Colt and Ash's Spring Break 3

“You need to run,” Colt said over his shoulder to the girl. He was surprised his voice wasn’t shaking. “Now.” 

His words were almost swallowed by the music from the bar—an unrelenting, pounding thud that didn’t make any sense to him.  

But somehow, the man heard him. He glanced at Colt and Ash as though seeing them for the first time. “Get the fuck out of here.” 

Ash grabbed Colt’s tank, twisted it, and breathed, “Bruh.” 

The man didn’t say anything for a moment. And then he rolled his shoulders. “What a fucking night.” 

“Bruh.” Ash’s whisper was high, and he twisted the tank some more until it was tight against Colt’s chest. 

“It’s okay,” Colt said. The sounds from the bar seemed louder. He couldn’t separate out the sounds. It wasn’t music or laughter or any one thing, just a wall of noise that blocked out everything else. “It’s going to be okay.” 

He reached without looking, found Ash, nudged him back a step. When Ash moved, Colt moved with him: a single step back. 

The man came after them. 

In the hallway in that little house in Joplin. Colt at one end. Danny Lee at the other. 

The man took another step. 

Colt pushed Ash back again. 

Danny Lee’s bare feet sticking to the floorboards. Danny Lee’s white trash jeans hanging low on his hips. Danny Lee flexing his hands at his sides. 

This man’s steps were silent as he came across the sand. 

When Colt dreamed about it sometimes, he was still a child. So much smaller. And the hallway was so long. 

And then, on the next step back, the sand gave unexpectedly, and Colt lost his balance. It was only for a moment, and he recovered quickly.  

But it had been enough. 

The man sprang forward. Colt shoved Ash into a run. The old little-kid panic swarmed up behind his eyes, and he wasn’t thinking, he was just running. He could get away. He could slam the door.  

Not that it ever stopped him. 

He could barely make sense of the vendor tents stacked across the path, the girl backed up against them. All of that registered below the buzzing cloud of his fear. 

Why hadn’t she run? 

And then Colt’s flip-flop dug into the sand and pitched him forward. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs, and the terror surged up: dirty nails clutching him by the throat, shaking him, the thin hollow-core door rattling every time Danny Lee slammed him against it. Ash took two more strides, looked back, stopped. 

Colt couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t even breathe. 

And then Pops said, Slow. 

The night came into focus: the tents, Ash’s face, the girl. 

Get up. Get up. You’ve had the wind knocked out of you before. 

Colt got to his hands and knees.  

Behind him, the man was coming closer, laughing. “Jesus Christ, kid. Run much?” 

Slow, Pops said. 

And J-H, curling his fingers into a fist to show him. Eyes, nose, groin. 

“Now,” the man said. He was close enough that the smell of some sort of hair product or cologne carried—too much of it, too strong. Some of the guys at school were like that. Ash said it was because their balls hadn’t dropped. “I told you,” the man said, “to fuck off.” 

Eyes. 

A footstep crunched behind him. 

Colt spun and threw a handful of sand. 

The man screamed. He brought his hands to his face and stumbled back. 

Colt got to his feet and ran. He caught Ash’s arm and shoved him toward the tents. 

“Go!” Colt shouted. 

“I can’t!” the girl shouted back. 

She was still holding her arm across her chest. Not defensively. Because something was wrong with it. 

“Bruh,” Colt nodded at the top of the stack. “Go. I’ll help her up.” 

Ash glanced back. 

The man was swearing and rubbing his eyes as he stumbled toward them. 

“Ash!” 

Ash launched himself up the tents. He was lean and strong and coordinated, and even in nothing but flip-flops, he was up and straddling the topmost tent in a few seconds. 

“Come on,” Colt said, lacing his fingers into a stirrup. 

The girl gave a look at the man. 

“I’m going to kill you!” the man was screaming. He was shaking his head, but he was getting closer. “I’m going to fucking kill you!” 

“Get up there,” Colt snapped, “or we’re leaving you.” 

She set her foot in the stirrup. 

“Now,” Colt said, and he pushed up as she launched herself toward the top. 

Ash made a surprised noise, and there was the thud of a collision. The girl screamed once as Ash caught her, but it was short. 

The party was still going. 

Ash was saying something as he helped the girl slide over the wall of tents. A series of thumps came, and then Ash called, “She's good.” 

Colt started to climb. The vinyl was rough and pebbly under his hands, but weirdly slimy too, and the smell of mildew rose up. He banged his knee on a support post. 

“Bruh!” 

A hand caught his ankle and jerked. 

The vinyl slipped out of Colt’s hands, and he fell. 

He flailed, caught something—one of the aluminum supports—and pain lanced up his arm and into his shoulder.  

Below him, the man grunted and said, “I’m going to kill—” 

Colt kicked. 

The flip-flop was thin and soft, so it acted more like a cushion than anything else when Colt’s heel struck the man’s head. The man swore, and his grip loosened. 

Ash’s hand was there a moment later, gripping Colt’s tank. He pulled Colt up in a single, massive haul. Colt tried to help by propelling himself upward, but his feet and hands windmilled uselessly. This one was all Ash. 

A moment later, Ash was dragging him across the top of the stack of tents. Ash’s chest was heaving, and he had spittle at the corner of his mouth. He gave Colt a shove toward the other side of the tents, and Colt barely had a moment to get his bearings and catch a foothold. As he lowered himself to the ground, Ash dropped down easily beside him. 

The girl was pale, but she was getting to her feet. 

Colt caught her good arm, dragged her up, and forced her into a run. They cleared the narrow passageway between the buildings and emerged onto the street. 

Sunset gleamed on the chrome and glass of passing cars. The smell of warm tar was fading as the day cooled. A breeze ran through the palm trees, and the leaves made a dry skittering sound. 

Colt turned toward their hotel, but the girl yanked her arm free. The movement must have cost her because she let out a sharp sound and took a staggering step toward the curb. She didn’t make it. Bending at the knees, she leaned forward and puked all over the sidewalk. 

It was an opportunity. 

While the girl was still shuddering, Colt grabbed her hoodie. She cried out as the movement jostled her injured arm, but he stuck his hand in one pocket. Then the other. His fingers closed around leather and plastic, and he pulled out Ash’s wallet and hotel key. The girl swiped at Colt, but he darted back. She wasn’t as fast as Danny Lee.  

“Come on,” Colt said. “Let’s get out of here.” 

But Ash didn’t move. 

The girl stood there, her face white, trying to breathe through her nose.  

“Come on,” Colt said again. 

“Bruh, we can’t leave her like this.”  

“She stole your shit.” 

Ash turned a look on Colt. It took about five seconds before Colt dropped his gaze. 

He’d been nine the first time he tried to run away from home. It hadn’t worked. Not all the times after, either. Not until it finally did. 

Because of Pops and J-H. 

“What’s wrong with your shoulder?” Colt asked. 

The girl’s look was still flat and full of anger, but not for Colt. At least, not only for him. After a few seconds, she said, “Tay—he dislocated it.” 

Careful not to look at Ash, Colt said, “I can pop it back in.”  

Danny Lee had taught him that too. 

“I’m fine.” 

“We don’t mind,” Ash said. But he threw a glance at the darkened gap between the buildings. “We’ve got to get out of here.” 

“I’m fine,” the girl said again. 

“You heard her,” Colt said. “She’s fine.” 

“Bruh,” Ash said. Then, to the girl: “Do you want us to call someone? Oh shit, we should call the police.” 

“No police!” The girl swayed slightly. “I just need to get to the transfer station. I've got a ride.” 

“It’s at the other end of the island,” Colt said in a low voice to Ash. 

Ash gave another glance at the path they’d come from. “We can’t leave her.” 

But what Ash didn’t understand was that they could. People did it all the time. 

What would Pops do? What would J-H do? 

What would North do? 

Face prickly with heat, Colt pushed that last thought away and said, “We’ve got to move.” 

“It’s a straight shot,” Ash said, pointing. “We just stay on the main road.” 

“No!” The girl shook her head. “He’ll find us. We’ve got to get back to the beach.” 

Which way will our boys take? The faster—but riskier—route along the main street? Or the slower, but possibly safer, darkness of the beach?