Page 53 of Chasing Stardust

“Like I was saying,” Dash continues with cool restraint. “We broke down a few miles from here.”

Redneck Reverend Tom chuckles. “Ain’t that a bitch? Guessin’ you need a ride then?”

Dash turns to me, concern etched on his gorgeous face, and my racing heart stops cold before sputtering to life again.

“Your call,” Dash says, brushing a lock of hair from my face.

Instead of acting on the overwhelming urge to kiss him, I slide my gaze to the crappy old Chevy, every bone in my body rejecting the notion of climbing into the rolling death trap. “I don’t—”

A loud clap of thunder silences me seconds before the sky opens up, pelting us with fat raindrops.

Dash lets out a heavy breath. “We’d love a ride to town.”

“Well, all right! Hop in. I’m Paul, but everyone calls me Itchy.” As if demonstrating why, he drags his nails down his neck, leaving a trail of red stripes on his pale skin.

“I’m Dash, this is Zoey.” Dash pulls the seat forward and helps me climb into the back before folding his long legs into the front with my tote.

“Y’all ain’t from around here,” Itchy muses.

Dash laughs. “Just passing through.”

“Figured as much.” Itchy bobs his head a few times, sliding his gaze toward Dash as he pulls onto the pavement. “Hope y’all don’t mind, I need to make a quick stop.”

Dash straightens his spine and goes rigid in the seat in front of me.

My pulse jumps as Leatherface’s barn pops into my head, reminding me why hitchhiking landed in the top three on Jeanie’s What Not to Do list.

Dash shoots me a nervous glance. “Sure. Why not?”

A few miles down the road, Itchy takes a sharp right onto a narrow side street. With my stomach in my throat, the little hatchback bumps and shimmies around the winding road until loose gravel replaces rough pavement and we pull into a sketchy trailer park.

Rows of ancient mobile homes line either side of the narrow drive. The little car creeps along, passing several crumbling walkways, at least two rusted-out cars on concrete blocks, and a sad, abandoned tricycle. The steady rain has turned potholes into swimming pools, and I keep waiting for one of them to swallow the hatchback whole.

At the end of the first block, Itchy parks along the curb in front of a shiny white Jeep Wrangler and leaves the engine running. He reaches behind his seat and grabs a red pizza delivery bag before hopping out.

“Be right back.” He holds the vinyl pouch over his head like an umbrella and jogs up the driveway, but instead of going in through the front door, he disappears around the side.

Using a stray napkin from the floorboards, I wipe steam from the window and scope out the trailer. It doesn’t look much different from the others on the street. The moldy white siding could use some attention, but someone took time to mow and pull weeds from the sparse flower beds.

“That bag didn’t have a pizza in it, did it?” I ask.

Dash snorts as he pokes through the clutter in the center console. “No.”

“Didn’t think so. Maybe he’s dropping off insulin to his sick grandmother, or . . .” My voice hitches up an octave. “Picking up Girl Scout cookies?”

He glares out the window. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say drugs. Either picking up or dropping off.”

My pulse skyrockets. “I was afraid you’d say that. What are we going to do?”

He leans toward me, his warm breath washing over my lips. “Sit quietly, wait for Itchy to come back, and hope like hell he takes us to town.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. What’s the worst thing that could happen?

Other than the occasional dog barking and the angry wail of a baby in the distance, the neighborhood is deathly quiet. Then the deep, throaty growl of a motorcycle cuts through the silence. One motorcycle becomes two, and two becomes three. The roar grows louder and louder, making the windows in the little hatchback vibrate as a chrome army thunders toward us, engines snarling as they fan out in attack formation.

Dressed in collar-to-boot leather, with a massive beard almost as long as his flowing sandy-brown locks, and tattoos marking nearly every visible patch of skin, the clear leader of the pack climbs off his bike, his eyes alert as he approaches the trailer.

Oblivious to us sitting in the car, five similarly dressed men and one woman follow him through the front door. Almost instantly, angry shouting reverberates from inside the house.