesn't mean someone—like a cop—won't show up any minute now."

He laughs. "You're too paranoid. C'mon, we'll be quick."

I bite my lip. I really don't like this, but I admit Vince's enthusiasm is rubbing off on me. "Okay. For two minutes and then we're leaving. Got it?"

Vince grabs my hand and pulls me inside. When the door shuts, we're in the dark. A few seconds later, Vince's phone puts out a small glow. He flashes it towards the wall and it feels like fate wanted us to sneak in. The light switch shines like a magnet. Vince flips the switches and the building comes alive.
 

I step from behind him in awe. The building is, in fact, a holding shed. But instead of tractors, the entire building is filled with massive, hulking tanks and camo-painted trucks with bullet holes penetrating the sides. The air goes out of my lungs. I'm abysmally small next to these massive machines.

"This is incredible." Vince lifts his camera and scans the building. "I told you it would be worth it."

I walk up to a gigantic hunk of metal and close my eyes. I picture my grandfather in the front seat, driving through bullets raining down all around him. Was he scared? Every day when he got in that tank, did he think he'd make it home to Grandma? I touch the machine and the cold metal sends a shiver down my spine.
 

So this is how it feels to touch a piece of history; something you have a stake in.

"Are you getting these tanks on camera? They are incredible. I've never seen one up close."
 

Vince walks around, catching every angle, every visible inch in his camera lens. Intensity oozes from him when he's behind his camera. He’s a completely different Vince than the guy without it.
 

He completes his tour around a tank and ends up next to me. His arm brushes against mine. The slight tingle of skin on skin makes me shiver.

 
He pulls me down a row of helicopters. They are as impressive as the tanks, but they don't hold the same history for me.
 

"Stop where you are."

The voice stops me cold. I turn around and am surprised to see a guy about my age staring at me.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" he asks.

Vince steps forward and laughs. "That's a funny story actually."

The guy's eyes flash with anger. "Oh, breaking and entering is funny? I'm sure the police won't think it is."

I step forward. "Sir, we're sorry, but we drove from California to see this place."

He eyes me dubiously. "Seriously? You drove all that way, just to break into this old dump? Why?"

I point to one of the tanks decorated in bullet holes. "My grandfather drove one in WWII. And we're doing a project on it."

"Besides, we didn't break in." Vince adds.

I tug on his arm and whisper, "Shut up."

"How did you get in then?"

Vince points to the door. "We walked in."

The man guffaws, the sound reverberates around the building. "And I'm supposed to believe that?"

"Check the front door."

I'm not sure Vince's slick and confident comments are convincing.

"Stay here," the man commands.
 

I'm too nervous to do anything but melt into Vince's side. When I realize I'm practically on top of him, I put some distance between us. "Do you think he's calling the cops?"

Vince shakes his head. "He'd have to admit that he left the door unlocked and I'm pretty sure he'd be in trouble. Trust me, we're fine."

As if on cue, the man stomps back to us. "Goddammit. Forgot to lock it up last night. And of course, the one night I do, you two fools come waltzing in here."

"Told you," Vince says, shrugging. "Listen, we'll be on our way and no one has to know you forgot to lock the door."

"Or that you trespassed."

Vince gives the man a thumbs up. "Exactly!"
 

I'm not sure the man is going to let us go, but he throws his hands up in defeat. "Go, before I change my mind."

"Got it." Vince grabs my hand again and pulls me through the tank collection. We practically run to the car and I toss Vince the keys before sliding into the passenger seat.
 

My pulse races so fast I can hear it in my eardrums. It courses through my body, thumping out an unfamiliar rhythm. Even my skin tingles. Something bubbles inside me and by the time Vince pulls on the highway I'm full out laughing.
 

He looks at me like I'm a maniac. "Are you okay?"

I hold my hand against my chest trying to calm down. "Oh. My. God. I can't believe—" I say between fits of laughter. "I can't believe we did that. And got away with it."

"A little action and adventure? Bet you didn’t think you’d get that on this trip, did you?"

I shake my head and catch my breath. "It was kind of... fun."

A grin spreads across Vince's face and my pulse picks up again.

I kind of like it.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

We hit the Iowa state line and the anxiety I've kept at bay most of the trip barrels out of me. The car is hot. I'm sweating. I'm queasy. And if I don't do something, I might throw up all over Vince. That would be awesome.
 

Except, not at all.

I focus on the broken yellow lines until Vince makes a vomiting noise.
 

"Ugh. What is that awful smell? Is your car burning up? Are we going to die?" Vince holds his nose hostage under his shirt.
 

I forgot how pungent the smell of cow manure can be.
 

"That, my friend, is the smell of farms. Welcome to Iowa."

"Oh God, it's terrible. Make it stop, make it stop!"
 

"Stop being such a baby and deal with it. You won't even notice it after a while."
 

Vince fakes a gag. "You say that now."

Everson is only a twenty-minute drive from the state line. My stomach does flip-flops when I see the city sign. I slow to twenty-five, remembering that I'm not exactly in favor with the local cops.

"We're here," I mutter.
 

Vince sits up straighter in his seat, camera in hand while he observes Everson’s 'downtown.'

"It's kind of like you see in the movies," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, with like, hillbillies and stuff."
 

I tap the brakes, sending Vince forward in his seat.
 

"Hey!"
 

I laugh, but slide down a little further in my seat to avoid the ‘it's-someone-new’ looks. "There are no hillbillies here. They're nice people. I wouldn't call them hillbillies to their faces either. It's the fastest way to get a shotgun pointed at your head."
 

"Alright, alright. Jeez." He mutters under his breath, "Hillbillies. No wonder you moved to California."
 

"I heard that."
 

He keeps his mouth shut the rest of the way through town. When the road gives way to gravel and curves to the right, the car follows and the anxiety in my stomach somersaults to stabbing, rhythmic pains. When the half-hidden driveway appears, I turn and we drive down the tree-lined gravel path.
 

A three-story house comes into view after the dust settles.
 

The house—once as white and pure as an eggshell—is dingy gray and the paint peels and flakes. The crimson shutters hang from hinges, a few storms away from doing a death drop. The landscaping is so far gone, I don't know where to look next.