Crank Series: Crank Part 32

See you tonight, luscious.

Luscious? Plain old white bread me? I liked it. At least I thought I did then.

I Hid Out in My Room Until Dinner

made sure to gag down every sc.r.a.p of spinach, so both my mom and my mouth would keep quiet.

I still had a valid cramp excuse so I packed it in early. Uh-huh. Sat in the dark, lit as the starry sky.

Listened to the sounds of my normality: familiar footsteps in the hall; whispers; laughter; baying at the moonlight.

And it occurred to me for one uneasy moment that every move I had made lately might have started a landslide.

What if I couldn't go back? What if I died in the crash?

Almost immediately, the monster soothed me, confused me with a deeper question.

What if the ride was worth it?

I mean, who wants to trudge through life, doing everything just right? Taking no chances means wasting your dreams.

How can I explain the pure chilling rush of waiting to do something so basically not right?

No fear. No guilt.

How can I explain purposely setting foot on a path so blatantly treacherous? Was the fun in the fall?

I Hoped Not

As I softly opened my second-floor window, peered down at the cement walk below, took a deep breath.

Fingers clutching the upper sill, toes stretching for the first-floor trim, I managed to touch down safely. It may have been the safest moment of the night, in fact. Gulped into darkness, I let my eyes adjust, felt the breeze lift gooseb.u.mps, listened for signs of household disturbance.

No motion. No sudden snitch of a light switch.

No sound but distant coyote song, I silenced my conscience, quieted my screaming nerves and slipped away unnoticed, for the moment.

No streetlights, no headlights, the world seemed to sleep beneath my feet as I ran, a mustang over moonlit playa; a cheetah in high gear. No fear, no brakes, consumed by some irrational itch to cruise along shadowy thoroughfares, traveled by demons.

Brendan Was Waiting

in a battered mud-colored Bronco.

Climb in. You look great.

Winded. Hair plastered by my escape sprint. He was a liar.

A smooth, gorgeous liar.

Wanna go up to Chamberlain Flat?

Secluded five miles up a rutted dirt track, the played-out mine was a notorious party spot.

Supposed to be a party up there.

Anything could happen at a party up there. Good things. Bad things.

Truly evil things.

Ever hear about Evan Malone?

Evan Malone, urban legend-eighteen and in league with Satan, skinning goats up at Chamberlain Flat.

My brother went out with his sister.

So he was more than just a parental fabrication meant to scare kids away from abandoned mine shafts?

He was real, okay. Kyle met him.

Met him and what? Dressed up like Halloween, prayed to the devil, and sacrificed hoofed animals?

Shared a bong. Said he was creepy.

Major understatement, if the dude was really for real! If pot made you buddy up with Satan, you could keep it!

But don't worry. Evan's long gone.

I reached for a whiff of courage.

Far f.u.c.kin' out! Beer's in back.

We b.u.mped up the Road

Doing 40 or so spilling some foam of summer-warmed brew and busting our guts, laughing.

I watched Brendan's muscular hands try to s.h.i.+ft, missing gears, try to steer around potholes, not quite evading most of them.

I studied his face, mentally tracing bone structure a model would kill for, high cheekbones perfect white teeth all sheathed in Mediterranean- flavored skin, iced mocha, begging to be sipped, so I did.

I swear, every guy you kiss is so different. Each has a unique essence, each a significant style.

Brendan was eau de lavender, vanilla, Heineken, Crest and top-notch speed.

His style was "No is not an acceptable answer." He was Bree, with a p.e.n.i.s.

Sat.u.r.day Night

postmidnight, 30-some hours till back to the books, the party had hit high gear. Pot smoke hung, a skunky green curtain, but I didn't want to fall low so I indulged in another big snort before inhaling a couple of tiny tokes, mostly to satisfy the incredible urge to pollute my lungs. I topped that off with a Marlboro, landing on just about the perfect plane, just about the place I wanted to be. Not too speedy, not even close to straight falling into the yo-yo rhythm of crank, pot, beer, tobacco, the sensational motion and emotion, up and down, Brendan hanging tight, though I suspected he might desert me, take off on a flirting binge. And, oh, G.o.d, the jealous stares of girls I had envied not long before, girls suddenly, strangely on fire to know me, though they had never once in the past returned my smile. And now, instead of Kristina, they got to know Bree.

Brendan Stoked the Fire

Let's take a walk.

I was game to play the game. We wandered off, found a soft sitting spot in a patch of crispy brown wild wheat.

Come here, Bree.

As he pulled me onto his lap, I wondered if I should confess my double ident.i.ty.

Instead, I let him kiss me. Hard. Hot.

Oh, man. I'm hot He shed his s.h.i.+rt and the moon revealed perfect, tanned muscles. He started to unb.u.t.ton mine, silencing my protest.

Shhh. Don't say no.

"I can't. I mean, I never ..." Crank-enhanced gooseb.u.mps lifted as he moved his hands gently across my skin. "Stop."

You know you want to.

"I do, Brendan, I really do. But I can't.

It's the wrong time of the month."

I'd decked him. He slapped back.

Then, why did you call?

I let Bree answer. "Not to get laid, incredible as you are. Is that all you think I'm about? What if I told you I'm a virgin?"

I'd call you a liar.

Bree wanted to joust, but Kristina thought about a long walk home and put Bree back into her box. I looked him in the eye. "No lie."

Paydirt!

Hair Mussed

clothes c.o.c.keyed, makeup smeared, I would have looked fairly suspicious if I had walked through the door that night.