East West Sunset - A Darry Curtis Fanfiction

Chapter Three

"You talk like Dad was the worst thing that ever happened to you."

"Well, darling, in some ways he was."

"Mom! You don't have a particle of romance in your body, do you?!"

"No, I don't. Yours must come from your father. Romance kills girls, darling. Be careful with it; don't get carried away."

"What?" I took a step back from the house in horror. "You can't be serious. The Curtis brothers stole my bag?"

"Well, the Curtises didn't, Bryon did," Steve reasoned wisely. "Wait, you've heard of the gang?"

"Heard of it?! I was told it's the baddest gang around!" I fairly shrieked at him.

Steve rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "I knew you were a Soc. Who told you that, the preppy Soc boys at school?"

"A- Sosh?" I repeated, confused.

"Yeah, short for Socials or whatever. Trust me, the Curtises and the other fellows aren't all that bad. We get into rumbles, sure, but overall we keep to ourselves. Only hold up gas stations every once in a while," Steve explained. "You'll be perfectly safe with us."

I gave him a derisive look and stayed exactly where I was.

"Look, do you want your satchel back or not?" he asked.

I really didn't want to meet this gang, but since it seemed to be the only way to get my bag back, I reluctantly took a step forward. It had occurred to me that Steve was only making this up to entrap me inside the sketchy-looking house; considering the fact that I had literally no idea who this boy really was, I was a little wary to trust him. But in the end, I decided that I had nothing to lose. If this guy really knew where my satchel was, and more importantly who had it, I had to take this opportunity while it lasted.

I followed him up the creaky steps to the front door, a battered screen door that clung to its hinges precariously. I could see why it was in such rough shape as Steve threw it open so hard that it banged against the wall behind it, making a deafening screeching, thudding noise that almost made me cover my ears.

"HEY, BRYON!" Steve yelled.

It was a small house. We had stepped into a small living room with a ratty old pullout couch, an old TV and stereo set, and a threadbare carpet which I supposed had once been blue but the sun had faded into an almost unrecognizable color. The TV blared- oddly enough- Mickey Mouse cartoons to an audience of one stocky boy sitting on the carpet. What was even odder about this situation was the age of this boy: he was a man really, probably five years older than me. He was tall and had ruddy hair which lengthened into rather magnificent sideburns. He glanced away from the cartoons and regarded me curiously.

"Who's this, Steve?" he asked good-naturedly. "You haven't got a new girl, have you?"

"Aw, can it, Two-Bit," Steve grumbled. "BRYON!"

From a doorway next to what I assumed to be a bedroom, a boy with dark hair stuck his head into the living room. It was the boy from the bus, the one who'd stolen my bag!

"What is it you're yapping about, Steve?" he asked angrily.

"Leave the yappin' to me," Two-Bit said, giving me a wink and turning back to his show.

Steve bobbed his head in my direction. "You stole that bag you were showing us from this chick."

Bryon's face paled a bit as he noticed me standing there, slightly dwarfed by Steve's height, but he regained his steely composure almost instantly. "Yeah, and?" he said sassily.