Read Online Between Now & Never by Laura Johnston - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Johnston
Ads: Link
guy is doing. Searching under my arms where I have no injuries. Searching my pockets. Going for my wallet? No, he skips right over my wallet. He pulls something else from my pocket, pausing.
“He must have taken these at the mall,” one of them says. “With her.”
I force my eyes open, anger simmering. Dark hair, square jaw, and those eyes. So light, so piercing, they’re not even blue.
His fist crashes into the bones around my eye.
My head whirls in confusion. My heart responds to panic, slamming against my rib cage.
What’s going on?
Why?
Some composed part of my mind realizes he didn’t want me to see him. A foot wedges under my shoulder and kicks me back over, rocks digging into open flesh as I hit the ground. Warm liquid oozes from my face. Instinct kicks in and I pry my eyelids open. I tuck my chin down, dirt lodging in my scraped flesh as I look for the car, the license plate.
Hot air blows against my ear. “Where is it?”
A voice so warm yet so chilling. I doubt I’ll ever shake the memory of this.
“Your phone,” the other guy says, his tone urgent, angry. “Did you take pictures back there? Were you recording us?”
Nothing they say makes sense. Pictures? Recording?
I blow out an excruciating breath of air, lungs aching. Feeling like I’m about to retch, I try to focus on the car. I search for the license plate, but it’s too blurry.
“Who did you send it to?” the chilling voice at my side asks. “Did you take a picture?”
His tone is so unnervingly persuasive, I want to give him an answer. But I have none. What picture? What recording? I weave through the pain, reaching for something, anything. Some kind of recollection.
I hear a voice saying the same thing over and over.
“I d’n know. I don’t know.”
Me—I’m the one speaking. My voice is hoarse, barely there.
“Yo, Ian, maybe he really doesn’t remember,” the other guy whispers, a hopeful lilt to his deep voice. “He’s been knocked retarded.”
Ian. The dark hair, the piercing eyes .
“What’s your phone number?” Ian asks, his cool voice devoid of emotion. A challenge.
I part my lips, but nothing comes. No numbers. Not that I would tell him, but I can’t remember a single digit, which isn’t like me. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s numbers.
I twist my head at great cost, cement scraping what remains of the skin on my cheek as I spot the license.
Arizona plate. SNT . . .
“I don’t know,” I keep saying, a pathetic confession. It’s the truth.
SNT1039
I will it into memory. The numbers are easy; it’s the letters I’ll forget. A drop of moisture hits my cheek.
SNT for scent or spent or . . . saint.
Irony of the century. I remember my initial thought about these freaks, how I took them for good guys stopping to help.
I glimpse the frame around the license plate, black with white letters in caps. ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP.
Rain sprinkles down, hitting the back of my neck.
“Yo, Damian, should we finish him off?” the other guy asks.
In that instant everything stops. My thoughts, my heartbeat—even the pain.
Damian, the guy at my side— Ian for short?—stands up. “And have homicide charges following us? Nah; the kid doesn’t remember a thing.”
I try to recall the letters and numbers of the plate, but they’re already gone.
“His lucky day,” one of them says.
Then something smashes into my head—a shoe—and I embrace the darkness at last.
I’m swimming. No, I’m walking. Through rain. Or perhaps I’m running; I can’t tell. It’s a dream, that much I’m aware of, but I’m too tired to pull myself out of it. And this feels so real, like it really happened before. And then I realize it did.
It was raining outside—pouring—one of the few days each year when storm clouds actually gather above Scottsdale, AZ, and let loose. A monsoon. Rain came down in buckets, angry pellets of water hitting the dry ground like bullets. I ran up the stairs—seventeen of
“He must have taken these at the mall,” one of them says. “With her.”
I force my eyes open, anger simmering. Dark hair, square jaw, and those eyes. So light, so piercing, they’re not even blue.
His fist crashes into the bones around my eye.
My head whirls in confusion. My heart responds to panic, slamming against my rib cage.
What’s going on?
Why?
Some composed part of my mind realizes he didn’t want me to see him. A foot wedges under my shoulder and kicks me back over, rocks digging into open flesh as I hit the ground. Warm liquid oozes from my face. Instinct kicks in and I pry my eyelids open. I tuck my chin down, dirt lodging in my scraped flesh as I look for the car, the license plate.
Hot air blows against my ear. “Where is it?”
A voice so warm yet so chilling. I doubt I’ll ever shake the memory of this.
“Your phone,” the other guy says, his tone urgent, angry. “Did you take pictures back there? Were you recording us?”
Nothing they say makes sense. Pictures? Recording?
I blow out an excruciating breath of air, lungs aching. Feeling like I’m about to retch, I try to focus on the car. I search for the license plate, but it’s too blurry.
“Who did you send it to?” the chilling voice at my side asks. “Did you take a picture?”
His tone is so unnervingly persuasive, I want to give him an answer. But I have none. What picture? What recording? I weave through the pain, reaching for something, anything. Some kind of recollection.
I hear a voice saying the same thing over and over.
“I d’n know. I don’t know.”
Me—I’m the one speaking. My voice is hoarse, barely there.
“Yo, Ian, maybe he really doesn’t remember,” the other guy whispers, a hopeful lilt to his deep voice. “He’s been knocked retarded.”
Ian. The dark hair, the piercing eyes .
“What’s your phone number?” Ian asks, his cool voice devoid of emotion. A challenge.
I part my lips, but nothing comes. No numbers. Not that I would tell him, but I can’t remember a single digit, which isn’t like me. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s numbers.
I twist my head at great cost, cement scraping what remains of the skin on my cheek as I spot the license.
Arizona plate. SNT . . .
“I don’t know,” I keep saying, a pathetic confession. It’s the truth.
SNT1039
I will it into memory. The numbers are easy; it’s the letters I’ll forget. A drop of moisture hits my cheek.
SNT for scent or spent or . . . saint.
Irony of the century. I remember my initial thought about these freaks, how I took them for good guys stopping to help.
I glimpse the frame around the license plate, black with white letters in caps. ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP.
Rain sprinkles down, hitting the back of my neck.
“Yo, Damian, should we finish him off?” the other guy asks.
In that instant everything stops. My thoughts, my heartbeat—even the pain.
Damian, the guy at my side— Ian for short?—stands up. “And have homicide charges following us? Nah; the kid doesn’t remember a thing.”
I try to recall the letters and numbers of the plate, but they’re already gone.
“His lucky day,” one of them says.
Then something smashes into my head—a shoe—and I embrace the darkness at last.
I’m swimming. No, I’m walking. Through rain. Or perhaps I’m running; I can’t tell. It’s a dream, that much I’m aware of, but I’m too tired to pull myself out of it. And this feels so real, like it really happened before. And then I realize it did.
It was raining outside—pouring—one of the few days each year when storm clouds actually gather above Scottsdale, AZ, and let loose. A monsoon. Rain came down in buckets, angry pellets of water hitting the dry ground like bullets. I ran up the stairs—seventeen of
Similar Books
