Page 34 of Detour

What feels like only a short time later there’s knocking. Or tapping. No, definitely knocking. Incessant knocking. Knocking I wish would go away. Instead it grows louder. More demanding.

I peel my eyes open to realize the sound is coming from my door.

Thinking it’s Coty again, I throw it open only to find the space empty.

Maybe it was a dream?

Footsteps on the stairs catch my less-than-alert attention and I croak out, “Hello?”

The footsteps halt.

I hesitate, listening, but nothing happens. With my heartbeat in my ears, nearly blocking out all other sound, I shut my door, locking the deadbolt. If it was Coty, he would’ve said something, anything, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have been going down the stairs at—I glance at the clock—one o’clock in the morning. None of the guys next door would’ve.

I grab my phone, twisting it between my hands. Who could I even call? I don’t want to wake Drew. By the time he’d drive over here, the person could be gone—hopefully. And I don’t have the neighbors’ numbers. Shit. I’m seriously rethinking not having a social media account right now. Don’t those have alerts like texts do?

Over at the window, I look outside, hoping to catch whoever it was coming out of the stairwell. When nobody emerges, I check around the parking lot. Living in apartments though, there’s no telling which cars belong and which ones don’t. Just as I’m about to look away I see taillights pulling out of the entrance. I can’t tell the make and model from here but one thing’s for sure, it’s a truck.

CHAPTER 15

Angela

“H ey, neighbor girl,” Beckett singsongs from their back balcony. “Have fun at school today. Make sure you learn something new.” He laughs when I flip him off without even turning to face him.

I continue walking all the while ignoring their commentary like I’ve done every other day this week they’ve done this. Ever since falling asleep on their couch, there’s been a companionable understanding between us. It’s been friendly, pleasant even, and they’ve chosen to celebrate our newfound friendship with an embarrassing send-off each morning.

Although I’d never admit it, I look forward to our new routine. The boys have such a laidback dynamic that it’s easy to get swept up in their easy ways. Plus, they make me laugh which is always a bonus, even if most of Beckett’s jokes are dirty.

Peeking up at them, I notice he has one of his signature bike shirts that offers up a double entendre, this one saying Put The Fun Between Your Legs. He’s donning work pants and a backward Seahawks hat. He’s adorable. And mischievous. Always mischievous, that one. He’s leaning his forearms over the railing, looking over at the school entrance. He’s just as protective as Coty, I’ve noticed, but is more selective as to when he lets it show. He has more restraint. When he’s not drunk anyway.

Coty, however, has the subtlety of a caveman banging his club over your head. I watch his eyes scour the other students before landing back on me. I smile shyly at being caught watching him. He knows the effect he has though and smiles back brightly. He’s wearing a crisp, white button up shirt today with the sleeves rolled up. His hair is styled like he gave it the old college try but then said ‘screw it’ making it look naturally mussed. He’s leaning back in one of the patio chairs with his ankles crossed on the table. His slightly distressed jeans counteract the nice shirt just enough to give him a bad-boy-who-also-means-business look. That man is yummy on a bad day and today he’s downright delectable.

I trip over my own foot, producing a round of laughter from above.

A pajama bottom clad Marc silently watches the whole thing but joins in when I stick my middle finger higher for the whole group. My bratty attitude only intensifies their amusement.

After saying our goodbyes, I study my shoes as they clap across the pavement the rest of the way. The entire student body is busy thrusting their yearbooks in people’s faces in hopes of getting some profound accolade they assume someone’s been thinking about them but never shared due to lack of opportunity. Eye. Roll. I skipped out on that tradition along with the class ring. I enjoy the freedom to buy things for myself but normally only out of necessity. My two exceptions to this rule being sneakers and sugary treats.

Ever since freshman year when some asshole pointed out I had holes in my shoes, I’ve made it a point to never get caught in ragged footwear again. They’d been my only pair of shoes for two years in a row—even after my feet had outgrown them by a size and a half. I used a toothbrush with bleach on them every night to give the illusion they were new despite them causing painful cramps and blisters daily. When my toes finally cut through the tops, having nowhere else to go, there was no way for me to cover what they were any longer. It was humiliating to have it pointed out by another person though. It’s one thing if it’s something out of my control but I tried really hard to make the best out of that particular situation.

My mother refused to take me shopping for school clothes, blaming my old ones not fitting anymore on me by saying I was “getting fat thanks to my nonstop eating.” A teenage girl going through puberty with a below average appetite from stress and lack of food available? What an inconvenience I must’ve been.

As for the sweets, well, that’s obvious—they’re delicious. I would spend my last dollar on a cupcake liner full of sugar topped with frosting. That’s just good sense.

* * *

It’s not until I park next to Joe’s F-250 later that I realize I forgot to grab a hat for work. Great.

I hop out, quickly clocking in. Joe stops me on my way to the dryer though and asks me to stay late to wash the bay windows. Groaning inwardly, I agree. Washing the windows is a bitch. It’s done after hours, meaning you don’t earn any tips, and takes forever. The employees take turns doing it each night. I haven’t had to for a while so it’s not that surprising, but I still don’t like it. Especially since that puts me here alone with Joe. I shiver at that thought.

Just as a tiny hatchback rolls through, I hear Joe call my name over the dryers. A thumb over his shoulder, he shouts, “someone’s asking for you out back,” then takes over for me.

It’s unusual for somebody to request me specifically but Drew’s done it before when he’s stopped by randomly. Which is why I’m even more surprised to find Beckett’s large Tahoe idling on the track.

I smile as I grab the spray gun, starting at the front grill. It’s not that dirty so I quickly hose it down then move up to wet the windshield. That’s when I realize it’s not Beckett looking back at me, it’s Coty. And he looks like the Cheshire Cat as soon as I notice him. Fighting a smile, I continue spraying, moving around to the passenger side as I go. I round to the back, soaking the entire SUV then reach over to activate the track. By the time the rollers make it to the tires, I’ve already hosed down the side, and am finishing up at the front fender.

I place the spray wand back in its holder but when I twist back around, I almost collide with the now open driver’s door. Before I can jump back, Coty darts his arms out, yanking me inside by my waist. I awkwardly land on his lap with an oomph. He closes the door just as the Tahoe begins rolling forward on the belt.

A look behind us reveals nobody’s waiting to be helped. Thankfully.