Page 15 of Pocketful of You

"You have a sister –"

"Two."

"Well, funny thing is,Ihave a cousin and she just so happens to be –"

"One –"

"Hayden sent me! I'm her cousin, which makes me your cousin – well, in law…ish? No? Not feeling it? Okay then. Dear Jesus, don’t kill me!" I strangled out, hands flailing dramatically. "I'm too young to die! I wanna live, dammit. Please, man, I have oats to sow and medical miracles to perform."

He raised a brow. "You're a doctor?"

"Psychiatrist," I wheezed. "In-training." Coughing, I added, "Uh, you know, once I get my high school diploma and get into college – which, FYI, is a given considering I have a 4.5 GPA and, until the last month or so, perfect attendance."

"You're a strange one, aren’t you?" he mused, loosening his hold on my throat enough for me to breathe, but not escape. "You and Haydenmustbe related."

"Our mamas are sisters." Dragging in several deep breaths, I grinned and offered him a limp wave. "Which makesmeyour sister's strange and yet endearingly lovable, baby cousin." A nervous chuckle escaped me. "Ha-ha-ha…please don’t hurt me."

"Name."

"Quinton." I swallowed deeply, Adam's apple bobbing in my throat. "Quinton Presley."

"Louisiana?"

"Yes, sir," I said with a nod. "Pocketful, Louisiana. The heart of the south. Population –"

"Quinton?"

"That's me."

"Shut up."

"Okie-dokie."

"So," he mused, finally releasing me to spark up a cigarette. "What's a god-fearing, Southern boy such as yourself doing around my neck of the woods?" Leaning against the hood of Sketch's truck, he waved a box of Marlboro cigarettes in front of me. "You're a long way from home, cowboy."

"Yes, yes I am, and no thank you," I replied, as another nervous chuckle escaped me. "I value my lungs too much to put toxic…uh, never mind. Shutting up again."

"What do you want, Quinton?" he asked then, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Right. In. My. Freaking. Face.

"Mister," I spluttered, coughing. "Do you mind?"

Silence.

"Okaaay then." Smoothing the creases out of my shirt from countless hours of non-stop driving, I took a deep breath and came right out with it. "My boyfriend Chris was murdered,hisgirlfriend Romi was committed to a mental asylum by her creepy dad, and thenherboyfriend Sketch – who also happens to be Chris's twin – helped me break her out.Thenwe went on the run where we were freakingshot atby these big-ass dudes with guns. Guns! With actual bullets in them! Can you believe it? And then, both Romi and Sketch'sdadsshowed up at the motel we were staying in and all hell broke loose. And thenRomiall of a sudden decided that she 'remembered'where she hid our boyfriend's journal –" I rolled my eyes and used rabbit finger gestures for emphasis – "Like someone forgets that kind of thing –not." Huffing out a breath, I quickly continued, "So, picture this; we're at the motel in Texas, Romi and Sketch have just popped each other's cherries, and everyone's freaking the hell out. Their dads are cussing and throwing around threats. Sketch is puffing out his chest and snarling like the baby version of Simba trying to protect Nala from the hyenas inThe Lion Kingmovie. Romi's rambling like only Romi can, and Mrs. Capaldi's being her usual homophobic-bitch-self, soIuse that as my opportunity to sneak out of the motel and go get the journal when I hear this huge BANG!"

He arched a sardonic brow, looking mildly amused. "A hugebang?"

"That's right." I nodded, eyes wide. "And let me tell you that I did not wait around to check it out. No, sir. I've seen my fair share of horror movies and I ain't that brainless secondary character who runs back in the house. Hell to theno. So, I got in Sketch's truck – which Itechnicallydidn’t steal if you consider that we could have been in laws had his brother not been decimated from the earth – and I drove back to Pocketful, and would youlookiewhat I found –" Slipping around his huge frame, I quickly yanked the door of the truck open and retrieved the dirt-covered journal. "So, basically, to cut a long story short, I'm in some serious shit, mister, and I could really use your help." Panting from my verbal exertion, I exhaled heavily. "Oh, please and thank you."

"Well shit." Scratching his stubbly jaw, Lucky Casarazzi studied me for a long moment before putting his fingers to his lips and letting out a piercing whistle. "Yo, Noah? Get your ass over here and listen to this kid talk. He could give your wife a run for her money." He turned back to look at me, eyes dancing with amusement. "Hey, kid, you think you can you repeat all of that again for him?"

If it means you'll help me?

I grinned. "Absolutely."

7

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