Hey y'all! I'm back with another update, right on time too! Tracey continues her quest to find her man. Let's get to reading :)
Sand crackling under the tires of Uncle T's old pickup truck, we sat in silence as the sputtering car engine sung to the lonely desert roads. Cool air poured through the windows, whipping against my hair and whistling in my ears. After hours of driving, the sun had begun to dip behind the horizon, painting the sky hues of orange and pink. We had finally reached Sandy Shores.
The town was a deserted maze of narrow, dust caked streets, riddled with potholes and decayed roadkill. The dingy dives and trailers we cruised by were all broken down and rotted, their doors halfway off the hinges, groaning with every sway. There was a stillness in the air, an eerie calmness that had me on edge.
Although Sandy Shores was a creepy ghost town, the long trip here was worth it. Franklin was around here somewhere, at a bar to be specific, according to Lester. Thankfully, Uncle T knew exactly where the bar was located, he's been living in this town for years after all. With his guidance, we were bound to find Franklin in no time.
"So, what do you think of the town, kid?" Uncle T asked, glancing at me for a moment before returning his eyes to the road. "Beautiful, isn't it? Quiet, and secluded, surrounded by nature, and the best part of all? No narcissistic, plastic dickbags to be seen for miles and miles, unlike that piece of shit city you're so accustomed to. Los Santos is getting worse and worse by the day, Tracey. The pretentious scumbags, the gentrification, pollution, noise, increasing crime rates—the list goes on and on. Do yourself a favor and get out of there while you still can."
I rolled my eyes. Los Santos was so much better than this piece of crap town. It wasn't worth starting an argument over though, so I bit my tongue. Uncle T was easily agitated, even more so than my dad. There was no need to risk getting on his bad side, especially considering how nice he's been to me lately.
"Right there, that's the place," Uncle T pointed to a rustic tavern down the road, its bright, neon colored bar signs shone like a beacon in the night.
Uncle T made a sharp turn off the main street, and into the parking lot. He nosed into a space, and cut the engine. There were a few motorcycles and old cars occupying the lot, none of them belonged to Franklin. I sighed.
"Are you sure this is the place?" I asked.
"I'm one-hundred percent sure this is the place," Uncle T said. He exited the vehicle, and opened the passenger door for me. "Let's get in there and find your long-lost boyfriend, shall we?"
Uncle T took the lead, and I hopped after him on my crutches. We strode through the bar's glass door, and was greeted by a bizarre silence. No music, or voices, the few patrons within were hunched over the brass counter, seemingly in a drunken haze, their glazed eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. Broken glass, blood, and alcohol coated the wooden floor, tables and chairs were flipped over, the jukebox was smoking, pool cues were snapped in half. My stomach dropped. What happened in here?
Despite how badly damaged the bar was, the redheaded bartender continued her job as usual, causally cleaning mugs and serving drinks to those sober enough to grunt for a refill. She was an older woman, her hair was styled into a neatly shaped bob. Her eyes darted to Uncle T. "You're banned," she stated.
"Is that anyway to greet an old friend, Janet?" Uncle T asked, sliding into a stool at the counter.
"Really?" Janet scoffed. "We're friends now?"
"Sure we are," he said. "We're friends, aren't we? It must be so miserable, being a lonely widow like yourself, serving depressed losers alcohol for a living, and then having to listen to their shitty problems—god, it must be torture. And judging by the look of this place, you could use a friend right now more than ever. So lay it on me! What happened to this fine establishment?"
"It went to hell in a handbasket, that's what," she said. "Two urban fellas showed up earlier, asking questions and demanding answers about some woman. They were making my customers antsy, so I told them they either settle down and buy a drink, or get the hell outta my bar. One of 'em didn't take it too well, started cursing up a storm, and gettin' rowdy. The situation escalated quickly, somebody threw a bottle, and before long, a barfight broke out."
"Tell me more about the 'urban fellas'," Uncle T said. "By 'urban', you mean black, right?"
"They were city boys, had that fish out of water look, like they didn't belong," she shrugged. "But yes, they happened to be black. I bet they're in a gang too, the lowlifes."
I rolled my eyes. She had to be talking about Franklin and Lamar. "How long ago were they here, lady?" I asked.
"Had to be about forty-five minutes ago," she answered. "Called the sheriff on them, but they made a run for it before he arrived. The whole town is on alert though, they stick out like a sore thumb. Won't be long before they're caught."
"Great, well, we oughta get going now," Uncle T rose from his seat. "Thanks for the info, you're an angel."
"I'd steer clear of those boys if I were you," Janet said. "Nothin' but trouble, the two of them."
Uncle T waved goodbye, and turned for the exit. I followed at his heels, back to the pickup truck. "Now what?" I asked, reclaiming my seat.
Uncle T took the wheel, and turned on the ignition, the engine hummed to life. There was a police car on the road, gliding along slow, their headlights casting a bright beam through the night's shadows. "Well, looks like the boys in blue want to find Frankie and Long Dick just as bad as we do," Uncle T said.
I frowned. "I hope they're okay."
"I know this town better than almost anybody, I got dozens of places they can lay low. We just gotta get to them before the cops do. They couldn't have gotten far." Uncle T gazed at me. "Things might get hectic from here on out, kid. Are you sure you wanna do this?"
"Yes! My boyfriend is like, way too handsome to end up in jail! Do you have any idea what they'd do to him? We have to help him. What are we going to do?"
"Let's search around, see if we find anything suspicious—"
Uncle T's phone began to chime. He wrangled it from his pocket and stared at the screen. "Well, what do ya know? It's a text from Lester."
"What does it say?" I asked.
"Check Lifeinvader," Uncle T scratched his beard. "Why the fuck would I do that? I hate social media, I avoid it like a plague, the government is monitoring everything—"
"Just do it! Check Franklin's and Lamar's page. It might give us a lead."
"Fine." Uncle T opened the web browser application, and scrolled down to the Lifeinvader link. It took him forever to remember his login credentials. I didn't even know he had an account, he never sent me or Dad a friend request. Maybe he really did hate social media. "I'm in," he said, finally logging into his account. He punched Franklin's full name into the search bar, and scrolled through his page.
"See anything interesting?" I asked, peeking over his shoulder to get a better look at the phone. Franklin's wall was full of messages from his friends, Lamar mostly, none of which he cared to respond to. Unfortunately, all the posts were weeks old, and no help to us.
"Nothing useful here," Uncle T said. "This is a waste of time, Lester's fucking with us."
"Let's check Lamar's, just to be sure."
With an incoherent grumble, Uncle T reluctantly switched to Lamar's page, and together, we browsed through it. Unlike Franklin, Lamar seemed to be very active on social media. He had dozens of recent videos and pictures with plenty of likes, a lot of status updates too, some of which had just been posted today.
About to be out to Sandy Shores with my homeboy, on the hunt 4 the one who got away. Any of U bitchz down for a roadtrip?
Just got finished cracking some racist white dudes with a bottle, they don't know about CGF down here, but they gone learn today #symbolofmyoppression
Who knew country bumpkins could turn up? It's lit on Armadillo Avenue, bitchzz are flockin like bees on honey and your boy is out here looking type sweet, U feel me?
"Looks like Lamar moved on from Franklin's poor old auntie pretty fast," Uncle T said. "Not sure if I should be proud, or ashamed."
"His last post was three minutes ago," I said. "What's on Armadillo Avenue?"
"Nothing but a bunch of beat up houses and tattoo parlors. Let's hightail it over there, and find out what kind of trouble Lamar's gotten himself into. Hopefully Frank is still with him." He stepped on the gas, and we swerved out of the parking lot.
The street Lamar mentioned was, thankfully, only a few blocks away. The moment we made a turn off the main road, and onto the narrow street known as Armadillo avenue, shouting and the blaring sound of country music resonated through the air. The noise was coming from a red brick house in the distance. Shoddy and run-down like all the others around here, the home looked like something out of a story book, the roof itself was made of straw, and the windows were circular, gaping holes for wind and sandy debris to flow in and out freely.
Uncle T pulled up before the house, and parked the car on the curb. There were people in straw hats and dusty cowboy boots out on the lawn, dancing to the classic country tunes blasting from within the house, while others fought among themselves in a drunken stupor, cursing at and shoving one another. No wonder Sandy Shores seemed so empty, just about everyone in town was here, letting loose and partying beneath the stars.
"Somebody in town is throwing a fucking party and decided not to invite me?" Uncle T grumbled. "I'm the CEO of Trevor Philips Enterprises, the most influential bastard in this town! Look at all these inbred twats—I should gouge their eyes out, every single one of them!"
His mouth set in a grim line and muscles vibrating, Uncle T threw the car door open and stomped toward the house, shoving everyone who dared block his path. I stumbled after him on my crutches, but I couldn't keep up with his anger fueled stride. He left me behind, disappearing through the front door as I struggled to navigate through the weedy lawn and crowds of sweaty, dancing bodies.
Once I finally neared the splintered porch steps, a fat, hairy frame slipped in front of me, stopping me in my tracks. It was a man, morbidly obese, and eerily pale, his chubby face puffed up into grin at the sight of me, revealing his chipped, awkwardly spaced teeth. Creepy.
"Excuse me," I muttered, attempting to swerve around him.
He mirrored my movement, blocking my path yet again. The guy was as big as a whale, and just as intimidating. Staring at the wide, hunched back man, my palms grew damp. "You ain't from around here," he said, his bloodshot eyes twitched erratically. "New in town?"
"Y-yes," I stammered. "I'm here with my uncle—"
"Where?" his shifty eyes scanned the area. "I don't see no Uncle. You're here by yourself, I reckon? Care to dance, pretty thing?"
"With you?" I rolled my eyes. "Ew, not in a million years, butterball. I have a boyfriend, thank you very much."
"That's a shame, darlin'," his glare lowered to my crutches. "Something happen to your legs, little lady? You know, my momma can't walk too good either. She can really use some crutches of her own, pushing her around in a wheelchair is real hard on my back. You should give her yours. She'd be mighty grateful, I reckon."
"Are you crazy? I need these—"
"Did ya think I was asking?" His large, dirty mitts grabbed my crutches, and yanked them from my grasp. I yelped, and lost my footing, my knees collided with the cold earth. Obnoxious snickering erupted all around me, drowning out the music as I struggled to stand. My arm ached, tears stung my eyes. Everyone was laughing at me. Why did my life suck so bad? I wanted to curl up into a ball and die.
Time seemed to come to a slow, my sight blurred by tears. I reached out, my hand kissing the twilight sky, hoping that someone would help me, that there would be one kind soul among the tainted.
After what felt like an eternity, finally, a hand captured mine. The touch was warm, the callouses on the palm strangely familiar…
There was someone kneeling before me, his figure was mostly a blur, but I managed to discern his eyes. There was a sparkle in his soft, hazel brown gaze, spots of gold danced within his irises, twinkling beneath the moonlight like stars. Captivated by the glimmering hues, I blinked away my tears, and the blurriness slowly subsided.
Franklin's powerful body began to materialize, hovering over me, his mouth gaping open like a fish on a hook. Muscles tensed, he stared at me incredulously, his thick brows furrowed. The distance between us suddenly erased, my body melted into his form, his strong arms wrapped around me, holding me close. There was a fluttering sensation in my chest, and in an instant, I was in tears again.
For a moment, I thought I was dreaming, his perfectly timed arrival was too good to be true. He was my lifeline, he was always there in the nick of time to save me. I clenched tightly to his shirt, refusing to let him go. I tried to speak, to tell him I love him, to tell him never leave me again, but my voice faltered into unintelligible whimpers. He croaked, tears brimming on his eyelids, his fingers stroked through my hair.
We held each other for a long while. When his full, quivering lips pressed against my cheek, the world melted away, and I lost all concept of time. He kissed me and kissed me, softly, with each brush of his lips more tears fall from my eyes, tears neither of us cared to wipe away.
Franklin cleared his throat before speaking. "Tell me I ain't seein' shit, that you're really here..."
"You're not seeing things," I muttered. "I'm here. It's me. Me and Uncle T have been looking everywhere for you since the moment I woke up."
"For real? You came all the way out here to find my ass?" He smiled. "Damn, I-I ain't too sure what to say—"
"You sappy motherfuckers done having y'all little moment?" Lamar appeared at our side. "Damn Frank, are you crying?"
"Nah, nigga," Franklin sniffed. "I'm good, I just got some shit in my eye, sand or somethin'."
"You ain't gotta bullshit me, man. I respect what you got goin' on with the white girl—emotional reunion and shit. But what 'bout the homies, dog? You don't never show me no love, you ain't never shed a tear over me, nigga. When I got pinched by the Ballas, all you did was throw me a couple of dollas for a box of chicken and some blunt wraps. You coulda at least gave a nigga a hug—"
"Man, first of all, I wasn't crying," Franklin said. "I told you there was some shit in my eye, motherfucker. Secondly, fools be tryna pinch yo' ass on the daily, dog. I ain't got enough tears to be crying over every time yo' stupid ass almost get clapped. I'll be crying for the rest of my damn life."
"That's hood shit, nigga. The streets ain't safe for no one, you feel me? I could die any moment now, and when I pass on to the great plains with the free buffalo and the horny squawk bitches, you gonna regret takin' our friendship for granted—"
A voice called out, "Lookie here what I found, fellas!" I tuned out Franklin and Lamar's conversation, my eyes darted to the fat thief who snatched my crutches. He stood by the curb, huddled together with his hillbilly buddies, his beefy arm held my stolen crutches high like a trophy for all to see.
"I found me some quality walking sticks for my momma," the fat thief said. "I reckon she'll be able to walk down to the Lord's house by the creek on Sundays, and be back home faster than green grass through a goose. No more pushing her 'round in that got dam' wheelchair! Praise the Lord, god is good! Can I get an amen?"
"Amen!" his friends cheered in unison, spit flying through their rotten buckteeth.
My body twitched as I glared a hole in the fat thief's back. "Frank!" I shouted, pointing to the thief. "That asshole stole my crutches!"
Franklin glanced at the fat thief, and then back at me. "What you mean, babe?"
"He stole my crutches," I repeated. "I need them!"
"Damn," Lamar gasped, staring at the fat thief. "The fuck has that dude been eatin'? Sorry, white girl, but I ain't fucking with him. That motherfucker is big as hell, he look like a sumo wrestler in the making."
Franklin nodded. "For real, we finna need tranquilizer darts or some shit to fuck with that big ass dude. How bad you need them crutches, girl?"
"I can't effing walk without them," I frowned.
"Damn, white girl," Lamar said. "You can't walk? That makes sense, 'cause I was wonderin' why you were all laid out on the ground like that. I thought you were playin' dead or some shit."
Franklin swept me into his strong arms. Nestled in his warm embrace, he kissed my forehead. "I'ma go get your shit back, a'ight?" He glanced at Lamar. "Ay, man. Hold my girl while I handle this."
"I got you, homie." With Lamar's approval, Franklin carefully passed me over.
Due to Lamar's unnatural height, I felt uncomfortably high above the ground while in his arms. "Don't drop me," I muttered.
Lamar smirked. A glint of mischief in his eyes, he abruptly let go of me, his arms lowered to his side.
"Lamar!" I cried, clinging to his tattooed neck to stop my fall.
"My bad," he grinned playfully, scooping me into his sinewy arms again.
Giggling, I punched his shoulder. "You are like, such a dick."
"What you call me? Don't make me drop you again—"
"Lamar, stop fuckin' playin'," Franklin said. "She just woke up from a coma, dummy. Drop her, and I'ma drop yo' lanky ass next."
"Chill, dog," Lamar said. "Me and white girl just having fun. We wouldn't have to lug her skinny ass around if she had them crutches. Ain't you supposed to be getting them back? Go handle yo' candle, bitch. In the meantime, I'll be right here, chillin' with your girl. Somebody's gonna have to take care of her after that fat dude kills yo' ass. He gonna flatten you like a pancake, nigga."
Franklin grumbled something under his breath, and strode away, his glare settled on the fat thief across the lawn. "Ay, motherfucker," he shouted over the music, capturing the attention of nearby partygoers. "That's my girl's crutches!"
The fat thief and his friends turned to confront Franklin. "My name ain't 'motherfucker'," the fat thief said. "Folks call me Bobby Joe 'round here—"
"Like I give a fuck," Franklin spat. He stalked close to the thief, and before long, they were eye to eye, fists clenched, sizing one another up. Tension split the air. The dancing stopped, and so did the drinking, as everyone's eyes shifted to witness the intense standoff unfold.
I swallowed hard. Franklin was strong, really strong, but the guy he was facing? He was huge, large enough to sit a grown man and crush him. Maybe this was a bad idea.
"These walking sticks belong to my momma now," Bobby Joe said. "She's in desperate need of 'em. Didn't you hear? She lost both her feet in a terrible barn fire, the flames melted her ankles right off, bless her heart."
"His momma is in a wheelchair now," a short man beside him added.
Franklin shrugged his shoulders. "Damn, dog. That's rough. But if you don't hand over those motherfuckin' crutches right now, you gonna be rollin' around a wheelchair too, right along with your moms."
"Good Lord!" Bobby Joe exclaimed. "That sounds like a threat. You ain't got the guts, boy."
"My boyfriend has more guts than you do, asshole," I shouted.
Bobby Joe's eyes darted to me, his chunky face reddening. "Keep talking floozy, and I'll jerk ya bald—"
Franklin struck Bobby Joe's jaw with his fist. Pow! Screams and gasps filled the air as people crowded around the two men to observe the fight. Bobby Joe stumbled back from the blow, but regained his composure quickly. Meaty fingers clenching the rubber ends of my metal crutches, he swung them at Franklin. My amazing boyfriend managed to dodge the lethal blur of silver, and leapt forward, throwing yet another jab. Crack! Franklin's knuckles battered Bobby Joe's nose. I cringed, the brutal snap of the bones in his face breaking hurt to hear.
"My nose!" Bobby Joe wailed. Blood pouring from his nostrils, he dropped my crutches and clutched his nose. "I'm bleedin' more than a hog at a butcher's shop! I'm gon' die!"
"You son of a gun!" one of Bobby Joe's pals broke off from the crowd, and lunged at Franklin, tackling him onto the ground. As they wrenched, rolled, and wrestled with one another for dominance, my eyes were glued to Franklin's sweaty, bulging muscles. His powerful body was a flawless work of art. He radiated an exquisite masculinity, and an aura of unrelenting strength. He was a man to be feared and respected.
God, he was so hot. Violent and fearless—no one carried themselves quite like him. It was such a turn on.
The hillbilly crowd cheered, egging on the fight and clapping their hands.
"Kick his ass, babe!" I cheered along with them. "Break every bone in his body!"
"That's right, you heard the white girl," Lamar added. "Paralyze that motherfucker! Kill his ass—"
"Don't kill him! Just break his bones!"
Finally, Franklin successfully pinned down his foe. He reared back, curling his hand into a tight fist, and punched forward with his whole body. Bam! Teeth and blood flying from his mouth, Bobby Joe's pal instantly went limp, body stiff and eyes closed.
The cheering grew louder, a jolt of energy rushed through me from Franklin's well-deserved victory. "You did it!" I pumped my fist into the air. "You're unstoppable!"
Franklin stood, flashing a pearly white smile at me. He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, and scooped up my crutches from the ground.
"No!" Bobby Joe cried, his bloody mitts clawed at Franklin's feet desperately. "Please, don't take 'em! What's my momma gon' do without no walking sticks?"
The piercing shriek of a bullet pierced the air. Bang! Everyone froze, the cheering faded, the country music cut out, and a tense silence claimed the dry desert land. I shuddered, my head snapped toward the source of the shot.
There was a man on the porch with a rifle in his gloved hands. He stood tall, his face was laced in shadows, hidden by a wide brimmed hat. He looked like a real cowboy, his leather chaps and long coat rippled in the wind. "What in the blue blazes is goin' on out here?" he asked. "I told y'all I won't condone no scrappin' on my property."
Bobby Joe pointed at Franklin, "It's his fault! He hit me first, the no-good weasel."
The cowboy's gaze settled on Franklin. He stroked his stringy black beard, and tapped the heel of his cowhide boots against the floor. "I heard there were some troublemakers in town who made a real mess of Yellow Jack Inn. The sheriff said they were dark skinned, meaner than a wet house cat, and slicker than owl shit. You know anything about that, son?"
Franklin glanced at the rifle, and winced, his gaze quickly averted to his feet. "Nah, I don't know nothin' 'bout that, man."
The cowboy shook his head, and spit on the ground. "You're lyin' like a goddamn no-legged dog." He raised his gun on Franklin. "That saloon has been a staple of my heritage for over one hundred years! My great grandpappy risked life and limb—"
"Hey!" Uncle T emerged from the house with a case of beer in tow. "No one gives a rat's ass about your great grandpappy, alright? Now do me a favor and fuck off, you're ruining the party."
"Trevor fucking Philips," the cowboy muttered, lowering his gun. "To what do I owe this honor? I don't remember inviting no psychopaths to our shindig. Why don't ya get gone while the gettin' is still good? I'd hate to have to shoot ya—"
In a sudden fit on rage, Uncle T grabbed a beer from the case, and smashed the cowboy over the head with it. Crack! His hat fell off, the bottle bursts into pieces, glass flying and beer spewing everywhere. Ouch.
"Argh!" the cowboy crumbled to his knees, clenching his bloody skull.
Trevor smirked, and laid a hand on the cowboy's trembling shoulder. "Threaten me again, and I will sneak into your house at night, stab you through the heart, and skin you alive. Then I'll gouge out your eyes, and fuck your skull while using your skin as a fucking condom."
"Fuck his skull now!" a partygoer shouted from the crowd.
"Yeah," another voice added. "I hate that wannabe cowboy bastard."
"Really?" the cowboy huffed. "Traitorous sons of bitches—"
"Shut up!" Uncle T kicked him, the impact of his steel-toed boot colliding with the cowboy's face knocked him out cold instantly. Hoots and hollers of approval resonated from the crowd. "What kind of party is this, eh?" Uncle T yelled. "Turn up the music, let's get crunk bitches!"
The country tunes resumed, and with the cowboy still knocked out on the porch, the party kicked off again. All huddled together, the hillbilly partygoers continued to drink, dance, and sing the night away. I sighed, relieved that the violence and general craziness was over and done with. Franklin pushed his way through the gyrating mob, and returned to Lamar and I. There was blood on his knuckles, and his clothes were dusted with sand, but he seemed to be okay otherwise.
"Here you go," Franklin handed me my crutches.
There was a tingling warmth in my chest. I beamed at him, "Thank you."
"That scrap was intense, my nigga," Lamar said. "You good?"
Franklin nodded, "I'm cool, dog. I got lucky, shit coulda gone much worse."
Uncle T hurried over to us. "Franklin! Lamar! Me and Tracey have been looking everywhere for you fuckers. How's it going, boys? Enjoying the party?"
"Yo, what up, Crazy Dude?" Lamar gave Uncle T a fist bump. "We gotta come out here more often. This party lit as a motherfucker, I ain't even gonna lie."
"Oh yeah, I'm havin' a real good time," Franklin grumbled. "Just got into a fight with some hick dudes, and almost got capped by a motherfuckin' cowboy. Shit can't get no better than this."
"Cut it with the sarcasm, kid," Uncle T said. "It's an overused form of humor that's tacky, and rarely ever funny. It makes you look douchey and lame, like Michael, for example. And speaking of being douchey and lame, why haven't you been returning my calls, Frank? We aren't friends anymore? Is that what this is?"
Before Franklin could utter a response, sirens rent the arid air, the distant wailing drowned out the music. Flashing lights appeared from down the road, penetrating the night's shadows. My eyes widened. The strong flickers of red and blue that used to be a calming indication that help was on the way, had now sent me spiraling into a panic.
Franklin and Lamar were wanted men! Uncle T assaulted a cowboy!
"We have to get out of here!" I blurted.
"Shit," Franklin scoffed. "Motherfuckin' Five-O 'bout to be all over our asses."
"Come with me," Uncle T demanded, bolting for his pickup truck.
"Homie," Lamar shoved me into Franklin's arms. "Here's your baggage, bitch. Handle that shit." He took off after Uncle T.
Franklin followed them, staggering along with my weight. Uncle T rushed to the wheel, Lamar claimed the passenger seat beside him. With all the seats in the car taken, Franklin and I were forced to ride the back. Gently, he set me down on the cold cargo bed, and hopped in, huddling beside me.
Uncle T slipped the keys into the ignition. The engine cranked and stirred, but it wouldn't start.
"Why this motherfucker ain't moving, homie?" Lamar asked.
"The fucking engine is stalling," Uncle T retorted. "It happens sometimes, this truck a fossil."
"Damn, we fucked. We gonna get booked!"
"I don't wanna go to jail," I whimpered.
"Stop whining, it's fucking distracting," Uncle T muttered. "Just give me a damn second."
Franklin scooted close to me, his strong arms encircled around my waist. "Things are 'bout to get real bumpy, girl. Keep your head down, and try not to get shot, a'ight?"
"W-what?" I gasped, a weight pressed on my chest, robbing me of breath. "Are the police going to murder us? Is this the part when we die?"
"Nah, T's got this—"
"Frank, if the cops kill me, there's something I have to tell you. It's important."
He glanced at me. "What?"
"I froze my eggs, so if I die, you can thaw them, and we can still have a baby, sort of. It's a simple process, all you need is your sperm and a chick to be the surrogate. That way, you'll always have a part of me."
Fumbling for words, Franklin stared at me, wide-eyed, his brows furrowed. Did I just freak him out? Nah, he must had been so flattered, he was speechless.
The sirens were getting close now, white cop cars made a sharp turn onto the avenue. Our car engine had finally stirred to life. Uncle T stomped on the gas, and we shot forward, smoke pouring from the exhaust pipe, and tires screeching against the pavement.
And that's a wrap! Another chapter down! The story has finally reached 100k words (excluding the little notes I post here). You know, I started this as a one-shot because I was dying for a good Franklin/Tracey fic to read. I couldn't find one, so I decided to write one of my own. The feedback I received from you guys was great, so I decided to turn it into a multi-chapter fic. And wow, I honestly had no idea this story would end up being this long! We've come a long way together guys! :D
I don't always update on a consistent basis, I've been working on changing that but sometimes real life gets in the way. If you want email notifications on whenever I post a new chapter, follow/fav! Thank you so much for reading. Leave a review, let me know what you think! Honest feedback is always welcome, I love you guys for the support :)