Punk 57
Page 68
He stops, and I clutch my phone in my hand, kind of wanting to throw it at him. Where the hell does he get off? He has friends. Why not ask them?
“Why would you ask me to do this?” I demand.
“Because it’s important.”
He glares at me, but I don’t think he’s angry.
Letting out a breath, his expression softens as he approaches me. “Because I need what’s in there, and because…you’re the one I trust. You’re the one I want here.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m serious, Ryen. Trust me, would you?”
“I trust people who don’t deliberately put me in danger,” I shoot back. “I thought we were doing something at the Cove or climbing a water tower or something. Not breaking into the principal’s house.”
“You break into the principal’s school,” he points out.
I twist up my lips, folding my arms over my chest. Jerk.
He regards me for a moment and then drops his eyes. Taking my hand, he places his keys in my palm. “You’re right. Go ahead and take the truck to your house. I’ll meet you there,” he tells me, relenting. “It’s only a mile away. I can walk it.”
What? No—
But he turns around and walks for Trey’s house, not giving me a chance to protest. I don’t want to get in trouble, but I don’t want him getting in trouble, either.
Something of his is in the house. So we’re not taking anything that doesn’t belong to them then. Okay.
I let out a sigh and run after him.
Just go. Don’t think.
I wonder how many people who got prison sentences said the same thing when they committed their crimes.
I see him head for the front door, digging something out of his pocket, but I eye the doggy door on the garage and then look around me. Anyone could drive by or a neighbor could possibly spot Masen at the door, trying to get in.
“The doggy door is a better idea,” I tell him, knowing Trey’s parents probably took the Husky with them to the game.
He jerks his head, eyeing the rectangular hole in the door. “I can’t fit through there.”
Of course not. Their dog is big but not that big.
I shake my head, hesitating for a moment. But then I heave a sigh and move toward the door.
I can try to convince myself that I know this house, having been here before, and I can get him through it and try to find what he needs a lot faster than he can. But the truth is, I want to know what he’s looking for and why. So far he’s been like a ghost, and I’m curious.
Crouching down, I push my hand through the doggy door, listening for feet to come running or a bark. But all I hear is leaves rustling in the wind.
Mason comes up behind me, and I stick my head through, seeing only the inside of the pitch-black garage. Sliding my arm in, I turn on my side, maneuver my shoulders through the tight space, and put my hands down on the cold cement floor, wiggling my body through the small hole.
I inhale the musty air and make out the little, green dot of light by the kitchen door, guessing that must be the opener.
Stepping cautiously in the dark, I hold out my hands and move toward the door, trying to avoid the pool table, couch, and other furnishings I know are in the converted man-cave.
“Don’t turn on any lights,” Masen calls.
“Duh.” My foot hits the step, and I reach out my hand, pressing the button for the opener. The motor starts turning, and the garage door begins to lift up. Masen bends down and slides in under the door, and I press the button, lowering it again.
I twist the handle to the kitchen door and open it, immediately seeing moonlight streaming through a large kitchen window. Masen comes in behind me, closing the door, and I inhale, smelling Trey. It’s funny how people smell like their houses. Or vice versa.
Combinations of leather and wood furniture, Febreeze, laundry soap, the different colognes and perfumes your parents and siblings use, the food your family cooks…all coming together to create a single, solitary scent in your house.
Except Masen. He smells like the leather from his truck with a hint of soap. That’s it.
“Let’s go.”
He leads me through the house, looking around as if figuring out where to go, which I could tell him if I knew what he was looking for. But rounding the stairs, he jogs up, and I follow.
“Are you going to Trey’s room?” I ask.
“If so, I’ll find it,” he bites out. “I don’t need to know that you know where it is.”
I smile to myself. “I don’t. I was just asking.”
He opens a door, and I peer into the darkness, seeing pink walls and toy hot air balloons hanging from the ceiling.
It must be Emma’s room. Trey’s half-sister. I know Principal Burrowes married Trey’s dad when Trey was about four. Even though he calls her Gillian and doesn’t treat her like a mom, she practically raised him and then gave birth to a daughter several years younger than Trey.
I look at Masen, wondering why he’s not closing the door. What he needs can’t possibly be in here. Emma is only like six. She didn’t steal anything from him.
But he just stands there, letting his eyes drift around the room. His chest moves with his shallow breaths.
“Masen?” I prompt.
But he doesn’t answer.
I touch his arm. “Masen?” I say louder. “What are we looking for? I want to get out of here.”
He blinks, turning away, almost like he’s angry. “Alright, come on.”
“Why would you ask me to do this?” I demand.
“Because it’s important.”
He glares at me, but I don’t think he’s angry.
Letting out a breath, his expression softens as he approaches me. “Because I need what’s in there, and because…you’re the one I trust. You’re the one I want here.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m serious, Ryen. Trust me, would you?”
“I trust people who don’t deliberately put me in danger,” I shoot back. “I thought we were doing something at the Cove or climbing a water tower or something. Not breaking into the principal’s house.”
“You break into the principal’s school,” he points out.
I twist up my lips, folding my arms over my chest. Jerk.
He regards me for a moment and then drops his eyes. Taking my hand, he places his keys in my palm. “You’re right. Go ahead and take the truck to your house. I’ll meet you there,” he tells me, relenting. “It’s only a mile away. I can walk it.”
What? No—
But he turns around and walks for Trey’s house, not giving me a chance to protest. I don’t want to get in trouble, but I don’t want him getting in trouble, either.
Something of his is in the house. So we’re not taking anything that doesn’t belong to them then. Okay.
I let out a sigh and run after him.
Just go. Don’t think.
I wonder how many people who got prison sentences said the same thing when they committed their crimes.
I see him head for the front door, digging something out of his pocket, but I eye the doggy door on the garage and then look around me. Anyone could drive by or a neighbor could possibly spot Masen at the door, trying to get in.
“The doggy door is a better idea,” I tell him, knowing Trey’s parents probably took the Husky with them to the game.
He jerks his head, eyeing the rectangular hole in the door. “I can’t fit through there.”
Of course not. Their dog is big but not that big.
I shake my head, hesitating for a moment. But then I heave a sigh and move toward the door.
I can try to convince myself that I know this house, having been here before, and I can get him through it and try to find what he needs a lot faster than he can. But the truth is, I want to know what he’s looking for and why. So far he’s been like a ghost, and I’m curious.
Crouching down, I push my hand through the doggy door, listening for feet to come running or a bark. But all I hear is leaves rustling in the wind.
Mason comes up behind me, and I stick my head through, seeing only the inside of the pitch-black garage. Sliding my arm in, I turn on my side, maneuver my shoulders through the tight space, and put my hands down on the cold cement floor, wiggling my body through the small hole.
I inhale the musty air and make out the little, green dot of light by the kitchen door, guessing that must be the opener.
Stepping cautiously in the dark, I hold out my hands and move toward the door, trying to avoid the pool table, couch, and other furnishings I know are in the converted man-cave.
“Don’t turn on any lights,” Masen calls.
“Duh.” My foot hits the step, and I reach out my hand, pressing the button for the opener. The motor starts turning, and the garage door begins to lift up. Masen bends down and slides in under the door, and I press the button, lowering it again.
I twist the handle to the kitchen door and open it, immediately seeing moonlight streaming through a large kitchen window. Masen comes in behind me, closing the door, and I inhale, smelling Trey. It’s funny how people smell like their houses. Or vice versa.
Combinations of leather and wood furniture, Febreeze, laundry soap, the different colognes and perfumes your parents and siblings use, the food your family cooks…all coming together to create a single, solitary scent in your house.
Except Masen. He smells like the leather from his truck with a hint of soap. That’s it.
“Let’s go.”
He leads me through the house, looking around as if figuring out where to go, which I could tell him if I knew what he was looking for. But rounding the stairs, he jogs up, and I follow.
“Are you going to Trey’s room?” I ask.
“If so, I’ll find it,” he bites out. “I don’t need to know that you know where it is.”
I smile to myself. “I don’t. I was just asking.”
He opens a door, and I peer into the darkness, seeing pink walls and toy hot air balloons hanging from the ceiling.
It must be Emma’s room. Trey’s half-sister. I know Principal Burrowes married Trey’s dad when Trey was about four. Even though he calls her Gillian and doesn’t treat her like a mom, she practically raised him and then gave birth to a daughter several years younger than Trey.
I look at Masen, wondering why he’s not closing the door. What he needs can’t possibly be in here. Emma is only like six. She didn’t steal anything from him.
But he just stands there, letting his eyes drift around the room. His chest moves with his shallow breaths.
“Masen?” I prompt.
But he doesn’t answer.
I touch his arm. “Masen?” I say louder. “What are we looking for? I want to get out of here.”
He blinks, turning away, almost like he’s angry. “Alright, come on.”
