Page 32 of Chasing Stardust

“You’ll see.”

Her voice surrounds me like a hug, and I close my eyes, imagining her bony arms wrapping around me. “What about Jeanie?”

“Don’t worry about Jeanie. She’s so high, come tomorrow she’ll think she dreamed the whole thing.” She barks out a laugh. “And don’t worry about the car, either. The Betty will be fine. Trust me, I’ve run over worse things than a damn armadillo.”

I don’t even want to know.

After promising to call her as soon as I charge my phone, and to text her from Dash’s phone before setting one foot inside his car, we say our goodbyes. The instant I hang up, Dash is out of his seat and heading my way.

“What did she say?” He adjusts his glasses and gazes down at me.

“If I take a picture of you beside your car with the plate visible and text it to her from your phone, you probably won’t kill me.”

He nods, a mask of cool indifference on his flawless face. “That’s a fair assessment. It would completely ruin my alibi. I’d be an idiot to kill you after that.”

“Right.” I listen for my gut to send me some sort of sign. Other than a sharp twinge in my bladder, the only message I’m getting is that Dash is really hot up close.

“So we’re doing this?” he asks.

I nod, and his whole face lights up.

Unbelievably hot up close.

Still grinning ear to ear, he walks backward toward the counter. “I’ll order us burgers for the road—extra onion, right?”

“Yeah, but I don’t have—”

“You can Venmo me after you charge your phone.”

“Oh, um, Dash?” I wrap a finger around a loose string dangling from the bottom of my shorts, gripping it for dear life.

“Yeah?”

“If you were a crayon, what color would you be?”

His brow furrows and he cocks his head, but his smile stays in place. “What a strange thing to ask.”

I hold my breath, eagerly awaiting his reply.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Way too many colors to choose from.”

“Right.” I exhale, twisting the string into a knot before releasing it. “So many colors.”

While Dash orders food I can’t afford, I duck into the deserted ladies’ room to put on G-Lo’s anti-rape underwear.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

After relieving my bladder for what could be the last time in who knows how long, I fish the striped undies from my hoodie pocket and give them a few vigorous shakes in the tiny stall, cracking them like a whip the way Mom always did before pulling on new pantyhose. Then, with my bare feet resting on top of my shoes to avoid the puddle of what I hope isn’t pee surrounding the base of the toilet like a moat, I begin the weirdest game of solo Twister ever played. I step into the first snug leg hole, then shift my weight and shove my other foot through the second hole before tugging the garment from my shins to my knees.

“Damn, these are tight,” I mutter. At least one size too small. Maybe two.

Gripping the waistband until my knuckles whiten, I drag the European knickers over my knees, huffing and grunting while wriggling them up my thighs. Almost there. Just a few more inches. Damn it.

Shimmying down a freaking drainpipe naked would’ve been a hell of a lot easier.

A loud flush from the next stall echoes through the small restroom.

Then someone clears their throat. “Excuse me?”