Read Online Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) by Paisley Ray - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paisley Ray
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kill and squashed my party mood. I considered asking Patsy to drop me off at the Brown’s house, but it was still early and they’d ask questions. As much as Katie Lee peeved me, I didn’t want to snitch on her. We were roommates and the year had just begun. I couldn’t show up alone at her house.
I slipped my feet out of my sandals and rested them on the dash. Preferring not to look at the landscape that flew past my window, I asked Patsy, “What does Nash have that is so attractive to Katie Lee?”
“If I knew, I’d bottle and sell it. All I see is a bowl of messed up.”
“So you don’t have any insight?”
Patsy fumbled with the cellophane on a pack of cigarettes and handed it to me to open. “Hell no. And it’s no use talking to her. She listens. Tells me I’m right, then goes back to him every time. Mostly I’m able to ignore the butthead, but I’d be lying if I told you his relationship resiliency with her didn’t grate on me.”
“How long has Nash been trying to get arrested?”
Above the girl chatter, Patsy told me, “Since he learned to walk. Katie Lee is one of my best friends, and she’s great until Nash appears. He casts a spell of stupid over her that eradicates sensibility. If I hadn’t known her since grade school, I’d have disowned her by now for dating him.”
Someone passed us two open wine coolers. “Will she ever get tired of him?”
“Once he lands in Craven Correctional. Maybe then she’ll meet someone else.”
An arm reached between Patsy and me, pushing a Joe Walsh cassette in the tape deck. Patsy cranked the volume and the girls began singing, “ My Maserati does one-eighty-five, I lost my license now I don’t drive .” Although my personal musical taste veered toward alternative punk, I knew better than to suggest another tape. The song added weight to Patsy’s gas foot and waking up tomorrow morning became a top priority of mine, so I silently said a little prayer:
PLEASE LORD,
LET ME LIVE THROUGH THE NIGHT WITH THESE
CRAZY-ASS, SOUTHERN GIRLS
AMEN
We rode through the outskirts of New Bern on narrow roads without traffic lights or stop signs for Patsy to ignore. When someone in the van shouted, “Don’t miss the turn past old man Wright’s,” my chest constricted. What kind of party could be near old man Wright? Noticing Patsy’s empty BJ bottle, I determined someone should stay sober enough to lead police to where the body count would be, I didn’t drink in the van and couldn’t help but fixate on the worst-case scenario.
I imagined a police report in the local paper: Despite deep lacerations, bruises, and broken bones, Rachael O’Brien bravely led the search team through the kudzu-tangled tree line, down a steep slope into the mosquito-infested, stagnant swamp where Dr. Brown’s half-submerged cruiser van sank. The rescue team recovered the bodies of twelve unconscious girls, currently in intensive care at New Bern Medical.
The road tapered to a single lane. Patsy shouted above the music, “Where the hell is Wright’s place?” I stopped daydreaming and sincerely worried that we were lost in back country where there was a high probability of a Sasquatch sighting.
Patsy mumbled, “Shit,” and maneuvered a tight left. The reflection in my side mirror, cast a muted red glow over the hailstorm of pebbles and dirt clumps that pelted the tire wells like a salvo of BB’s.
“Damn it’s dark,” she said, easing her foot off the accelerator and fumbling with the bright beam switch. My odometer of concern rose when Patsy drove into a plowed field. Planting my feet on the floor mat, I braced myself with hands on the dash. Patsy abruptly stopped, cut the engine, and swiveled her seat backwards. In a raspy drawl she announced, “We’re here, y’all.”
As far as I could see, there were parked cars. Beyond the dirt bowl we’d parked in, floodlights illuminated a modest-sized ranch house and a prairie barn. The girls spilled out of the back
I slipped my feet out of my sandals and rested them on the dash. Preferring not to look at the landscape that flew past my window, I asked Patsy, “What does Nash have that is so attractive to Katie Lee?”
“If I knew, I’d bottle and sell it. All I see is a bowl of messed up.”
“So you don’t have any insight?”
Patsy fumbled with the cellophane on a pack of cigarettes and handed it to me to open. “Hell no. And it’s no use talking to her. She listens. Tells me I’m right, then goes back to him every time. Mostly I’m able to ignore the butthead, but I’d be lying if I told you his relationship resiliency with her didn’t grate on me.”
“How long has Nash been trying to get arrested?”
Above the girl chatter, Patsy told me, “Since he learned to walk. Katie Lee is one of my best friends, and she’s great until Nash appears. He casts a spell of stupid over her that eradicates sensibility. If I hadn’t known her since grade school, I’d have disowned her by now for dating him.”
Someone passed us two open wine coolers. “Will she ever get tired of him?”
“Once he lands in Craven Correctional. Maybe then she’ll meet someone else.”
An arm reached between Patsy and me, pushing a Joe Walsh cassette in the tape deck. Patsy cranked the volume and the girls began singing, “ My Maserati does one-eighty-five, I lost my license now I don’t drive .” Although my personal musical taste veered toward alternative punk, I knew better than to suggest another tape. The song added weight to Patsy’s gas foot and waking up tomorrow morning became a top priority of mine, so I silently said a little prayer:
PLEASE LORD,
LET ME LIVE THROUGH THE NIGHT WITH THESE
CRAZY-ASS, SOUTHERN GIRLS
AMEN
We rode through the outskirts of New Bern on narrow roads without traffic lights or stop signs for Patsy to ignore. When someone in the van shouted, “Don’t miss the turn past old man Wright’s,” my chest constricted. What kind of party could be near old man Wright? Noticing Patsy’s empty BJ bottle, I determined someone should stay sober enough to lead police to where the body count would be, I didn’t drink in the van and couldn’t help but fixate on the worst-case scenario.
I imagined a police report in the local paper: Despite deep lacerations, bruises, and broken bones, Rachael O’Brien bravely led the search team through the kudzu-tangled tree line, down a steep slope into the mosquito-infested, stagnant swamp where Dr. Brown’s half-submerged cruiser van sank. The rescue team recovered the bodies of twelve unconscious girls, currently in intensive care at New Bern Medical.
The road tapered to a single lane. Patsy shouted above the music, “Where the hell is Wright’s place?” I stopped daydreaming and sincerely worried that we were lost in back country where there was a high probability of a Sasquatch sighting.
Patsy mumbled, “Shit,” and maneuvered a tight left. The reflection in my side mirror, cast a muted red glow over the hailstorm of pebbles and dirt clumps that pelted the tire wells like a salvo of BB’s.
“Damn it’s dark,” she said, easing her foot off the accelerator and fumbling with the bright beam switch. My odometer of concern rose when Patsy drove into a plowed field. Planting my feet on the floor mat, I braced myself with hands on the dash. Patsy abruptly stopped, cut the engine, and swiveled her seat backwards. In a raspy drawl she announced, “We’re here, y’all.”
As far as I could see, there were parked cars. Beyond the dirt bowl we’d parked in, floodlights illuminated a modest-sized ranch house and a prairie barn. The girls spilled out of the back
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