When I’m only a few yards from the door, I stop and throw the car into park. It only took about six and a half hours to get this hunk of metal from the iron gate to here, so I’m feeling pretty good about myself. After grabbing my chocolate-brown corduroy jacket from the seat, I kill the engine and step out. I’ve put zero thought into how I’ll recognize this girl, or what I’m going to say when I meet her, but I’m a master at winging it, so whatev.
Walking toward the entryway, I square my shoulders and run a hand through my hair. It’s showtime.
I put a little swag in my step—and stop when the front door flies open.
A girl my age bursts into view and rushes down the sidewalk. We’re more than twenty feet apart, but I can see her clearly. She’s got long black hair and fair skin. Her body is fuller than Charlie’s, and she’s taller, too. There’s an alarming gracefulness in the way she moves. Like a serpent, I think.
She dressed in a long black coat, yellow leggings, and black ankle boots—a fashionista with a touch of Goth. A man appears in the doorway, and when she turns and flips him the bird, I notice her hands are covered with black fingerless gloves.
“Get back here,” the man yells. “Aspen, this is the last time. I swear to God, this is it.”
The girl, Aspen, throws her head back and laughs. Then she turns and rushes toward the driveway. When she finally notices me, her wild green eyes spark like they’re lit from within. She stops, looks me up and down. Then she glances over my shoulder.
“That your…car?” she says, punching the last word with what sounds like repulsion.
“Sure is,” I say without missing a beat. “Want to get out of here?”
Aspen glares back at the man, who I decide must be her father, and cocks her head toward the Kia. “I’m driving.”
I toss her the keys and climb in the passenger seat. Then I grab hold of the oh-shit bar and hang on as she screeches away from the house. Glancing over at Aspen driving my car like she’s in a freaking video game, I decide “winging it” still works. And that maybe I should write a book for all those uptight managers with their pocket planners and pinched assholes. “Where we going?” I ask.
Aspen digs a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket. She lights one and searches for the button to roll down the window.
“It’s manual,” I tell her.
She jerks the cigarette out of her mouth. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Means you have to crank it with that handle. Are you serious?”
Aspen spins the lever in a circle until the window inches down. Then she looks at me. “Who are you? What were you doing outside my house?”
My mind spins. I’m not prepared for these questions, but it’s cool, ’cause I got an answer that always works. Cocking my head, I give her my best sexy eyes, complete with a lazy half-smile. “Do you care?”
Her eyes run over my face, my body. She shrugs. “Not really.”
I expect her to swoon, to get all girly on me. Not that I’m trying to go down that road. I would never do that to Charlie. Ever. But it’s just my look usually garners a certain reaction. And Aspen, the way she said “not really” was more like she doesn’t care about anything.
A few minutes later, we pull up to what seems like an apartment building, but it looks too nice for that, so I decide maybe they’re condos. The walls are made entirely of uninterrupted glass, and the building is about ten stories high. Aspen parks and gets out of the car, tipping her head for me to follow. When she does, I notice there’s a small diamond stud in her nose. Classy.
We walk through a long hallway, mirrors and crystal-covered light fixtures sprinkled throughout. When we step into an elevator, Aspen pushes the button for the ninth floor. Then she looks at me, cigarette smoke swirling around her black hair in a halo. “Tenth floor is reserved for corporate pricks.”
I’m not sure why she felt the need to explain this, but I just nod. Then I try the look again.
Nothing.
As the elevator creeps upward, she glances at me with passive interest. “What’s your name? And this time, why don’t you try answering instead of giving that stupid” —she waves her hand near my face— “look.”
I nearly gasp. No girl has ever called me on my crap before. I’m a little thrown off, but recover quickly. If she wants to play this nothing-fazes-me game, I’ll be her huckleberry. Because no one can pull indifferent like I can.
Opening my palm, I flick my fingers toward her. “Cigarette.”
She raises an eyebrow but retrieves her pack and gives me one. I light my cig with her lit one and blow the first delightful lungful of smoke up over my head. Sticking my hand out, I say, “Dante Walker.”
Aspen eyes my hand, then shakes it. “Nice jacket,” she says as the elevator doors finally slide open. “Armani?”
“Naturally.” I take a drag. “How old are you?”
“What’s it to you?”
“It’s not.”
She steps out of the elevator, letting her eyes run over the rest of my outfit, which costs enough to save the penguins. For the first time, her mouth quirks upward. “I’m seventeen, Dante.”
Following behind Aspen, I decide she definitely doesn’t seem important. I also find myself wondering why I’m always sent to collect girls who are seventeen. Can’t someone mix it up? Assign me to a granny or a kid? I also wonder why Aspen’s adopted me so quickly. But as a personal policy, I try not to question when a good thing lands in my lap, so I just seal my mouth shut and keep up.
Aspen raps once on door 917 and lets herself in. The condo is made of light: bright stone floors, cream-colored walls, white furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows along the back wall, and in the corner, sits the one of the most emo-looking kids I’ve ever seen.
My assignment clicks across the stone floors in her high-heeled boots and plops down on a white leather couch. The guy in the corner watches every move I make, which isn’t hard. I mostly stand near the sprawling kitchen and try to look casual.
Aspen flips her wrist back and forth between me and the guy. “Lincoln, this is Dante. Dante, Lincoln.”
Emo kid Lincoln rises from his chair like a panther and crosses the room. He gets right up in my face and looks at me with one open eye. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I’m going to know if you’re lying.”
“Calm down, Lincoln,” Aspen says, even though she hasn’t moved and sounds unconcerned.
Lincoln steps closer, and the copper rings in his eyebrow twitch. “Can I trust you?”
I laugh because I don’t know what else to do. “Yeah, man. You can trust me.”
“Liar!” Lincoln yells. “He’s lying.”
“Lincoln,” Aspen barks, her voice raised. “He’s with me. He’s cool.”
The guy pushes his greasy black hair behind his ears. Then he looks down, his eyes still wide and crazy. “Sorry, dude,” he says when his head pops back up. “Gotta be careful.” His camo jacket swooshes as he makes his way back to his chair.
I raise an eyebrow at Aspen.
“His dad is up there in the government.” She holds her cigarette above her head, and I notice her nails are painted yellow. “No one knows what he does exactly, but he’s, like, in defense or something. The guy’s never here, and Lincoln’s sister and mom live in South Dakota. So we get this pad to ourselves mostly.”
I glance at Lincoln, who’s staring out the window like he’s looking for a sniper. The back of one of his hands is covered with a tattoo that spells out “jackrabbit”—whatever that means—and he’s got more ink peeking out from the front of his shirt, almost like it’s trying to crawl up his neck.