Back Chasing Lucky Save as PDF
Chapters (31)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Chapter 1
  4. Chapter 2
  5. Chapter 3
  6. Chapter 4
  7. Chapter 5
  8. Chapter 6
  9. Chapter 7
  10. Chapter 8
  11. Chapter 9
  12. Chapter 10
  13. Chapter 11
  14. Chapter 12
  15. Chapter 13
  16. Chapter 14
  17. Chapter 15
  18. Chapter 16
  19. Chapter 17
  20. Chapter 18
  21. Chapter 19
  22. Chapter 20
  23. Chapter 21
  24. Chapter 22
  25. Chapter 23
  26. Chapter 24
  27. Chapter 25
  28. Chapter 26
  29. Acknowledgments
  30. More from the Author
  31. About the Author

“Evie’s been in a wreck,” I tell him, dialing my mom’s number. “I don’t know how. She doesn’t have a car. She said Mom took the Pink Panther on an errand—”

Is it wrong to want to strangle your own mother? I mean …

“—and she can’t get her to answer. Evie’s okay, I think?” I continue telling him. “She says she’s just scraped up. But her dad died in a hospital, you know? And she gets really freaked out about them, like super phobic, so I need to go get her, or at least calm her down—what the hell? Why isn’t my mom answering her phone? Now I’m going to have to call a taxi or a car or something?”

“Hey,” Lucky says in a calm, firm voice. “Evie’s okay?”

I nod. I’m out of breath. Gotta relax. Gotta slow down and breathe.

“All right. That’s the most important thing. My bike’s parked right there,” he says, pointing. He pulls out a ring of keys from his pocket. “I’ll take you.”

I blink at him, still holding my phone. “I don’t have a helmet.”

“You can wear mine. Don’t argue. This is a onetime emergency, and your head is more important than mine.”

I don’t see how that’s true. “How will we get her home?”

“She’s freaked out, yeah? Then she needs you there. Get there, calm her down, call a car or get in touch with your mom. But you’ll get to her faster this way. Come on.”

Sounds logical. And I’m too worried to question it. I grab my portfolio and follow Lucky across the deck of the creaking ship while he makes a phone call. I think it must be to his father, because while we’re heading down the plank back to shore, he briefly explains what’s transpiring in a hushed voice and says he’ll call back after we get there.

Once we cross the Harborwalk, I spot the red Superhawk a few yards away, parked on the street. He retrieves his helmet from a locked compartment behind the seat that has the same decal—LUCKY 13—and hands it to me, offering to stow my portfolio in its place. The helmet is ill-fitting, and I have trouble with the strap under my chin—my hands are shaking a little—until he helps me adjust it.

“All right?” he asks.