Page 110 of Dirty Roulette
My hands coil into tight fists. “I hate him so much.”
“They say after forty-eight hours, the likelihood of finding a missing person drops dramatically. Over two hundred and fifty people go missing in this state alone every day. They aren’t looking for her... It’s almost been a month, and I’m bracing myself for the cops to tell me she’s dead.”
I lean over and grasp one of his hands. His fingers are rough as I squeeze it. “We will find her.”
“I hate myself.” He runs his teeth over his bottom lip. “I wished her dead, and now she’s gone.”
Ryder ignites the engine, and he pulls out of the parking lot. The five-minute drive to the fraternity dragged as we both fell back into silence. My head races a mile a minute, trying to plot out how the hell I can take that bastard down.
Chapter forty-two
Payton
It’s 11:38. I’ve sat here for two hours and stared at the radiant orange numbers on the electric dashboard. Ryder fell asleep, but I couldn’t, so I hopped in his Jeep. I lean back into the driver’s seat and pound my head with a flat palm for being a stupid girl.So freaking stupid. Stupid for playing Dirty Roulette, stupid for allowing Charlie to walk away with Brody, and stupid for feeling anything at all.
I punch the glove box so the door flops open and an orange light pops on. I dig through my music and find Ryder’s secret pot stash and those cheap dollar lighters from the gas station. The lighter flicks and I ignite a joints and shrink into the seat. Out of all the places I could’ve gone, I came here. I parked at the 7-Eleven like it’s going to change a damn thing.
I painted out the different tales inside my brain about how this might go. I want a clean slate without all the dents, but that thought is heavier than the emptiness clinging onto my shoulders. Noah’s demo blasts on the stereo and I lean out the open window. The air is crisp.
I inhale another hit, holding in the smoke until my lungs incinerate within me. I pull down the visor and look into the tiny mirror. My makeup is caking, and my mascara is smeared from sweating.
Mr. Clorox is right on time, his rolls wiggle out of his car. He wobbles to the front door, stumbling in. I grant him a couple of minutes, seeing him through the tinted windows licking his fingers and counting money.
When cars clear out, I make a break for it. I’m not the hot chick flashing him tonight – instead I’m the bad bitch who’s going to jump over that counter and ring his neck.
When the bell dings over my head, and the air conditioner blasts my face, I choke up. I’m met with a rancid cat piss smell, his greasy hair, and the biggest white-head in existence staring from the dead center of his forehead ready to explode like a volcano. We meet each other’s gaze. His tongue runs over his upper lip like he’s expecting my tits to plop out of my shirt.
My lungs clog up, and I mosey down the aisles, looking at all the overpriced snacks and random gadgets people need at the last minute. Then I stop at the condom section staring at the boxes of the damn rubbers and all the crazy selections to choose from.
After spending ten minutes reading all the weird things about condoms being ultra-thin and made of latex, I snatch a box. The voice in my head telling me I’ll need it.
I get in a long ass line of people grabbing late-night booze and snacks to quench the hunger of their bad addictions. An old lady spent the entire dinosaur age counting out five dollars’ worth of crusty pennies from her purse and after 165 million years, the line finally moves forward one step.
I look like an idiotic shoplifter trying to cover the condom box with my sleeve. I’m not even trying to rob the store. But there’s nogood way to hide the rubbers of the devil. Fuck it, I’m guilty. It feels unnatural to hold the golden box, knowing exactly what I’m buying them for. I pin the front of the box to my chest, trying to figure out what side of the box to hide, either the name Trojan Ultra Ribbed or the diagram of the condom on the back.
The store is practically empty, except for an old man in front of me struggling to enter his pin on the credit card machine. He mouths his thanks, and Mr. Clorox hands him his shopping bags and receipt. I stand at the register, numb to the core. I’m seconds away from a panic attack riddled with hyperventilating. The box plops out of my fingers and onto the counter. It dawns on me that it’s my only item.
Mr. Clorox seems uninterested as he scans the box of condoms, but I swear my skin melts right off my bones. He doesn’t remember my face, and it’s evident.
“That will be nine fifty-nine.” He rubs his right eye and stares at me like I’m the worst person on this planet for entering the store. I take one last glance around, ensuring a little privacy, before slipping him some money.When he hands me the receipt and bag, it finally slips out of my mouth.
“What the hell does Brody have on you?”
He shakes his head and cocks a brow. A fire sizzles in his eyes as if I should have severed my tongue off.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“My friend Charlie is missing.” I paw my cell out of my back pocket, unlock it and find the most recent picture I have saved before thrusting the screen into his face.
“Oh, I remember now...” His tongue pokes into his cheeks. “Some guy came in here pissed off that y'all stole some booze.” He leans his fat fingers on the counter.
“She’s missing...”
“I’m not sure how I can help you.” He turns around, grabbing a brown box filled with a different assortment of chips. I follow him as he walks down one of the aisles to restock.
“You let girls flash you for booze. Why the hell do you let us do that? We play the game and it ruins us.”
“You sound like that fucker who came in here trying to beat the shit out of me!”
