9: Refuge
Better a thousand times careful than once dead. ~ Proverb
Timmy leads us to the back of the house. He doesn't seem to have issues with the fact that he's just invited two total strangers into the place where he apparently lives with his dog. Just as we can't be sure he isn't a creepy stalker, he has no idea who we might be.
I can't help but wonder if he's on something. I hope not; he's so young. My traveling complain flashes me a dirty look to emphasize what a bad idea he thinks this is, but I ignore him. We step over branches and bits of dirty plastic that litter the back, and a revolting smell lingers in the air the makes all of us, Timmy included, hold our noses.
I want to open my mouth to ask about it, but frankly, I don't want to know and we're at the back door anyway. Timmy pulls away three of the boards towards the bottom, and we duck into the house.
Vaughn lets me go in first, but he comes in so fast behind me that when we stand my back is against his chest. His arm wraps around my ribs as he eyes the our surrounding with suspicion. Timmy slithers in behind us with ease, apparently leaving Patches outside to play. I wonder if he'll run away again.
The house is very dark, but not completely barren. The kitchen, the room we've ended up in, is completely destroyed; there is no stove, the door hangs off what used to be a refrigerator and there's something green growing in one of the corners.
But the dining room has a card table set up with a couple of beat up lawn chairs beside it. Little plastic cups have rolled beneath them. Timmy gestures for us to follow him as he scampers away.
Vaughn and I slowly move through the rooms, treading softly, like stepping on the wrong tile will spring a booby trap. The wallpaper is peeling on the walls of the small living room, and one of the windows is no longer boarded up; just broken, with jagged glass sticking from the pane at awkward angles.
It is the only thing that allows light in; a cold breeze hits me, and I shiver. Vaughn clutches my hand tightly as I notice the ripped up sofa with stuffing spilling out of it all over the dirty carpet. Of course, the furniture is not nearly as interesting as the people sitting on it.
A girl, probably a couple years older than me, is playing cards with a guy, who is also pretty young. They look up as we enter.
Timmy smiles and says, "Gemma, Jax, these are Chelsea and Vaughn."
Timmy's friends seem a bit less enthusiastic to see us that he does. They both give us identical scowls.
"Where the hell did they come from?" Jax, a guy with dirty brown hair that falls to his shoulders and bloodshot blue eyes, barks at Timmy.
"They found my dog, Patches, Jax," Timmy whines, "I just wanted to repay their kindness."
Gemma rolls her eyes. "Go dig up one of the dog's bones for 'em and send 'em on their way. We don't need no more people here taking up space in the house."
"I'm not sharing food with two teenage bastards because they found your stupid dog, Tommy," Jax says. He hands Gemma one of his cards and then proceeds to ignore us.
"Timmy," Timmy corrects.
"Whatever."
Timmy turns to us with big, brown, sad eyes. "I guess Jax says you have to go."
He sounds like a kicked puppy. I nod, knowing that we've overstayed our welcome, and Vaughn pulls me to the doorway, muttering about what a stupid idea this was.
"Wait," says a voice so close to my face I shriek and jump away.
The atmosphere in here is making me jumpy as hell. A second boy slips past us from the kitchen doorway, quick as a mouse. His blonde hair is so blonde it's almost white, and he's so freaking thin it's scary. Thinner than me, and I thought I was a stick.
"Maybe they've got some stuff they can trade," the guy says to Jax, who appears to be the leader of this weird little group.
Jax exhales in aggravation and puts down the cards. Gemma flashes us a dirty look and does the same.
The weird guy glances at Timmy. "Hey, Tim, let's go out scavenging."
Timmy's face lights up and him and Stick Guy exit the way we came. Jax rolls his eyes, and then speaks to us.
"Fine." He gives us a look, a suspicious yet interested look, guarded in a way you can only have after living on the streets for a long time. "We've got food and shit. You got anything?"
"A few things," I say, "but I'm not sure what we'd be willing to give up. Do you have any winter clothes? It's getting cold, and we need coats and stuff to make it to where we're going."
"We've got some stuff like that," Gemma speaks up, "But we need to stay alive during the winter, too, you know."
I nod. "Why don't you show me some of your stuff and we'll show you some of ours? Then we can negotiate."
Vaughn has been silent throughout this whole exchange, but he hasn't objected either, so maybe he doesn't disagree. It's hard to tell, though, because when I look at him, his expression is one hundred percent neutral, like we're talking about trading muffins for pudding during lunch instead of something we have for warmth to stay alive.
I zip open my backpack and give them a glimpse of my food, my toiletries, water and clothes. Vaughn hesitates at their hungry, piercing stares, but eventually he follows my lead.
"You're boyfriend talk at all?" Gemma asks, shooting him an appraising look, like he's a horse she's contemplating buying.
"He isn't my boyfriend," I say automatically. Sure, we kissed once yesterday, but we were both upset at the time, and I have no idea if it meant a damn thing to him.
"I talk just fine," he snaps at them.
Gemma shrugs and goes back to looking through our things. "Is he your pimp, then?" she asks lazily, as if asking if it looks like it'll rain soon.
Her hair dyed an unnatural shade of red, and her eyes are heavily made up. I can't help but wonder why the hell she would bother with makeup, until I notice her fishnet stockings, tight black skirt, and low-cut top. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what she does out on the streets to stay alive.
Normally a comment like this would infuriate me, but I'm getting used to the crude way people out here speak, and the fact that this sort of thing is just how life words.
"No," Vaughn and I both say coldly.
Jax points to something in peeking out of the inside pocket in Vaughn's pack. "That work?"
Vaughn scowls. "Yeah, but it's not for sale."
I glance sideways and see that the object Jax was interested in is a shiny iPhone. I didn't know Vaughn brought his phone along – was it to call his parents in case we got desperate? He's obviously deactivated the GPS on it by now, but I imagine his parents have texted and called numerous times.
It wouldn't surprise me to find out that they were also working alongside the Crazies at finding us – they must have noticed how we disappeared at the same time and assumed we ran off together. Jax shrugs and then gestures to the thirty bucks stashed beside the iPhone.
Vaughn shrugs. "Yeah, I might trade that for the right thing."
Gemma apparently doesn't find anything interesting in my pack – the forty dollars I have is stashed in the bottom under my clothes – and moves to Vaughn's. She claps her hands together at the sight of his iPod, which I also didn't know he brought, but maybe he listened to music at night when we weren't traveling and I was asleep.
It would have been nice to bring some things to keep myself amused with me on my crazy journey – if I'd had them.
"What about that? Could I have that?" Gemma asks excitedly, "I haven't heard any decent music in forever."
Vaughn exhales sharply, zips his pack, and throws it back over his shoulders. I do the same, since my pack is apparently boring in comparison to his.
"That depends on what you give us for it," he repeats.
Gemma shoots him a sultry look, glancing up at him through thick black eyelashes. She runs a finger down his chest, and I suddenly have the urge to beat her to death with my backpack.
"How about you give me the iPod," she says – no, murmurs, "and I'll let you keep me company in my bed tonight?"
I vomit a little in my mouth, swallowing it back with a wince. The fact that this girl is so used to offering her body to men in exchange for money or whatever else she wants is sickening on its own, but the fact that she's making such an offer to my Vaughn is gut-wrenching.
Wait.
My Vaughn?
When the hell did I start thinking like that?
Jax rolls his eyes and says to Vaughn, "Might be worth it, man. She's damn good at what she does."
I glare at him, but he doesn't seem to notice. Vaughn pushes her hand away and wraps an arm around my waist.
"Thanks, but I'm not interested." His tone is actually cordial, like he's rejecting her offer of a freshly baked cookie.
I stiffen against him, wondering what this show of possessiveness is. Is it real? Gemma eyes Vaughn warily, as if him declining her offer makes him not human, but a snake or something that could strike at any moment. Her eyes narrow into slits.
"You said he wasn't your boyfriend," she says to me, accusation in her voice.
"He . . ." I glance up at him, wondering what he wants me to say.
"We're together," Vaughn snaps at her.
Jax's loud chuckle seems out of place in our tense conversation. "Better clear up that little misunderstanding with your supposed girlfriend."
Butterflies flutter in my stomach at his comment, while at the same time I struggle to come to terms with it. I'm such a mess as a person, mentally, emotionally, so how could I even think of trying to be with someone? I need to get my own life straightened out first. I need to get to the Islands and get some kind of routine, get away from the craziness that has become my life. But . . . says a little voice in the back of my mind . . . I want him.
Yes, I admit it.
Unaware of my inner conflict, Gemma exhales sharply in annoyance. "Calm down, Gemma. Jeez. Not everyone wants whores in their bed. Get over it."
"As if you would know," she shoots back at him.
Jax chuckles again, amused. I shudder. Gemma turns back to us, tossing her hair over her shoulder in irritation.
"Well, I still want the iPod." She turns and scurries down the hall.
"So, what's led you to our humble home?" Jax smirks at us, as if our being homeless is the equivalent of getting a college degree.
"None of your business," Vaughn says.
He doesn't sound mean or even cold, just matter-of-fact. I have to agree with him. I'm not about to spill my guts to some creepy guy I just met ten minutes ago. Gemma reappears in the living room and holds up a scarf, and two mittens that are just a bit shy of being threadbare. They are both a hideous shade of barf green, but I'm certainly not picky.
"Fifteen bucks for these," she says.
She then lays two coats over the couch to show them off and gestures to them like a game show model. Both are black, with surprisingly warm fabric on the insides, and quite a few pockets with zippers. They don't even appear to be old. Not new, but no holes, nothing to suggest that they've been through hell and back.
"I'll trade these two for the iPod," she says.
Then she shows us another mitten-scarf set, red and black with little snowflakes.
"Ten for this," she says, "because the middle finger has a hole. And five apiece for the hats."
She shows us two solidly black winter hats. I blink at all that she has shown us. Our survival may be these clothes. We need them.
I open my mouth to speak, but Jax interrupts, saying, "Don't tell us to lower the price, either. I already think Gamma's letting this stuff go way-ass low, because she's melting over a pair of purple eyes."
I grit my teeth when Gemma shoots Vaughn another flirty look, but manage to restrain myself for the moment.
"It's a deal," I say, "but I want one more thing; to share whatever you're having for dinner tonight, and a room or whatever to spend the night in."
Jax frowns and says, "Don't really like letting people stay here. Sends a bad message to the other people around here. And I'm pretty damn territorial about this house, my friends. This is my turf. Does this look like a bed and breakfast to you?"
"No," I say, "but I'll throw in another ten."
"Fifteen," Jax counters.
"Fine."
"Great. Your total comes to fifty dollars. Thank you for shopping at Jax's Mini Mart."
Vaughn rolls his eyes, but fishes the iPod and thirty bucks from his pack. I get the extra twenty out of mine, and we exchange said merchandise. I put the coat on immediately, because it's cold in here, but I put the mittens, scarf and hat away for later. Vaughn stuffs everything in his pack, and it's amazing he's able to zip it back up when he's done.
"Let me show you to your private suite," Jax says, obviously enjoying his own jokes immensely.
He leads us to some stairs, and I eye them warily as we head up, nervous at the squeaking and creaking. I mean, obviously, this is a freaking old house, but who's to say the entire second story won't collapse under too much strain? Jax seems unconcerned, though, and something tells me he's the sort of person who would be very much concerned about his own life, so I relax a little.
He coughs twice as he pushes open the first door he comes to, as the dust sweeps out all at once. I blink at the full sized blow up mattress lying in the center of the room.
"We get hold of these sometimes," Jax says conversationally, "beats the floor by a long shot."
There's some old magazines and a couple of books lying in the corner next to a bright yellow flashlight. A little red bag, and an unopened bag of Veggie Sticks also greets us. The window to this room, though, is boarded up, so very little light escapes into the room through the cracks.
"Whose room is this?" I ask. Obviously, it's inhabited by someone.
"It's Gemma's," Jax says. "Isn't there an empty extra room we can have?"
"Nope," he replies, "we use those rooms for other things."
Probably growing pot or something, but it's no business of mine, I guess.
"Well, where she sleep, then?" I ask.
"She's not usually around much at night. But if for some reason she is tonight, I'm sure we'll figure something out." A mischievous glint sparks in Jax's eyes, and I once again feel sick to my stomach.
"What's for dinner?" Vaughn asks, letting his bag drop to the floor besides the bed.
"Dunno. Timmy and Tack will probably bring something back. They usually do."
"Tack?" I ask.
"Yep. We call him that cuz he's about as shark as one. Not. Heh." Jax shakes his head and moves out of the bedroom.
"We'll let you know when to come down," he says, "unfortunately, we do not offer room service."
The door shuts behind him. I yawn and go to sit beside Vaughn on the bed. "I think that went well," I say.
"Better than getting jumped and hacked into little pieces by a raving lunatic, like I was anticipating," he says dryly. He lays on his back and stares up at the ceiling. "I've had better company, though, personally."
I laugh and, without thinking about it, lay down beside him. But then I recall his earlier statement, and I freeze up.
"What you said before . . ." I trail off.
"About being together?" he asks.
I nod.
He shrugs. "I thought it was best to say that we were. I figured Jax or Tack or whatever would be less likely to try something with you."
"You think they'd do something like that?"
"Who knows?" He sighs and shakes his head. "The sooner we get out of here, the better."
"We needed somewhere to rest," I say, "and we're lucky about the clothes."
I'm still trying to absorb his words. So he wasn't being serious. He was just trying to protect me, because he is a decent human being. I feel an ache deep inside my heart, and do my best to silence it. But I've already admitted it to myself, and it's not something I can just take back.
If he wanted to be with me, I might not be able to say no because I care for him, I like him, (not nearly ready to go near the L word, thank you very much), regardless of how sensible it may be to decline. But I'm just deluding myself. He'll never want to. He's much more reasonable than I am, and I remember all too well the way he grimaced at my thinness back when we had the car.
I've never really considered a romantic future for myself before, didn't see myself liking someone enough to want that, so now that I have a person I could potentially . . . really like . . . it's hard to let go. I need to, though. I mean, I don't even know him that well. Even though our time together has felt like a lifetime, and we know some deep stuff about each other, we're still strangers on some levels.
"Vaughn," I say impulsively, "What's your last name?"
He glances at me, amusement lighting his lovely eyes.
"Why?" he asks, not one to give up information without giving me his necessary side of asshole-ness with it.
"We've been traveling for a few days now, and I just feel the need to know," I say, "So. Tell me. What is it? Mine's Waters."
"Salas," he says, rolling his eyes. "Anything else you'd like to know? My birthday? Favorite animal? Blood type?"
"Sure," I say, "Mine's May 6th, I'll be seventeen. My favorite animals are dogs, and my blood type is O."
He blinks at me. "Fine, fine. I'll play twenty questions with you. Why the hell not? Been a while since I've encountered someone who actually does."
"I do," I say quietly, "I do care. About you." It's a bold thing to say. But I mean it. He rests his hand on my knee, and I shiver under his touch.
I wish he would do it more often. The thought of him touching Gemma makes me sick. Touching her when he should be touching me. Like I want him to, sometimes, when my mind begins to wander . . .
"Thanks," he says, sincere for once. "My birthday is April 3rd, my favorite animals are horses, and I don't know my blood type."
I absorb this information carefully, storing it away so I don't forget later. When we part ways at the Islands, I want to remember him. I have to keep that in mind, that we will eventually part, and what he said the parking lot recently.
"You should also keep in mind that, even though I'd prefer to have you with me, ultimately, my main goal is to get there myself." I sigh quietly to myself.
"Favorite food," I fire off, and we continue on like this for two hours.
I learn quite a bit about him; he likes country music, he likes to read, he hated school, he broke his wrist when he was twelve falling out of a tree. We don't get into any of the deep, angsty crap going on in our lives, we just stick to superficial stuff. And, for once, it's nice. I like the sound of his laugh, cherish every one of his smiles.
"Have you ever kissed anyone? Um, besides me, that one time?" I ask him sometime in the evening.
We're lying side by side on the mattress, and it's just light enough for me to see his face. I'm not sure what possesses me to ask, maybe how comfortable I feel with him at this moment. More comfortable than I've ever felt with him. Like I can really trust him. I only hope he doesn't take my small measure of trust and tear it to shreds, because I do not trust easily.
He stares at me for a moment, and I love feeling his hand on my hip. I want to scoot closer to him, right up against him, to see if our bodies will fit together as easily as I imagine they will.
"Yeah," he says, "Once, in fifth grade. She slobbered all over me. It sucked. End of story."
"Oh," I say.
"I've never really had time to think about stuff like that. Too many of my own issues," he adds.
I nod. "I agree."
"So? You kissed anyone? Besides me?"
"Nope," I say, "Not one."
"Good. None of those idiots, in our school anyway, deserved you." He purses his lips after he says this, as if he wishes he could take it back. I don't share his wishes.
"Thanks," I say quietly. I can feel the tension in the air, so thick I could slice through it with my pocketknife. His mouth is so close to mine, and the memory of our kiss yesterday flashes through my mind, and I am very eager for a repeat.
"Well," he says, "I hope your first kiss was better than mine."
"It was amazing," I whisper, "I . . . I liked it."
If that's not a clear invitation right there, I don't know exactly what is. So when he leans his face down to mine, I lean mine back and kiss him with passion I didn't know I had. My hands are in his hair, and I notice his kiss is a lot less gentle than last time.
Last time, we kissed out of desperation, eager for the comfort of another human being who could understand our stupid situations. But this time, we're desperate in a much different way. All I can think about is this, his hands, his mouth, it feels so good, so right.
His tongue traces my bottom lip, seeking my permission, and when I give it, he deepens our kiss without hesitation. A shot of pleasure goes through me at the way he tastes; I can't help it, a little breathless moan escapes my lips, and he grunts in response.
He rolls so he's hovering over me, supporting his weight on his arms, and I am dizzy with sensation. My hands slide under his shirt, and I trace the muscles in his back. He moans quietly when I kiss down his neck. He shifts his hips, rocking them into my own, and I seriously may combust right now.
But then. Suddenly the door swing open slowly, and a figure comes slinking through the dark. I shriek a little, and Vaughn immediately rolls off me, eyes on the unwelcome intruder. I hear an amused snicker that I recognize as Gemma's.
She slips to the side of her bed and picks up the red bag I noticed earlier. "Sorry, darlings, I just needed my makeup bag for my night on the town. Don't let me interrupt your hot and heavy makeout session. I'll just be leaving. Unless you want me to join you?"
I scowl at her without comment.
She shrugs. "Whatever, I could teach you a thing or two about pleasing a man, Chelsea. You strike me as somewhat inexperienced."
"Get out!" I snap at her, my cheeks insanely red.
Gemma laughs once more before she leaves, shutting the door behind her.
"That was awful," I groan, because I don't know exactly what else to say when something like this has just occurred.
"She's just being a bitch, Chelsea. Let it go." Vaughn sits up beside me, and we stare at each other for a moment.
Our moment of crazed hormones has passed, and I am not questioning my own sanity. Just moments ago, I was telling myself how unwise it would be to get involved, and then later, two second later actually, I'm freaking feeling him on the air mattress. What is wrong with me?
"I, uh, I'm not sure what that was," I admit quietly.
He shrugs. "Pretty simple. I want you. You want me. We're teenagers. Natural feelings."
I deflate quickly at that. "Is that what it was to you? A means to an end? Would you have slept with me for kicks?" Pardoning the fact that I actually couldn't at the moment, taking into account my, ahem, feminine situation.
He flinches at my statement. "No, of course I wouldn't. I just got a little carried away. I . . . I like you, Chelsea. I wouldn't have sex with you just because."
He sighs. "I shouldn't have kissed you. I think . . . that being romantic . . . would complicate things between us."
And he's right, of course. Only one of us can get the job on the Islands, and that would seriously be a wedge of resentment in our relationship.
"I . . . I know," I say, "I got carried away, too."
"We shouldn't do it again," he says quietly.
"I know," I mumble.
When Jax yells at us to come down, we all share some apples from a nearby orchard, a package of cold hot dogs Tack stole, and some questionable biscuits from a dumpster behind a Starbucks.
OoOoOoOoO
In the morning, I seriously have to pee. So I leave a sleeping Vaughn beside in our room and try to find something to go in. If the accommodations of our pretend bed and breakfast are any indication, I'd bet my soul on the fact that this place doesn't have indoor plumbing.
As I pass a door on the way to the stairs, though, I stop. And then immediately flee down them, wishing I had not just heard the gasps and moans coming from the other side. I guess since Vaughn turned her down, Gemma turned to the other available male in the house. I really don't want to know what kind of jacked up relationship they have, I just need to go.
Timmy is sitting in the middle of the floor in the living room, drawing with some broken crayons on a notebook.
"Morning, Chelsea," he say to me cheerfully, as if I've lived here every day since my life began. I give him one of my rare, genuine smiles.
It's obvious Timmy's got some mental disabilities, but really, he's the nicest person here. So I sit down beside him and help him draw the snowcapped mountains he's been working on. The drawing actually isn't bad, not at all.
Timmy chats with me easily about little things, like how it's still raining outside, that there's a new leak in the roof, that Tack found him a new book when they were out yesterday.
"Where is Tack?" I ask curiously. "He went out about the same time Gemma got home. About three in the morning."
"Do any of you ever sleep?" I wonder.
"Yeah, but a lot of them sleep during the day. Night is their time to move. Jax stayed in last night, which is pretty rare. Usually when he comes home he acts . . . weird. Everybody comes and goes whenever they want to." Timmy shrugs and reaches for the one unbroken brown crayon.
I feel an unexpected surge of pity for these teenagers I barely know, even knowing some of their habits. They should have parents looking after them. But then I realize how ludicrous this thought is. If I want to feel sorry for anybody, it should me myself. I don't know what led them to their current lifestyle, but it's their business, and I need to focus on doing everything I can to make sure I don't end up living like this for the rest of my life.
And even though I have developed some rather inconvenient for Vaughn, I need to ignore them for now and focus on my goal. Gemma stumbles down the stairs just then in a t-shirt that barely covers her butt.
Mascara is smeared across her left cheek, and some kind of weird glitter seems to be floating off her, probably the remnants of some cheesy hair spray. She's also the beginnings of a bruise on her jaw, and I can't help but wonder who gave it to her.
She yawns hugely, goes to the small stash of bottled water they apparently keep behind the ratty couch, take one and attempts to clean up her face with it. Dabbing at her cheek with a napkin, she glances at us and says, "Morning, kiddies."
"Are you okay?" I can't help but ask.
Gemma blinks. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
I point to my jaw to indicate her new injury.
She shrugs. "Nothing a little foundation won't cover, girl."
When she's done cleaning off the makeup, she comes to sit by us. "Nice mountain, Timmy," she comments.
He beams, but doesn't reply. Jax comes down the stairs, dragging his feet.
"Morning," he mutters to the three of us. His black t-shirt is stained with something yellow in the back and his pants hang in that annoying way jeans do, giving me an uncomfortable view of Jax's boxers as he passes us.
"I got some things to do," he says, and, upon closer inspection, I see that his hands are trembling slightly.
"Don't get hit by a bus on the way there, Jax," Gemma says, "it's your turn to find dinner tonight."
He rolls his eyes at her. "Gemma, just for today, try not to be a complete bitch, okay? I know who's freaking turn it is."
He stomps into the kitchen, presumably out the back door. I blink at Gemma, wondering how they can treat each other so callously after what they'd just been doing moments before.
OoOoOoO
We end up staying with them for another day, because there's a thunderstorm outside and Gemma wanted us to. She's got a few old board games from who-knows-where, but she played Life, Sorry and Monopoly with Vaughn, me and Timmy for hours.
Jax still wasn't back by four in the evening, and when I ask Gemma about it, she promptly replies, "I hope that bastard freezes his ass off in the rain."
When I question her on about her wanting us to say, she says, "I haven't had another girl to hang with in a long time. It gets old, living with three jacked up guys all the time."
She glances at Vaughn. "Although, I have to say, I don't mind the fourth addition much."
"Not gonna happen, Gemma," he reminds her, rolling his eyes, but I don't think he's genuinely annoyed.
"I know. How could I even think that, what with walking in on you and Chelsea practically dry humping last night?" Gemma laughs loudly, obnoxiously, and I can't help but wonder if there's anything she wouldn't say in a normal conversation.
Probably not.
Timmy doesn't even react to the comment – I imagine he's used to Gemma's comments by now. I blush and stare down at my cards – I'm a doctor, I have an $80,000 salary, I own a nice house, I've got a husband, and also, two kids.
The game of Life sure is better than Sucky Real Life. I can't help but glance at Vaughn, and surprisingly he's blushing, too. We've been avoiding any real type of conversation since this morning. I don't like this newfound tension between us, but it's not like we can just pretend last night didn't happen.
But, no matter how much I want it, I made a promise to myself not to pursue romantic attachments. I still admire how the blush makes him look boyish for a split second. At around seven in the evening, after the storm finally stops – the house, surprisingly, is still standing – Jax makes his way back in, and drops a ham on our Monopoly board.
I kid you not, a fully cooked, honey ham that's just oozing with delicious promise. I blink at the meat for a second, as if it will magically disappear before my eyes, but it doesn't.
"Where'd you get this?" Vaughn asks.
Jax smells suspiciously like pot. He murmurs something unintelligible and disappears back upstairs.
"Well. Uh." Gemma shakes her head, brushing her fake red hair out of her eyes. "That was weird. But whatever. He brought home food like he should have, so let's dig in."
She finds us all some plastic forks. It sure is fun to cut thick slices off the hand with a tiny plastic knife. But we all end up with a good sized piece in our hands. I eat it all hungrily, hoping like hell it's not laced with something.
We save a good sized piece for Tack whenever he wants to come out of hiding, and Vaughn and I share what's left of the food from our packs with them. After some water, we conclude that it's been nice and go up to bed.
Gemma follows us into her room and picks up her red makeup bag, just like last night. Just before she leaves, as me and Vaughn are settling in – sleeping as far from each other on the mattress as possible – she pauses in the doorway.
"Do you want to come with me tonight, Chelsea? You're pretty much skin and bones, but if you stick around for a while, I bet I could get you some regulars."
It takes me a second to absorb what she's suggesting, but, apparently, it takes Vaughn half of one.
"She's not going anywhere with you," he snaps at her, "she's never gonna be some tramp off the street like you, Gemma."
Gemma's eyes widen at his statement, as if shocked by someone talking about her profession in such a way. She shrugs, and shuts the door behind her. But I'm pretty sure I see some wetness in her eyes before she does so.
"You didn't have to be so rude," I snap at Vaughn.
True, Gemma is a prostitute, she says whatever she's thinking, and she's not the greatest influence, but I kind of like her.
"Why not, Chelsea? You're too damn good for people to even be saying stuff like that."
"You don't know me well enough to say that," I say, "and I don't know you, either. A couple games of twenty questions doesn't change that. And I'm perfectly capable of standing up for myself, thank you very little."
I turn away from him, ignoring the spark of anger that flashes through his eyes.
"You're right," I hear him mutter in the dark, "Maybe it's time to refocus my priorities."
OoOoOoO
We leave the next morning, the tenseness between us even more uncomfortable than it was yesterday. But I'm determined to ignore it. I go to Timmy and say goodbye first, wishing I had something to give him, some way to help him. He asks me to stay twice, but both times I say I have somewhere to be.
"Somewhere better than here?" he asks.
"Yes," I say.
"I hope you get there, Chelsea. You and Vaughn."
"Thanks, Timmy."
Surprisingly, Gemma hugs me before we go, but doesn't say goodbye, because apparently she hates those.
She kisses Vaughn on the cheek before he has time to react tells him, "I forgive you for last night, darling. Those eyes of yours are far too difficult to stay mad at."
Ignoring my irritation with this action, I ask her to be careful, and she laughs and says, "Always, girl" before disappearing out the back door.
Jax isn't around to say goodbye to, but I can't say I'm disappointed. Tack also isn't around, and it's impossible to tell if he's out or if he just doesn't want to come out of his part of the house. We exit the house without a backward glance, and agree to stock up on supplies before we start walking across the eight or so miles of farmland until we reach another town.
It's not really a big deal to sneak into the store of our choosing and go through our usual routine. Even though the incident in the clothing store shook me up a little, I settle back into the whole food-stealing thing with relative ease.
We both have on the coats we got from Gemma, and the hats, which I'm grateful for, because it's chilly out here. Plus, it hides Vaughn's hair, so the color won't be noticeable anymore.
"Are you ready?" I ask him when we're a good distance away from the store we just stole from.
"No. Walking this much sucks," he says.
I snort and say, "Well, at least it's not snowing."
"Doesn't matter. It's still cold."
He's probably going to be an asshole and contradict everything I say today, so I roll me eyes and we start the next phase of our journey. I can't help but remember the last few times we held hands while walking like this.
I want to again, but I can't help but think that would go against the whole ignore-our-feelings policy. While we're waiting at a crosswalk, I turn my head and catch sight of a telephone pole a few feet away.
"Vaughn, look," I sigh.
A poster has been taped on it with both our pictures on it, as Missing Persons. The photo is one I remember; it was taken when Crazy Number One was going through a crazed photography phase and took a picture of anything more interesting than dust.
"They know we're together," he mutters, shaking his head as we cross the street.
Yes, I can't help but think, but not in the way I want to be.
A/N: I apologize for being an update fail.
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