Alive.
As the sun appears from behind the mountains, Aspen throws her arm around my shoulders like we’ve been friends for as long as the sun has risen. “If you could have anything, Dante, anything at all, what would it be?” she slurs.
Even with my thoughts muddled by alcohol, my answer comes out clear and quick. “Her. I want Charlie.”
13 
Field Trip
For the next two days, I stay in Aspen’s fog, trying hard not think about the girl I miss in Alabama. On a few occasions, I encourage Aspen to spend more time with Sahara, thinking maybe her baby sister will do my job for me.
It doesn’t work.
Instead, I spiral further away from the man Charlie had somehow pulled out of me and lose myself in my old lifestyle. Somewhere in the back of my head, I know I’m a liberator. That I only survive because of the dargon around my ankle. I wonder at times how much longer Big Guy will let me slip by. I’ve heard he’s a vengeful leader, so it can’t be long.
I wake up on my fourth day in Denver to someone pounding on my door. I imagine it must be Man Hands returning, and that maybe I was loud again last night. My throbbing head tells me that if I was, I wouldn’t remember it.
Pulling open the door, I find Aspen dressed all in black except for hot-pink fingerless gloves. She flashes by me, and as she does, she admires my tats—the dragon spread over my back and the tree growing up my arm and branching over my shoulder. Other than that, she gives my half-dressed torso the same attention she’d give a number-two pencil.
She studies the room and then caves into herself like maybe she’s just discovered where all forms of influenza come from. “Thought you said your dad had a condo.”
Did I say that? I can’t remember if I did. Thinking fast, I decide to play the sympathy card. I cast my eyes toward the floor and turn away. “Asshole’s been gone awhile.”
Aspen looks at the furniture around her, which I’ve put in some semblance of order again. “Parents can be pricks, huh?”
I nod, thinking the less I say, the better. Though I would like to ask how she knew where to find me.
“Get dressed.” Her mouth pulls into a smile. “We’re going on a field trip.”
“I’d rather stick my head in a meat grinder,” I respond. But in actuality, I’ll go wherever she goes.
Because she’s my assignment.
Because I fucking hate being alone.
“How’d you get here?” I ask.
“We have these magic yellow cars in Denver that take you places for cash.” Aspen starts throwing my things into an overnight bag, wrinkling her nose—and her nose ring—at some of my fashion choices, which I find highly insulting.
“That shirt you’re so disgusted by cost a hundred dollars,” I tell her.
“No wonder it looks like crap,” she says. My jaw drops, because I’m not used to this. I’m the rich one. I’m the one with nice crap everyone wants to have. But not around her, I guess. Aspen is like me if I drank a steroid-crack milkshake each morning. “Terrible clothes or not, we’re getting out of town. I need a break from this place.” She glances at me from the corner of her eye like she’s anticipating a rebuttal. “You’re the one who said you don’t have anywhere else to be.”
Ten minutes later, Aspen is driving my pimp car out of Denver like there’s an F5 tornado on our heels. And a half hour after that—so she says, I was crashed out—we pull into a town that belongs on a postcard. That is, if the postcard had yellowed thirty years. It’s like all the tightly lined shops and paved roads used to be a sight to behold, but now it’s a place people say “will come back around.”
Aspen turns onto a dirt road and slices a path between the fir trees. It’s only then do I think to ask where we’re headed. For the last few days, I’ve followed Aspen blindly. I used to be the one people followed. But like many others, I’ve been trapped by Aspen’s web, allowing myself to be drained by her needs.
“Where we headed?” I ask. “And why didn’t Lincoln come?”
“This is my family’s place.” Aspen all but spits the word family. “Lincoln said he’d stay behind with Sahara. Someone’s got to watch her while Dad’s off doing whatever.”
I glance at Aspen, watching as her knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. “Lincoln is good to you. Have you guys ever gotten dirty?”
Aspen laughs. “Lincoln? No. We’ve been friends since we were kids. Been through war together. Literally if you’re asking him.”
“He is pretty skittish,” I say. “Bet that military father of his loves Lincoln’s piercings.”
Aspen doesn’t say anything, just shakes her head.
I drop the subject and dig my cell out of my back pocket. It hasn’t vibrated since we left, so I know there won’t be anything from Charlie. Still, I’m dying to talk to her, even if our conversations have become increasingly strained. For the record, if Salem and Easton would stop talking her into doing stupid crap, we’d be fine.
My face warms when I see there are nine missed calls, and four voicemails, from her.
“What’s wrong?” Aspen asks.
“My girl has called, like, a million times.” I can’t help the grin splitting my mouth. She called. She called a lot. And my damn ringer was off. I tell myself everything is fine with our relationship, otherwise she wouldn’t have called that many times, even if it was at like two in the morning. Like always, I contemplate whether something bad happened, but realize if that were the case, someone other than her probably would’ve called. And I’m trying to trust her more.
As Aspen pulls up to a snow-laden cabin that must have been built for Zeus, I try retrieving my voicemails. The reception is crap, though, and her messages are too broken to understand. I reach into my back pocket to get the horn my father gave me and grip it in my palm. But I don’t get a good read on where Charlie is. It’s almost like I’m only feeling my own horn here in Colorado. Frustrated, I glance over at Aspen.
“Can you take me back into town?” I say. “I can’t get my voicemails.”
“Why don’t you calm down, D-Dub. I know you’re menstruating, but everything’s going to be fine. Once we get inside, I’ll explain all about maxi pads, personal hygiene, and the feel of a man’s penis.” Aspen grabs our bags from the trunk and heads toward double arched oak doors. The way she skitters up the stairs, it’s like she’s nervous about something, like she’s waiting for something big to happen.
I grit my teeth and crunch through the snow behind Aspen, knowing I’ll probably only make it another half hour before I forfeit the last of my manhood and go searching for a signal. Though I’m not sure why Aspen brought me here, I’m glad. Being away from Gage and Lyra and all the parties will help me focus on finishing this assignment. And if I’m being honest, this place is pretty kickass.
A wraparound porch hugs the two-story cabin, and the exterior is built to look like it was made from logs and mud alone.
More like slave labor and cold hard cash, but whatev.
The interior is more of the same: rustic-meets-rich-folk in the form of an antler chandelier, bearskin rug, dark leather sofas, and plaid chenille throws. Walking through the place, I spy six bedrooms and enough washrooms to bathe Snow White’s seven dirty-ass dwarves.
After my exploration, I sink down onto a couch and watch as Aspen lights a fire. My mind begins ticking away, thinking it’s now or never. I’ve enjoyed losing myself in this girl, but I know where my heart lies, and after seeing how many times Charlie called, I know I want nothing more than to get home to her. I decide my best chance is to be aggressive with Aspen. Maybe bring up Sahara. Ask what kind of example she thinks her little sister deserves.