Surge (59 page)

With Olivia’s cornucopia of music to entertain us, we go about twenty miles while listening to artists like Run DMC, Beastie Boys, Buddy Holly, Journey, Aerosmith, Sublime, Hollywood Undead, TLC, Papa Roach, Florence + the Machine, and a little bit of Adele thrown in. When I asked her about the random mix, Cory answered that
‘she gets bored easily, so she likes the variety and never knowing what’s going to come on next.’

I was little miffed that he answered for her, but liked the intel; especially when he said that they used to make a game of it on road trips. The game consisted of each passenger taking a guess as to what they thought would come on next. If the person got the artist right, then they could order a person of their choosing to do a task at the next stop, like freezing their ass off in a New England Blizzard to fill the gas tank.

It actually sounded like fun, so we used this method to decide who would get out of the van, and siphon the gas from the abandoned cars along the way. A most dreadful task when you didn’t remove your mouth fast enough, as Marissa learned with a mouthful of gasoline. She was a good sport about it, even though the car still smells like the fumes she consumed.

“Alright, I think it’ll be a Beatles song,” John guesses.

“Nah, she already had one of them on,” Carlos counters. “It’ll be something way out in left field, like Britney Spears.” The look Olivia sends him for daring to suggest she would put that pop tart on her CD, should have killed him on the spot.

“Okay, not Britney then,” Oscar says. “I think it’ll be Elvis.”

“CCR, Creedence Clearwater Revival,” Cory guesses. “It’s one of her favorites.” Olivia smiles at that guess.

“3 Doors Down,” Chelsea suggests with a snap of her gum.

“Evanescence,” Marissa says as she fluffs her hair sprayed hair.

“N-nirvana,” Tommy replies quietly. I see Olivia smile at his participation.

“B2K,” Sarah supplies.

“50 Cent,” Danny says.

“Billy Joel,” Leonard guesses, and Olivia shrugs that it could be a possibility.

“Billy Idol,” I say.

“Don McLean,” Mike thinks.

“Boston,” Akio says.

“Queen,” Whitney finishes. “I think that’s everyone. Go ahead and play it, Jared.”

When I hear a popular song from Fenway Park, I can’t help the laugh that rumbles out. The whole car starts singing The Standells “Dirty Water.” Anyone who’s lived in, or grown up in the state of Massachusetts, knows the words to the song; and if you don’t then you aren’t a true Bostonian. And since most of us are native to the state, we know that famous verse about our dirty water and Boston being our home.
As the last strands taper off, I turn to face Akio.

“You were closest,” I say. “Sure, it isn’t the artist or the song; but it’s our anthem, so we
’l
l count it. Who does the next run?”

“Sorry, Chelsea,” Akio says. “But you’re the last one left, who hasn’t done one yet.”

“No biggie,” she replies with a wave, and pops her bubble gum. I
’
d like to know where she gets the endless supply. Or maybe it’s not endless, and she
’
s like the record breaking gum chewer from Willy Wonka? If that’s the case, that
’
s just nasty. “It’ll be a slice a pie.” Giving Marissa a cursory look, Chelsea grimaces. “Okay, not as easy as a slice a pie, but I can do it.”

‘Slice a pie?’
What the fuck is this ditz talking about? A
‘piece of cake,’
maybe? I don’t get the chance to ask for clarification, because John speaks up.

“Good, because we got us another one coming up,” John says and points at the car on the side of the road up ahead.

It’s less than a mile away, so we reach it within a few seconds. Chelsea pops out of her seat belt, grabbing the gas tank on her way out. Carlos hops out with her to provide backup, while she does the deed. Chelsea bounces ahead of him with her red hair flouncing behind her.

The red hair makes me cringe every time I see it, call me prejudiced if you must, but the color now makes me queasy for obvious reasons. I know that it’s wrong to hold a grudge against the entire race of gingers, but I can’t help it. Maybe I
’
ll meet another one day that will change my opinion, but until that time, I
’
m keeping my guard up around the whole lot of them. Hell, that goes for blondes too. I’m still fighting back bile, when I hear Chelsea’s voice call back on instructions of how to get the gas to come out. John has a mischievous smile on his face, as he rolls down the window.

“You know how, babe,” he calls out. “Just suck it nice and hard, like you do for me.”

Chelsea’s face turns as red as her hair, which makes John laugh. Almost every male in the car laughs along with him, which admittedly includes me, but there are a couple of disapproving looks belonging to Whitney and Cory. Why he looks so pissed is a mystery to me, until I see Olivia’s pretended indifference with the situation, making me lose the mirth in half a millisecond. Her face is once again buried in Morris’s fur, who hasn’t left her lap even once since she’s reclaimed her seat; but John, the asshole, made her uncomfortable. I punch his shoulder and give an exaggerated head tilt toward the back. He does a dope slap to his head and mouths his apology, but goes for a different angle with Olivia.

“Hey, Liv? You know any decent fast food eateries around here? I’m fucking starvin.’
”
John inquires and looks in the rear view mirror. When Olivia’s teary eyes look up to meet his, he mutters
‘
dammit, me and my mouth,’
while I climb through the seats and crouch down in front of her.

“He was just kidding,” I say, and want to hit him again when a tear trails down her soot covered cheek. Olivia cocks her head to the side. “John, it was just a bad joke.”

“She isn’t crying over the douchebag’s comment,” Cory replies. I look at Olivia, who nods slightly to confirm it, and points to the speakers. “It was one of her mom’s favorites.” It’s then that I hear Brandi Carlile’s “The Story.”

“Your mom had an interesting taste in music, too?” I ask. Olivia cracks a small smile at that, and nods. “So, you got her hair, her smile and her taste in music; while your dad gave you his eyes and a love of baseball.” Her smile spreads a little more. “I’d say that you hit the parental lottery.” Olivia pats her chest in a way that says she thinks so too.

“So, I’m not in trouble?” John inquires, sounding a little uncertain.

Olivia laughs, it’s silent, but you can see it in her eyes and the slight heaving of her shoulders. Leaning forward, she pats John’s head like a good dog. Pointing at the radio, Olivia passes him a new CD and holds up ten fingers, then five, to indicate which song to put on. John flips to the correct number and a guitar riff, accompanied by drums, blasts from the speakers. When John recognizes it as Poison’s “Talk Dirty To Me,” he starts laughing. Olivia dances in her seat, mouthing words, and air guitaring solos.

Seeing Olivia’s happy, carefree side come out of hiding, Cory loses his pissed off expression, in favor of a smile. He obviously thought John’s comment, that was made in jest, might have had a part in making her upset in addition to the sad memory; so seeing her prove that John’s dirty joke had no effect on her, cleared that right up. Especially with a song choice that is centered around dirty talk, and clandestine meetings for hooking up, it’s obvious that talk of anything sexual doesn’t affect her.

See, my girl’s a tough cookie. It’s only when someone makes a move to act on those aforementioned things, that she ticks; which is perfectly understandable, and I would kick anyone’s ass who even attempted to do them to her without her explicit permission. Including my own libido for even thinking of trying to push her for things that she is nowhere near being ready for. One small brush of lips doesn’t mean to run it in for a touchdown, you stupid prick. I mentally flip off my engorging cock for becoming so affected by her innocent smile and dance. Her having fun, doesn’t mean that he gets to have some too.

“We’re good,” Carlos announces as he arrives at the slider. “Actually, we would have been better if John informed her to stop sucking
before
she drank a quarter of the gasoline.”

I look behind Olivia, to see Chelsea with her shirt front drenched in fluid, and reeking of fumes. Olivia immediately covers her neck and face with the hood of her sweatshirt. That can’t be safe for her to breathe in, and I should have thought of that when Marissa came back in much the same state. I pull off my own sweatshirt, think better of it when I see scorched areas; and instead instruct John and Carlos to do so, before passing theirs back to the girls.

“Marissa and Chelsea,” I say to get their attention. They pause their two person cry circle, mourning over the loss of precious clothing, to look up front. “Swap your shirts for these.”

“But these are all we have,” Chelsea cries as she clings to her gasoline stained shirt. It was no more than an outdated blouse from times before, and she’s currently clinging to it like a safety blanket. “It’s Oscar’s!”

“That ugly shit ain’t mine,” Oscar replies with a disgusted look at the smelly blouse in question.

“Oscar de la Renta!” Chelsea screams. She starts bawling into the stained fabric like it’s a tissue; it’s no more significant than tissue, so I would guess it works about the same as a Kleenex.

“We’ll find you something new,” I promise in hopes of stopping the hysterics. “For now, just use these so that we can get rid of those. They smell, don’t they, John?” I elbow John, who’s tapping out a beat on the steering wheel to Saliva’s “Click Click Boom.”

“What, oh yeah,” John replies once he catches on where I’m going with this. “Absolutely horrendous. Making my eyes water and everything.”

Chelsea, as expected, tears off her ruined shirt in a flash to preserve vanity; and salvage any chance of warming John’s bed tonight. Olivia’s eyes widen, as the nearly naked woman hurls the smelly scrap of silk by her head, and at me. Chelsea’s only wearing a scrap of worn lace on her small breasts, and Marissa does pretty much the same, leaving her in only a skimpy bra that barely covers her implants. Marissa hands her shirt up, while complaining that
‘not only did she lose her Louies, but now her best Gucci top.’

Women and their freaking designers. Actually, let me rephrase that, since only two of the five women in this car still care about such things. So, it’s the
hens
and their freaking designers. Sarah wears whatever’s available, Whitney keeps to generic jeans and t-shirts, and Olivia dresses with protection firmly in mind. Speaking of which, I wonder if she’s realized that her leathers and helmet incinerated in the blaze?

Best not to draw attention to it, since she’s battling injuries and her underlying fear; that she tries to hide, but isn’t always successful. Like when Oscar goes to pass Marissa’s shirt around her, she flinches and leans closer to the car’s wall. Olivia tries to make it look like she’s adjusting to be in a more comfortable position, but the tension doesn’t ease from her shoulders until Oscar notices, and quickly backs up to return to his seat. I may be able to touch her now, but I’m positive that if I were to startle her, I’d end up flat on my back with a weapon of some sort held to my throat.

I roll my window down to toss the shirts out, and hear a howl erupt from the back, when we leave them flapping in the breeze. Oh well, they’ll get new stuff and forget about the old eventually. If not, then this world isn’t for them, and they might as well cling to their Prada handbags with their last breaths, as the wheezers chomp them to death.

“Olivia, where’s the nearest town for supplies?” I ask and hold out the map. Unbuckling the seat belt, she crouches between the chairs and points to a spot only five miles away. A bonus is that it’s en route to where we’re headed. “Can the girls get something to wear? I think that they may start crying, if they don’t get something soon.” Olivia raises her eyebrow at that, since the girls are already crying. “Okay, they’ll go into further hysterics, if we don’t get them something designer A.S.A.P.” Olivia nods and points to a different location on the map. This one will add another twenty minutes to the trip.

“Why there?” John asks as he glances at the map. Olivia pulls her sweatshirt to the side and points at the label.

“Designer stores?” I ask and she nods. “Out here? We’re in the freaking boonies.”

“It’s an outlet mall,” Cory supplies. “Ever heard of the Kittery Outlets?”

“Gotcha,” I say with a nod. “Variety for them to choose from. We’ll have to split off in teams.”

“Wait a damn minute,” John interrupts. “Who the fuck said that you’re going in at all?”

“It’ll be faster if I go in,” I counter. “Besides, who will rush the girls along, if I’m not there to do it? They’ll spend the freaking day lollygagging through every single store.”

“We have people for that,” he replies. “Carlos, Oscar, Tommy, Danny and myself could all go in, and split in two teams. Some go for supplies, and others take the girls shopping. We can handle it.” John gives a pointed look at Olivia, Cory and I. “And we don’t need you three hobbling your weak asses around, slowing us down.”

The three weak hobbling asses, all glare at John in response. He ignores it, and continues driving. There is no way in hell that I’m going to sit in the car, and twiddle my thumbs. A glance at Cory and Olivia, says that they too will not be staying in the car.

Looks like we’ve formed ourselves a third team.

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