Page 2 of Drive Me Wilde

"Shouldn't someone check on Jameson?" I ask.

Another sound from Norton. This time it's a derisive snort. I glance down at the open first aid box. Without a second thought, I snatch a package of gauze and run out of the hotel. How badly I'm missing my sneakers right now. I'm sure Jameson is gone, but I find him sitting in his truck. His head is leaned back against the seat, and his eyes are closed.

The rain has slowed some, and a breeze has kicked up to drop the temperature. I tap lightly on the window. Jameson lifts his head and looks at me as if I'm some sort of hallucination. I lift the roll of gauze. He lowers the window and takes the gauze from my fingers. His fingers are warm as they touch mine. The blood still drips off his chin. He pushes the gauze against his swollen lip. He looks at me but doesn't say a word. I turn and run toward the building without looking back.

one

. . .

Indi

"Rain. Why so much rain?" Drops of water roll down my face and across my lips, leaving the bitter taste of sunblock on my tongue. Water carries an empty bag of potato chips and smashed paper cup along the gutter at raging river speed. A man's glossy white smile and half a phone number are the only parts of an advertisement clinging to the splintery bus stop bench. It's too wet to sit on.

"Makes ya nostalgic for the drought, don't it?" The woman is holding an umbrella covered in pink peonies, but nothing about her says flowers. Her hair is black like licorice, and it's cut in abrupt, jagged layers. The pack on her shoulders looks heavy and tattered. Jack Skellington's massive, haunting gaze stares at me from beneath the panels of a faded flannel shirt. The woman's hint of a smile seems to be saying "I don't give a damn what anyone thinks. I'm me. Deal with it." I envied those people in high school, the kind who would show up on Halloween in a bright orange jack-o'-lantern costume and proudly strut past the snickers and jokes, happy to be a pumpkin and not caring what anyone else thought.

The woman moves closer. The three moles on her neck turn out to be tiny star tattoos. Seconds later we're sharing the umbrella.

"Thanks. I guess I should have thought to bring an umbrella." I say it airily as if I just left my house hastily and forgot the umbrella. That couldn't be further from the truth. The olive-green duffle hanging from my cold fingers holds everything I own. After watching my purse get repossessed with the car, I rummaged through my jean pockets and found a twenty-dollar bill and box of Tic Tacs. It was all I had left from my big Los Angeles career.

The cold rain makes me shiver. It triggers the ache in my bruised ribs, a pain that reminds me just how screwed up things got.

"Are you from here? From the valley?" she asks.

Small talk and polite conversation weren't on my agenda this morning, but the woman is nice enough to give me some shelter under her umbrella, so I smile and shake my head. "No, I'm from up north, way up north, where—" I peer up toward the dark sky. "Where it rains all the time. Hence, making my lack of umbrella unforgivable."

I like her laugh. It's genuine.

"I'm from the middle of nowhere, literally, well, almost literally. There's a diner and a gas station and an army surplus store, but that's about it." Her dark purple lipstick doesn't take away from her easy-going smile. "I'm Sunshine. And that, in a nutshell, tells you all you need to know about my mom. She told me she'd been dwelling in darkness, but my arrival brought her a ray of sunshine." She looks pointedly down at her black Doc Martins. "I think that's why I dress like this. Imagine going through your whole life with the name Sunshine."

I stick out my hand to shake hers. Her nails are the same plum color as her lips. "How do you do, Sunshine? I'm Indiana."

Her purple lips part as she waits for me to laugh at my own joke. But it isn't a joke.

"You're shittin' me. Did you say Indiana? Like the state?"

"Yep, only it's not because of the state. At the time, my mom had a thing for Harrison Ford. Call me Indi … please."

"Only if you call me Sunni. I've met a lot of people in my travels, but you're my first Indiana." Her gaze lifts to look past me. "Here's my bus. Which way are you heading?"

I never asked myself that question. Probably because the answer is pathetic. I have no idea where I'm going. All I know is that I have to get as far away from my toxic life in Los Angeles as the public transport system will allow. My lack of an answer makes her nod.

"Been there. Done that. You should hop on this bus. It'll at least give you a break from the rain. I've got a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my pack that I'm happy to share." Her smile fades. "If you don't mind me saying—you look like you could use a peanut butter and jelly."

They are the first kind words I've heard in nearly a week. My throat tightens. "Peanut butter and jelly sounds like heaven. But really, you don't need to share."

"Oh, please." She waves her hands in front of her. "Did you see these massive thighs? My jeans will thank you."

Wet diesel fumes drag through the air as the bus brakes release a high-pitched squeal. The door hisses open. Sunni grabs the straps of her heavy pack as she motions toward the bus with her head. My soaked shoes feel heavy, and my toes swim in wet socks as I follow behind her.

The bus smells like a mix of wet clothes, asphalt and something else I can't put my finger on, but my first guess would be salami. An elderly woman has a ripped open plastic grocery bag covering her white hair. Her canvas shopping bags are blocking the aisle, which earns her a scolding from the busdriver. Two teen boys are sitting side by side, both moving to entirely different beats from their earbuds. A woman with a toddler sleeping in her lap rounds out the bus group.

Sunni stops in the aisle. "Go past. I don't like to sit near the window. I want to be surprised by my next destination."

I laugh. "I guess there's a certain logic to that." I hold my duffle in front of me and slip past her to the next row of seats. I sidle in and plop down, pulling my wet bag into my lap.

Sunni sits down with a grunt. "Great, not even thirty-five and I sound like my Uncle Walter whenever he sits on the living room couch." She rests her massive pack against the seat in front of her. I wait, expecting her to spend the next ten minutes rummaging through it for the sandwich, but she deftly unzips one of the smaller pouches and pulls out the sandwich and some hand wipes. She holds the sandwich up, turning it back and forth, like a car on display in the showroom. "Not even squished. At school, I can remember pulling a sandwich out of my backpack and finding it paper thin with all the peanut butter and jelly squished out the sides."

The doors hiss shut, and the odors on the bus grow instantly stronger. The windows rattle as the bus peels away from the curbside.

---