The Family: Long Road Home (VOL. 3)

Chapter 2

Drayton pulls off the road into the gravel parking lot of Buddy's Gas and Go and parks beside one of the only two pumps there. The twins don't wait for the car to come to a complete stop before they throw open the back doors and scramble out of the van into the fresh day where there's plenty of clean air and elbow room for the taking.

Loretta's the next out of the van, keeping a worrisome eye on her sons making a bee-line for the convenience store. The corners of her narrow brows turn upwards while her lips spread into a broad frown. "Now wait a minute, boys. Hold your horses," she calls after them, clutching her small, bell-shaped, 'leather' pocketbook.  Of course, they don't wait around for her. Even their injuries from that fateful night can't slow them down so their mother nagging their ears off sure isn't going to put a hitch in their plans. Whatever they might be.

"I told you so, I told you so," Drayton grumbles to the breeze as he shoves the driver's door open and slides out of his seat. "Them boys can't be trusted in public. She know 'at just as well as I do. They ain't housebroken. Can't keep their noses outta where it don't belong. Shouldn'ta let 'em off their leashes. Damn it. Where's a kennel when ya need one..."

His complaints roll on but I tune each one out and shift my focus onto the amicable day. The dry, overgrown grass susurrates as the breeze frolics its way through the lime green and tawny blades. Swallows and cicadas harmonize together, their voices riding the zephyr of warm air. It's not cold enough to cool my sweltering skin, but it's a good ten degrees cooler than inside this metal box. The day is hot, that's typical for Texas, but inside the van is a whole new level of hell. One that reeks of body odor, piss, and weed. But the combination of it all is enough to make me forget the events of that night for a little while at least.

The wind caresses my face and lifts the stray hairs sticking to the sweat on the back of my neck. I've tied the rest of my hair into a bun on the crown of my head in a meager effort to cool myself down but those wispy strands on the nape of my neck refuse to be tamed. The temperate day entices me to come outside, beckoning me with its clear skies and sunshine, and I answer its call. Crawling on my hands and knees to the back doors left wide open in the twins' whirlwind escape, I swing my legs over the edge and plant the soles of my shabby oxfords amongst the pebbles below. A ticklish sensation shoots through my legs with each wiggle of my toes. The pins and needles that zap through my extremities when my limbs fall asleep has to be one of the worst feelings. I grab the doorframe to steady myself as I rise onto my numb feet and wait for my limbs to snap out of their paralysis.

The service station isn't as run-down as the one Drayton owns, but it's just as seedy. The only car in the parking lot besides Chop's van is a dinged-up, rusted, 1990s Buick that must belong to the attendant. That car isn't the only rust bucket though. The shabby building has seen its better days. The grimy gas pumps haven't gone digital yet, the owners obviously haven't joined the twentieth century. Cigarette butts, crumpled receipts, and gum wrappers litter the ground surrounding the pumps. The front of the building is plastered with outdated signs for ice-cold Slurpees and two-for-three-dollars cheeseburger deals. Tempting...

Bubba joins me at the back of the van and hangs his good leg over the edge of the bumper while resting his head against the doorframe. His eyes flutter close and he takes deep breaths, inhaling the crisp air and letting the breeze cool his flushed skin. Beadlets of glistening perspiration pour from beneath the edge of his mask and drip onto his chest before getting lost in the forest of wiry black hair sprouting beneath his shirt. Even though he looks relaxed with his head lulled back and eyes resting, he's on high alert. The stress of the past few days has him antsy and his trust in me wavering. If I were to take off running right now he'd be on me like white on rice. That wound on his leg would faze him no more than a papercut if it came down to it.