Heart Shaped Rock (6 page)

I sneak a peek at Tiffany. She raps on the boy’s window with palpable disdain. Oh man, she’s practically scratching her belly and chewing tobacco.

The boy rolls down his window. He’s bug-eyed and agitated.

“Hello,” Tiffany huffs, her voice two octaves lower than normal. She’s pressing her talk button so I can hear the exchange from my seat in the car. “May I see your license, please?” Did she just use a faux Southern accent?

His hands shaking, the nearly pre-pubescent boy hands Tiffany a neatly folded piece of paper. “It’s my temporary license,” his voice cracks. “I just got my license yesterday.”

Tiffany shoots me a quick glance that says,
Bingo
. “There’s been a report of a bank robbery in the area,” she mutters in her Boss Hogg voice, “and the description of the assailant’s car matches yours.”

I can see the boy’s profile. He looks like he’s going to pee his pants. “Are you, like, an undercover cop?” he asks, wide-eyed. He seems to have an epiphany: “Oh my God, are you, like,
Twenty-One Jump Street
or something?”

Tiffany smirks at him. Then she puts her head down (chomping on her imaginary tobacco I suppose) and examines the kid’s temporary license. I’m absolutely
dying
from my vantage point in the car.

From the static, I can tell that Tiffany has released her finger on the “talk” button. That’s my cue. “Breaker, breaker, unit six-two-oh, repeat, unit six-two-oh, come in.”

Tiffany compresses the “talk” button again so I can hear the conversation. “No, young man,” she mutters, “we’re just concerned citizens. We’re part of a volunteer task force, just trying to keep our streets safe.” She lets him digest that pile of crap for a moment and then adds, “Lucky for you, you don’t match the description of the bank robber.” She hands his paper license back to him. “You can go.”

His exhale is audible, even through my walkie-talkie. With shaky hands placed precisely at the ten and two o’clock positions on his steering wheel, the boy slowly pulls his minivan back into traffic.

Tiffany jogs back to her car and throws herself into the driver’s seat, squealing. “Did you see that? That was insane. I thought he was gonna hurl.”

“I thought he was gonna crap his pants.” I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this. This feels incredible.

Tiffany starts her car and pulls back into traffic.

“Okay, your turn next,” she commands. “You’ve got to feel the rush.”

It’s so outside of my comfort zone, so unlike me... but I’m feeling almost euphoric. This is such a relief from the darkness I’ve been drowning in for so long. I can be anybody I want to be. I’m not Poor Little Shaynee Sullivan right now. I’m part of a volunteer task force, keeping our streets safe. “I’ll do it,” I declare, and Tiffany whoops in celebration.

“Okay,” Tiff says pensively, scanning the road. “We’ve got to find our mark.”

She drives her car up alongside a small sedan filled with teenagers. We make a big show of talking into our walkie-talkies, but they start laughing and pointing at us.

Tiffany yells for them to pull over, and one of the guys in the backseat shouts, “Sure, baby,” and makes an obscene gesture.

“Ewww.” Tiffany groans, and speeds up to leave them in the dust. “What about
that
car?” Tiffany asks after a moment. It’s an economy car, something a teen would drive. But when she pulls alongside it, the driver’s an old guy with a long beard.

“Hello, Dumbledore,” I mumble, and Tiffany chuckles.

We drive along for a few more minutes, scanning the available crop of potential candidates. Our natural high is starting to come down. We’d better find someone young and gullible lickity-split, or else I’m going to lose my nerve.

Tiffany pulls the car alongside a dude on a motorcycle. He’s wearing beat-up jeans, a black leather jacket, combat boots, and a huge black helmet on his head. The helmet features a tinted front visor that completely covers his entire face. The helmet swivels, and the front visor fixates in my direction.

“Boom shakalaka,” Tiff says.

I glance around. It’s a party atmosphere out on the street—there are people practically dancing up and down the sidewalk and boardwalk—and for some reason, I don’t feel the least bit like myself right now. Why not give it a whirl?

Keeping the motorcycle dude in my peripheral vision, I put the walkie-talkie up to my mouth and try to look like I’m mumbling something important. I pretend to listen to an important message on my walkie-talkie, and then I glance directly at him, as if the message pertains to him.

His black-helmeted head remains uncannily trained in my direction. It feels like the dude’s staring right at me, but I can’t see under that dang visor to know for sure.

“Pull over,” I mouth, pointing to the shoulder of the road.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he immediately slows down and veers off to the right shoulder.

I guess that answers that question—he most certainly was staring right at me.

Oh, crap. I’m losing my nerve.

Tiffany slows her car and follows him to the shoulder. When his motorcycle comes to a complete stop, he rests his feet on the asphalt for balance. His legs are strong under those jeans. Tiffany parks right behind him.

“You go, Tiffany,” I beg. I feel sick. Why did I agree to do this?

“Oh hell, no. It’s your turn.”

I don’t move.

“Go on,” Tiff says. “Get your skinny little butt out there and impersonate an officer of the law.”

The dude on the motorcycle swings his head back to look at me and then raises his hands into the air, as if to say,
well?

Fine.
In one deliberate and rather pissy motion, I swing my car door open and stomp out of the car. Slamming my car door shut, I march over to the guy, holding my walkie-talkie in my hand.

Right on cue, Tiffany begins spewing dispatcher-sounding blah-blah-blah through my walkie-talkie. “Car seven-oh-seven, do you copy?” Tiffany says. I turn back around to the car, seeking permission to beg off, but she’s slumped down behind the dash and not visible.
Oh, that’s smooth, Tiffany.
Surely, this guy thinks our car drives itself like Herbie the Lovebug.

I reach him. I’m standing on his left, two inches from his thigh.

He swivels his head at me. He’s Darth Vader in his big black helmet and tinted visor.

“Sir,” I say, trying to sound official. I clear my throat. “Could you please flip the visor up?”

Was that a laugh from inside that helmet?

His hand comes up to the visor, and he opens it to reveal startling, cobalt blue eyes—the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen, as a matter of fact. The kind of eyes that could make a girl’s heart skip a beat, if that hypothetical girl happened to have a beating heart in the first place.

His eyes look at me expectantly. He shifts his weight.

I can’t figure out what I want to say. I can’t do this. I should walk away.

He raises his eyebrows. “What can I do for you?” His voice betrays the smirk hidden beneath the lower half of his helmet. “Are you lost, little girl?”

I stumble for words. “No, sir.”

He bursts out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I put my hands on my hips. “What the hell are you laughing at?”

He laughs even harder. “I’m laughing at you.”

I’m about to turn around and stomp back to the car, when he does something that stops me dead in my tracks. He winks at me. The bastard
winks
at me with one of those shockingly blue eyes. This, I cannot abide. “Oh, wow,” I say. “You’ve got that wink down, dude. Does that wink make the girls fall all over themselves?”

He laughs again. It’s a guttural laugh. Carefree.

Asshole.

“
Hey, I seem to recall
you
asked
me
to pull over,” he says, shrugging his shoulders and containing his chuckles. “I was just trying to help you out. This is a slumber-party-scavenger-hunt thing, right? You need to take a picture of yourself with a guy on a motorcycle? Isn’t that what your type of girl does on a Friday night?” He laughs again. “I wouldn’t want you going back to your sleep-over empty-handed.”

“My type of girl?” I ask, totally offended. “And what type is that?”

“Well, blonde, for starters—and that should be plenty right there. But, well, silly, too, obviously. And”—he lowers his voice—“drop-dead gorgeous.”

I am so taken aback by his statement, my entire body goes slack. He’s rendered me speechless. Spineless. Brainless. Boneless.

I’m jelly.

My arms drop to my sides, and my walkie-talkie barely stays put in my dangling right hand.

Suddenly, the static on my walkie-talkie blares.

Oops. I never pressed the “talk” button so Tiffany could hear this exchange.

“Officer Shaynee, please file your status report,” Tiffany’s voice reprimands me over my walkie-talkie. “You look like you’ve been shot by an elephant tranquilizer. Over.” I can tell she’s pissed.

“Shaynee, huh?” the dude says, his cocky blue eyes squinting at me like he’s figuring something out. “Ah, Shaynee. I know all about you.”

“Oh, really?” I say, snapping back to my senses, my temper flaring from zero to sixty in a nanosecond. “You know all about me, Motorcycle Boy? You’ve got me pegged?”

He laughs again.

“Aaaaaah!” I huff in total exasperation. “You’re such a jerk.” I turn on my heel to leave.

“Wait, wait. You misunderstand me,” he says. “Wait up, Shaynee.”

I march back to the car. I throw the door open, flop myself inside and shout, “Go!”

By the time he’s managed to get off his bike and throw down the kickstand, he’s only just jogging toward the car as we peel away.

I stick my tongue out at him as we leave him in the dust. He looks after us and raises his arms. I can hear him yelling, “Oh, come on!” But quickly, he’s just a little black speck in my side mirror. An annoying little black speck. An arrogant little black speck. A little black speck with the most shockingly blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my whole life. And the most contagious laugh.

“You are in such big trouble, missy,” Tiffany scolds. “I couldn’t hear a frickin’ thing. You didn’t press your talk button a single time. What did he say? He looked like he was having a grand ole time with you. And what the heck made you turn into an amoeba for a second there? You looked like Sponge Bob standing there.”

I cross my arms over my chest and look out my window. “Oh yeah, he was having a grand ole time, for sure. He’s a big fat jerk, I can tell you that right now. He thinks he’s got every girl all figured out. He’s a total player.
Motorcycle Boy.”
I shake my head with disdain. “Just one little wink of those beautiful blue eyes, one little ‘oh, you’re so drop-dead gorgeous,’
blah, blah, blah,
and I’m supposed to throw myself at him.”

Tiffany looks over at me, smirking. “’Beautiful blue eyes,’ huh?”

I scrunch up my face. “Shut up, Tiffany Matthews. Do you hear me? Don’t say another word about it, or, I swear to God, I will beat you to within an inch of your life with your own pinkies.”

Tiffany laughs. “Sure thing.” She drives in silence for a moment. “He said you’re
gorgeous
?”

I bare my teeth like a hyena. “Zip it.”

“Okay, okay,” she says. “I won’t say another word about his beautiful blue eyes and smooth-talking tongue. Not another word.”

I nod.

“But, Peaches, am I allowed to comment on his amazing booty? Because that boy’s got quite the moneymaker, I’ll tell you that right now.”

“Just drive.” I hit her on the shoulder. “I’m mortified over here, Tiff. Please, let’s never speak of this debacle again.”

“Okay.” She laughs. “That’s just fine with me, actually, since I have no idea what a
debacle
is. And, anyway, Kellan would kill me if he knew we were flagging down strangers on Mission Boulevard. Oh,” she gasps suddenly and reaches for her phone. “Oops. Speaking of Kellan, he texted me while you were talking to that hideously horrible boy with the ugly blue eyes. He wants us to pick him up now. It’s party time.”

I force a smile. My party mood has evaporated. But I have no other ride home and I’d never make Tiffany miss a party with Kellan to take me home. I might be the world’s most atrociously boring, Debbie Downer friend, but I’m not a complete horror show. I figure I’ll just fade into the background and watch Tiffany and Kellan yuck it up and swap spit and have a great time. As usual.

Chapter 6

The party’s spread out across two locations. First, the main locale seems to be the patio of a large beach house on the corner of Bay Street and the boardwalk. The secondary locale is a bonfire blazing inside a cement ring in the sand, about forty yards from the house.

Kellan holds Tiffany’s hand, and she holds mine as we snake through the crowded patio. “You girls want something to drink?” Kellan shouts over the music.

I shake my head. “I’ve got a bottle of water in my bag,” I yell. “I’m good.”

“Is there soda?” Tiffany hollers.

“I’ll go find something,” Kellan yells above the din. “You two stay here.”

Tiffany releases her grip on Kellan’s hand and he disappears into the crowd.

“Let’s go stand over there,” Tiffany shouts, motioning to the outer edge of the patio.

We reach our destination and agree it’s a much quieter and less populated place to hang out.

“What a madhouse,” Tiff laughs.

I nod. “Teens gone wild.”

“Oh, wow, hi,” a voice says.

Was that a tap on my shoulder? I turn to look at the source of the greeting.

It’s that guy with the shark-tooth necklace from Sheila’s. I glance behind me, certain the guy must have been talking to someone else.

“Yeah, you,” he says, grinning. “I saw you at Sheila’s the other day.”

I certainly remember him—his bare-chest-shark-tooth-necklace combo made quite an impression on me—but how does he remember me? Our paths crossed for mere seconds as he walked out the door. “I’m... ” What am I? “I’m shocked you remember me.”

He smiles broadly. His eyes are the color of Tootsie Rolls. I love Tootsie Rolls. His teeth are straight and white, and his skin is the color of
café au lait.
“It’d be hard to forget you,” he says matter-of-factly.