Page 42 of Chasing Stardust

“They’re not bone cutters.” Dash rolls his eyes. “They’re bolt cutters.”

“But—”

“I’m on a cross-country road trip. I have flares and a flat tire kit, too. Does that make me a serial killer?”

My voice refuses to cooperate so I shake my head.

“Take these.” He extends the long handles toward me, and motions toward the back of the car. “I’ll be over there . . . if you need me.”

I snatch the tool from his fingers. “I won’t.”

Once Dash turns his back, I tuck the heavy cutters under my arm and fumble with my shorts. My trembling fingers can barely get the button through the hole to unzip. After peeling back the denim like a ripe banana, I grip the tool in both hands and bring the cutting end toward the edge of the death-trap undies. But either the handles are too long or my arms are too short, because I can’t quite master the angles.

“How’s it going over there?” Dash calls over his shoulder.

“Fine!” Another tingling ripple runs through me.

“Once you cut yourself free, you can use an empty soda cup—”

“Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate.” I rise onto my toes, hoping the action will somehow make me taller, or make my arms longer, or anything that will get the freaking mouth of the tool into my waistband. It doesn’t. And I can’t. Tears spill over my lashes and down my cheeks. “I-I can’t do it.”

“Need my help?”

I let out a defeated whimper. “Hurry!”

Dash’s eyes soften, but he eases toward me as if approaching a live grenade. His hands are no steadier than mine as he takes the tool from my trembling fingers.

Keeping his gaze locked on mine, he brings the bolt cutters closer. “I’m only gonna cut enough so you can get these off, okay?”

I nod, mentally preparing myself to strip out of my shorts the instant he cuts me free.

“Okay, here goes.” Dash opens the jaws wide and gently slides them into position.

The instant the cold metal touches my hot skin, I release a hard shudder. Then just as the cutter’s teeth bite through my steel-lined waistband, everything inside me lets go. Sweet relief rushes through me like a river breaking through a dam, and no amount of clenching will stop the flow.

The sound of running water echoes through the parking garage, and Dash’s eyes widen with horror.

“Shit!” He dances out of the way of the stream, climbing halfway onto the hood. “That’s a lot of pee!”

“It’s not my fault,” I cry. “I tried to hold it. Honest, I did. It was all that Coke!”

Dash bursts out laughing, cackling so hard he can’t catch his breath. Every time he gets himself under control, he crumbles into another laughing fit.

“Don’t feel bad, Zoey,” he wheezes. “I heard Bowie had a pretty bad coke problem once upon a time, too.”

12

Where Are We Now?

After what has to be the longest stretch of awkward silence in my entire life, Dash hands me an open packet of wet wipes and a pair of Superman boxer-briefs. “Here. You, uh, might need these.”

Darting my eyes from the crisp new royal-blue underwear to Dash’s red face, I grin. It’s as if someone threw me a life raft in the middle of my ocean of shame. I know I should keep my mouth shut, hope he forgets what he witnessed not minutes ago, but the part of me desperate to wash away the sting of humiliation can’t help herself.

“Don’t say it.” His voice echoes through the parking garage as he pins me with one of his stony stares. “They were a graduation gift from my little sisters. They picked them out themselves, so I wasn’t about to refuse them.”

“I didn’t say anything . . . Clark.” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. I’m obviously not the only one to make the connection.

A dark chuckle rolls out of him like distant thunder. “After what you just . . . you know what? I’m not going there. My mother raised me to be a gentleman, so I’ll let you have this round.”