Unbeautiful
Page 4
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I’m so fucking frustrated I want to scream. Problem is, I physically can’t scream, so the frustration just gets clogged in my chest. Pressure builds in my lungs, and I feel like they’re going to combust. Needing to get the anger out of me, I bash the tip of my boot against the metal dumpster, kicking the shit out of it. When a dog starts howling in the distance, I tug my hood over my head and bail out of there before I draw any attention.
As I’m rounding the corner of the alleyway to the front of the club, Lanaley Baredona wanders out the door. She spots me instantly and storms toward me.
“Where the fuck did you go?” She shoves me, her cheeks flushed pink, probably from all the dancing we’d been doing before Elderman’s men showed up. “Seriously, Ryler. What the hell? You left me standing on the dance floor by myself.”
I shrug then sign, “Sorry.” It’s one of the few signs Lanaley knows, which makes our conversations very limited. That’s okay, though. We really don’t have anything in common other than being sexually attracted to each other. With her long, black hair, heavily studded face, inked arms, and flowing black dress, she looks like she belongs by my side. It’s all looks, though. All show. When it comes to our personalities, we don’t match.
“You’re sorry? Seriously? That’s all you have to say?” Her voice is loud, and she’s drawing too much attention.
I need to get out of here.
I shrug, like, “What else can I say.” I feel kind of dickish for blowing her off, but at the moment, there’s not much else I can do about it.
Her cheeks redden. “Whatever, Ryler. You’re always doing this shit—leaving whenever the hell you want, but always expecting me to be there when you need to get fucked.” She raises her hands in the air and spins on her heels. “Don’t call me anymore. I’m so done with you.”
Normally, I’d probably follow her and try to apologize to her more, but right now, I have bigger problems to worry about.
Unsure what to do next, I keep my head lowered and drift down the busy sidewalks of Vegas. Neon lights flash and glimmer, promising fun in every building. The air is warm, smells like cigarettes, and tastes like darkness. People are everywhere. Eyes are everywhere.
I need to get out of the crowd and to someplace safe.
My car is back at the house, a 1970 Dodge Challenger I restored myself. My father tries to claim it’s his because he was the one who brought me into the gambling that earned all the money for the restoration. The title has my name on it, though, so legally I can take the car if I can make it to the house without getting caught. Then I can hit the road, move somewhere else. Somewhere away from Sin City where maybe I can finally start over. I’ve spent way too much time here, collecting my own sins.
Yeah, it’s time to bail out and start over in a positive way, start a normal life.
The problem is, I have almost no money. I’m going to need some help.
I fish my phone out of my pocket as I wind through the mostly intoxicated people on the sidewalk. While I don’t know too many people—it’s kind of hard to when I can only communicate by writing and sign language—I do have friend I met in juvenile detention who lives in Kentucky. He might be able to help me.
Shoving my way toward a bench on the corner of a street, I plop my ass down and type a text.
Me: Hey, man, I need your help.
I glance around the sea of people, scanning each face as I wait nervously for a response.
I jump when a message buzzes through.
DMAN: What’s up?
Me: Got into a bit of trouble again. Decided it’s time to bail out of Vegas.
I pause. The next part is more difficult. Asking for help.
For most of my life, I’ve taken care of myself because I had to. The only exception to this was Aura. But my time with her was too brief to develop a habit of letting people into my life.
Right now, I don’t really have a choice.
Me: I was wondering if I could crash at your place for a little bit until I can figure out what to do next.
DMAN: Of course, man. I told u before I took off if u ever needed a place to give me a holler.
Me: Yeah, it took me a while to realize I need out.
That and two very large men with guns chasing after me.
DMAN: Sweet, so when r u heading here?
Me: I was thinking tonight, if that’s cool.
DMAN: Yeah, sure.
There’s a pause.
DMAN: It’s actually perfect timing. Got some new shit going down soon.
I dither. The last thing I want to do is get back into doing illegal shit for a living and constantly getting into trouble. What I want is to start over somehow.
Me: Yeah, I’m not sure if I want to get into anything right away. I think I need to just lay low for a while.
DMAN: It’s nothing 2 big. Just a few side jobs I know you’ll want in on.
My head flops forward. God, no matter what I do, I can’t escape this life.
What other choice do I have other than staying here, though?
I get up from the bench and push a path through the throng of people as I head for home. In all black attire, my piercings and tattoos, and my get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way expression tend to make people skittish and move out of the way willingly.
Me: Heading to my car right now. Be there in a couple of days.
DMAN: Text me when u make it to the Kentucky border.
Me: K
I tuck my phone away and jog across the busy street to the other side. I don’t live too far away from the Strip, so I make it to my block rather quickly. It’s during the short journey I realize the huge flaw in my plan. Even if I do make it to Kentucky, Elderman’s men could find me and probably will. Then what?
As I’m rounding the corner of the alleyway to the front of the club, Lanaley Baredona wanders out the door. She spots me instantly and storms toward me.
“Where the fuck did you go?” She shoves me, her cheeks flushed pink, probably from all the dancing we’d been doing before Elderman’s men showed up. “Seriously, Ryler. What the hell? You left me standing on the dance floor by myself.”
I shrug then sign, “Sorry.” It’s one of the few signs Lanaley knows, which makes our conversations very limited. That’s okay, though. We really don’t have anything in common other than being sexually attracted to each other. With her long, black hair, heavily studded face, inked arms, and flowing black dress, she looks like she belongs by my side. It’s all looks, though. All show. When it comes to our personalities, we don’t match.
“You’re sorry? Seriously? That’s all you have to say?” Her voice is loud, and she’s drawing too much attention.
I need to get out of here.
I shrug, like, “What else can I say.” I feel kind of dickish for blowing her off, but at the moment, there’s not much else I can do about it.
Her cheeks redden. “Whatever, Ryler. You’re always doing this shit—leaving whenever the hell you want, but always expecting me to be there when you need to get fucked.” She raises her hands in the air and spins on her heels. “Don’t call me anymore. I’m so done with you.”
Normally, I’d probably follow her and try to apologize to her more, but right now, I have bigger problems to worry about.
Unsure what to do next, I keep my head lowered and drift down the busy sidewalks of Vegas. Neon lights flash and glimmer, promising fun in every building. The air is warm, smells like cigarettes, and tastes like darkness. People are everywhere. Eyes are everywhere.
I need to get out of the crowd and to someplace safe.
My car is back at the house, a 1970 Dodge Challenger I restored myself. My father tries to claim it’s his because he was the one who brought me into the gambling that earned all the money for the restoration. The title has my name on it, though, so legally I can take the car if I can make it to the house without getting caught. Then I can hit the road, move somewhere else. Somewhere away from Sin City where maybe I can finally start over. I’ve spent way too much time here, collecting my own sins.
Yeah, it’s time to bail out and start over in a positive way, start a normal life.
The problem is, I have almost no money. I’m going to need some help.
I fish my phone out of my pocket as I wind through the mostly intoxicated people on the sidewalk. While I don’t know too many people—it’s kind of hard to when I can only communicate by writing and sign language—I do have friend I met in juvenile detention who lives in Kentucky. He might be able to help me.
Shoving my way toward a bench on the corner of a street, I plop my ass down and type a text.
Me: Hey, man, I need your help.
I glance around the sea of people, scanning each face as I wait nervously for a response.
I jump when a message buzzes through.
DMAN: What’s up?
Me: Got into a bit of trouble again. Decided it’s time to bail out of Vegas.
I pause. The next part is more difficult. Asking for help.
For most of my life, I’ve taken care of myself because I had to. The only exception to this was Aura. But my time with her was too brief to develop a habit of letting people into my life.
Right now, I don’t really have a choice.
Me: I was wondering if I could crash at your place for a little bit until I can figure out what to do next.
DMAN: Of course, man. I told u before I took off if u ever needed a place to give me a holler.
Me: Yeah, it took me a while to realize I need out.
That and two very large men with guns chasing after me.
DMAN: Sweet, so when r u heading here?
Me: I was thinking tonight, if that’s cool.
DMAN: Yeah, sure.
There’s a pause.
DMAN: It’s actually perfect timing. Got some new shit going down soon.
I dither. The last thing I want to do is get back into doing illegal shit for a living and constantly getting into trouble. What I want is to start over somehow.
Me: Yeah, I’m not sure if I want to get into anything right away. I think I need to just lay low for a while.
DMAN: It’s nothing 2 big. Just a few side jobs I know you’ll want in on.
My head flops forward. God, no matter what I do, I can’t escape this life.
What other choice do I have other than staying here, though?
I get up from the bench and push a path through the throng of people as I head for home. In all black attire, my piercings and tattoos, and my get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way expression tend to make people skittish and move out of the way willingly.
Me: Heading to my car right now. Be there in a couple of days.
DMAN: Text me when u make it to the Kentucky border.
Me: K
I tuck my phone away and jog across the busy street to the other side. I don’t live too far away from the Strip, so I make it to my block rather quickly. It’s during the short journey I realize the huge flaw in my plan. Even if I do make it to Kentucky, Elderman’s men could find me and probably will. Then what?
