Chapters (31)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Acknowledgments
- More from the Author
- 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.