Page 12 of Dotted Lines (Runaway 5)

“Maybe. You?”

“Maybe.” Maybe not.

Karson pulled a toothpick from the cup and rolled it between his fingers. The movement was mesmerizing, much like his face. He’d shaved today. The dark stubble that matched the color of his hair was gone from his cheeks and jaw. It made his lips seem softer. His smile wider.

I caught myself staring and tore my eyes away to focus on the cards. “Five-card draw? Or hold ’em?”

“Hold ’em.”

We used to have poker tournaments in this room, when the girls were here. “Do you miss them? Londyn and Gemma and Katherine.”

“Sure.” He counted toothpicks, handing me a handful of twenty. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do.” I didn’t miss seeing him kiss Londyn, but otherwise, yes.

They were my friends. Londyn was the reason we’d found the junkyard in the first place. We’d lived in the same trailer park and after she’d run away from her junkie parents, we’d tracked her down. A couple of the kids who’d worked with her at a pizza parlor had known that she’d been hanging out at the junkyard during the day, ditching school. Though they hadn’t known she’d been living here too.

“Do you think we’ll ever see them again?” I asked.

“Honestly? No.” He looked up and the gentle smile he gave me nearly broke my heart. “I mean, maybe someday. But I doubt it.”

“Even Londyn?” The question slipped out before I could swallow the words. I knew they’d broken up. Clean. As friends. But maybe he hoped to see her again one day. Maybe he’d continue on to Montana when our sixty-one days were up.

“Yeah. Londyn too.” Karson gave me another smile. One that made me want to scream. It wasn’t his playful smirk or his wide grin when he thought something was funny. It was the sweet smile, for a little sister.

Kill me now.

I dealt the cards and focused on the game, winning the first five hands in a row. When Karson was down to three toothpicks, he went all in on a bluff. I called it.

Game over.

“Damn.” He laughed. “Not my day for cards. Let’s do something else.”

“Okay. What?”

“Feel like going for a walk? I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs.”

I pushed up off the ground, brushing off my jeans. Then I followed him outside and through the junkyard, toward the ten-foot chain-link fence that had a row of barbed wire on top.

Lou didn’t like people in his space. He’d erected the fence to keep them out.

We were the exception.

The main entrance had two large gates set on wheels. Lou kept a chain and padlock around them unless he was expecting a customer. The PRIVATE PROPERTY sign hung below another that read MUST CALL FIRST.

But there was another entrance, a small gate that was hidden from the road and bordered by an old car. Karson had discovered it his first night at the junkyard years ago. To anyone passing by, it looked blocked. But the gate opened enough for us to squeeze in and out. Some days, we strolled through the main entrance if Lou had gotten up and unchained the lock. But mostly, we used the side gate.

Once on the road to town, we settled into an easy pace on the asphalt. There were no sidewalks bordering the one-mile stretch of pavement. Or what we assumed was one mile. None of us knew for sure, but before Karson had dropped out of school and run away, he’d been able to run a mile in under six minutes. One day, bored, he’d run the road as a test.

The junkyard was on the outskirts of Temecula, lending it privacy. The closest neighbor was halfway down the road and even then, the overgrown trees and tall fence hid the house and its occupants from view. Or maybe . . .

“Do you think they planted all the trees in an attempt to block out the junkyard?” I asked Karson as we walked past the house.

He chuckled. “Definitely. Wouldn’t you?”

“Totally.” I laughed. “So where are we going?”

“Where do you want to go?”