Wanted Read online

  A glassy-eyed chick stumbles, grabbing onto Jack to keep from falling. “Whoopsy! Sorry, Jack. See you later maybe?” She gives him a drunken wink before weaving toward the keg.

  Trollop.

  There’s that voice again! I look at Jack to see if he said it, but he’s blankly staring at the bimbo, a smile on his face. Is it possible for a brain to cough out words and phrases on its own? Unless somehow when I cut myself… no. That’s stupid. Bonnie Parker is not in my head.

  Jack leans closer. “That was a slutty girl from school. The guys all call her 7-Eleven because you can get in and get out so quickly. Get it?”

  “Um, yeeeaah.” I scrunch up my nose, wondering why he’d share that with me. “Don’t let me stop you.” I look past Jack at a guy running past us with his head tilted up, his arms out to the sides, balancing a screwdriver on his nose.

  “Nah. 7-Eleven’s not my type.” He smiles at me so long that I get the unsettling feeling that he’s trying to say that I am. This completely throws me because, up until now, we haven’t exactly clicked on any topic in the remotest way.

  I take a deep breath, needing to move on before he gets any ideas. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Jack. I’m going to hunt down some water. Good luck on your tournament.”

  I take two steps toward the stairs when Jack grabs my arm. “Hey, hold up. I know where the Johnsons stash their water bottles. I’ll get you one.” His face beams with hope.

  I wave off his offer, smiling. “Nah, that’s okay. Just tell me and I can get it.”

  “Nope. I’ll be right back.” Before I can argue, he’s gone.

  My sister Ginger once told me that when guys at bars send free drinks to you, they feel you owe them a conversation. But if it comes down to a choice between listening to a boring guy drone on about his life and paying for alcohol, I’d rather buy my own drink.

  I lean against a pole and scan all the males at this party, trying to find one who looks intelligent or interesting, spying only one guy who doesn’t look like a jock. Jeans, plaid button-down shirt, stylish glasses. Having an intense conversation with a guy in a Hawks t-shirt. I glance at my phone and sigh. Right about now, all my friends are dancing their brains out to Manic Devil, the cover band at prom. I wonder if Anjali and her date, Luke, are hitting it off. A giant rush of sadness hits my chest. God, I could use a beer. I bite my fingernail, wondering if I have five bucks on me. Just one will make my pity party less pitiful.

  Kyle’s brother gets back onto the coffee table and downs two more shots. “Now that’s what I call a mixed drink, people!” He pounds his chest and howls like Tarzan.

  He hops off the table and struts past me, stopping mid-stride. “Titty, titty, bang, bang!” he purrs, checking me out. “You wanna do a shot with me, sexy mama?” He raises his eyebrows twice, suggestively licking his lips.

  “Not unless it involves bullets.” I turn and walk away. Creep.

  “Your tits ain’t that great anyway!” he shouts from behind me.

  That twit is lower than a snake’s belly.

  I plug my ears, hoping to silence the woman in my head.

  The other fella don’t have no fire, but he ain’t so bad.

  Blood rushes out of my head, making me dizzy. I lean against the wall, dazed. This can’t be happening. There’s no way Bonnie Parker is speaking to me. She’s been dead for like eighty years. This is some sort of stupid brain trick, a cranial hiccup. I run a hand through my hair, needing to come up with a rational excuse. Think, think!

  Anjali and Josie are always on my case for writing guys off too quickly, so maybe my conscience is picking up on that. I mean, compared to jerks like Turf, Jack’s a gem—he’s cute, has goals, is basically a nice guy. There have to be other things Jack likes besides golf, right? When he comes back, I’ll ask him questions, talk about his family. This is all a huge misunderstanding.

  After willing my brain to shut the hell up, I spy two girls get up off the loveseat and zigzag my way through the crowd, hoping no one sits down before I can get there. Success! I plunk my butt down and set my vintage mesh purse on the seat next to me to save it for Jack. While I wait, I grab my phone and check out what’s happening on Facebook. When there’s no sign of Jack after several minutes, I wonder if 7-Eleven girl is a convenience he wanted after all. I cross my legs, trying to decide whether to ask Clarissa to take me home or if I should call a cab, when something jabs me in the thigh. The slugs, I quickly realize.

  I lean back and slide my fingers into my pocket, repositioning them slightly. The moment my fingers touch the cold steel, the party scene blurs into a murky white fog. I struggle to keep my eyes open. So… so… sleepy. I dream I’m in some sort of a medical facility. Strong odors of antiseptic, formaldehyde, and death blend into one nauseating aroma, making me gag. An old man in a lab coat checks out what looks like a dead guy on a stainless steel table. Sick! But this dream is even more messed up than that because everything is sideways.

  The exam room’s light green walls fade in and out, echoing the cadence of the flickering light overhead. The camera zooms in, getting a close-up of the entire left side of the corpse’s face and neck coated with dried blood, the hairless chest remarkably clean. Tiny black holes appear all over his body like a morbid connect-the-dots coloring page. The sporadic gasping of fluorescent energy reminds me of strobe lights in a haunted house.

  The coroner washes his hands in the white utility sink while peering at a ledger on the desk next to him. There’s an old-fashioned black telephone there too, the kind where the earpiece dangles from a wire. After drying his hands on a cloth, he plucks a pair of thick rubber gloves from a box and forces his gnarled arthritic fingers into them. Grabbing a tray of steel instruments from underneath the table, he flips on the gooseneck light. Shining it directly over the victim’s face, his examination begins. He lowers the large magnifying glass that’s strapped to his forehead and sifts through the corpse’s hair, strand by strand, until stopping to peer closely at another spot.

  Using one finger to hold his place, he picks up the forceps and inserts them into the corpse’s skull, skillfully removing a tidbit. He poises the artifact above a steel tray labeled Barrow, Clyde / Case #6749. The coroner drops the slug onto the tray as a metallic clink! resonates throughout the antiseptic morgue. My dream self pans the room, noticing diagrams of human body systems tacked onto the wall alongside pin-up girl posters. I continue checking out my surroundings when I look down at myself. I’m lying on a steel examination table, a sheet loosely draped over my naked, blood-caked body. I turn my head slowly and read the label on the steel tray beside my head.

  Parker, Bonnie / Case #6750.

  I jolt awake and blink a few times, wiping a bit of saliva off the side of my mouth. Kyle’s party swims back into focus as the harrowing images of the morgue fade. What the hell? My heart beats wildly in my chest. Everything seemed so real, down to the dried blood on the corpses, the coroner’s tools, the name labels on the trays. I sit up and adjust my shirt, which has somehow bunched up under my bra.

  Bonnie, are you really in my head? I ask silently, biting my lip.

  I listen, one hand covering my mouth. I wait… but nothing. I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable. I have got to get to bed soon. Things always look better in the morning. I’ll set my alarm to get up early and sneak these slugs back into the safe before Dad gets to work. The sooner these creepy things are out of my possession, the better. I need to find Clarissa.

  A blonde girl sitting opposite me looks away when I glance in her direction. I shrug it off. People have thought a lot worse about me than I drank too much and fell asleep. I scan the room, finally spying Clarissa and Hank off by themselves on a recliner. Doesn’t look like she’s ready to leave any time soon. I sigh, wishing I could meet a guy who fascinates me even half as much as Clarissa seems captivated by Hank. My face blushes when I think of Noah, the actor who plays John Dillinger at our dinner theater. I meant someone I could actually date. Noah’s got two of
my invariables and then some. He’s intelligent and interesting for sure, but he’s also witty, strong, and debonair in a Rhett Butler sort of way. Sadly for me, he’s also very much into his wife. Josie says my having a crush on a married man ten years older than me proves I purposely close myself off to the possibility of having a real boyfriend.

  I say it proves I was born in the wrong decade.

  Cheers erupt from behind the bar. A guy with funky sideburns raises his glass in celebration. “Take it to the bank! Sox win!”

  Jack arrives moments later, smiling as he sits down next to me. His leg brushes mine briefly as he sits, eliciting no response whatsoever from my libido. No worries, I quickly ruminate. I’m not giving up that easily.

  “Sorry it took so long,” he says, handing me a red plastic cup. “They were out of water, so here’s a beer on the house.”

  That was sweet. I hold the beer, staring at it as if it’s a poison concoction, trying to decide if I should drink it or not. I deliberate for about four point two seconds. Screw it. I’m supposed to be at prom and instead I’m at a party surrounded by strangers. I hold up my cup. “Thanks, Jack. Cheers.” I take a giant sip, letting the liquid roll down my throat. Lukewarm beer never tasted so good.

  I lean toward his ear and shout over the music. “Have you seen any good movies lately?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. Haven’t been to a movie in like six months.”

  Strike two. “Really? I go all the time. In fact, I love movies so much I’m even going to major in theater or cinema studies at NYU.”

  “Theater? You mean plays?” He furrows his brow.

  I nod. “Maybe, but I’m leaning more toward film directing.” I hold up an imaginary camera and roll the crank, like charades, in case he’s having trouble hearing me.

  “Movies are okay. Plays suck.” He scratches his arm, picking off a fleck of dry skin.

  Is he completely oblivious to what I just said was my life’s dream? I don’t care so much that he hates the arts, but not even trying to fake it for the sake of conversation slams the door on any romantic interest on my part. I gulp down most of my beer to cool my temper before I speak.

  “Plays don’t suck. My dad owns a dinner theater and right now we’re doing a play called Gangsters of Love. It’s sold out every night.” Stick that into your negative attitude and suck it. I down the rest of my beer before dragging my purse strap up onto my shoulder. “Thanks for the beer, Jack. Sorry, but I have to go home now.” As I stand, he catches me off-guard and pulls my arm, forcing me to sit back down.

  “Hey, come on,” he says gently. “Don’t be like that, okay? Stay a little longer.” He gazes at me with pleading eyes. “Did I say I didn’t like plays? I meant I love plays.”

  I tilt my chin down and give him a knowing look.

  He grins. “Seriously! A gangster play sounds cool. Is it like the Crips versus the Bloods?” He fakes an intense stare, waiting and watching.

  I know he doesn’t really care, but at least he’s trying. I finally cave, setting my purse on my lap. “Actually, it’s more of a musical about the 1930s gangsters,” I shout at his ear. “We have gangster memorabilia on display, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Al Capone’s cigar cutter and a Tommy gun,” I say, picking out two of our dullest items.

  He nods, smiling at me. “That’s so cool.” He leans closer, resting his hand on my knee as he talks. “So uh, you maybe want to hang out tomorrow and you can show it to me?”

  Oh God. My stomach drops. Is he serious? I’m trying to like him, but it’s just not working. He might be intelligent, maybe insanely handsome by some girl’s standards, but he’s definitely not interesting and worst of all, I think he’s faking being into me.

  “Um…” I say, trying to think of a way out of this. And then it hits me. I can show him the slugs, thereby fulfilling his wish, and then make a quick exit. “I can show you something now and save you the trouble. I happen to have the slugs that killed Bonnie and Clyde with me.”

  Don’t you dare!

  I breathe in sharply. Bonnie, is that really you?

  “Wow. That’d be cool.” He holds out his palm as he watches a scantily clad girl in pink shorts walk by, keeping his eyes on the sizable amount of her butt cheek hanging out the bottom.

  I roll my eyes, wondering why I’m even bothering. “Okay, take a quick look and then I have to go.”

  NO! Leave them in your pocket!

  I hesitate, my heart thumping loudly in my ears, waiting for more instructions.

  “Come on. Let me see them.” He looks at me and smiles.

  I shrug. What can it hurt? The sooner I show him, the sooner I can get home and get this mixed-up night over with. As I retrieve them from my pocket, my vision blurs, and Jack’s image is swallowed up by footage of two policemen getting shot in the chest and then falling to the ground, writhing in pain. The scene ends the moment I drop the slugs into Jack’s hand.

  I suck in my breath. I was definitely awake this time. No mistaking the mind movie for a dream. My head pounds with the realization that something isn’t right about those slugs.

  Jack starts to cough. “Is something burning? My throat stings.” I hear him breathe in noisily, making me wonder if he’s been wheezing all night, or just since I handed him the bullets.

  This makes me shift in my seat. Clearly he’s having some kind of reaction. I need them back before they do any damage. “I think the smoke is from all the weed.”

  “I… cough… don’t think… wheeze… that’s it.” Jack sits up straight, coughing even harder, the slugs gripped tightly in his palm as he pounds his chest with a fist.

  Get those slugs back now!

  I’m hit with a wave of dizziness. “Can I”—I blink, trying to focus—“have them back now?” What’s happening? Did Jack drug the beer he gave me? Why is he coughing so hard?

  Get them NOW, you dumb Dora! Before you mess things up!

  The piercing wail in my ear increases and the swaying of the room becomes more intense. I can no longer deny that the voice of Bonnie Parker is somehow calling to me from her grave. “I need those—” Black spots dance in front of my eyes. My head feels too heavy for me to manage.

  I hold out my open palm, hoping Jack will get the hint to return the slugs, when a sharp pain hits me in the neck. Clawing at my throat, I reach up to remove whatever’s stabbing me, looking to Jack for help. That’s when I notice that his eyes are practically bugging out of his face, his cheeks turning redder by the second. I try to pry the slugs from his closed fist, but he won’t let go. With his free hand, he clutches at his chest, grabbing his shirt.

  Pushing through the fiery agony in my throat, I frantically pull at his fingers, fighting Jack’s resistance until finally, the slugs drop from his hand into mine. The scorching pain in my neck instantly ceases, but a new scene dances into focus behind my closed eyes.

  I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car I’ve never been in before outside of a brick building with a sign that says Robert H. Brock Hardware. A woman in a calf-length green dress and black hat breezes past me, pushing a wicker stroller with metal rim wheels. She coos quietly to her baby, who smiles in response. I tap my fingers nervously on my knee.

  An alarm sounds and two men with machine guns race out of the store. I watch but don’t scream. Before I know what’s happening, they hop into my car—one guy into the driver’s seat next to me, and the other one in back. “Go, go, go!” the man in back shouts. The car pulls away from the curb jerkily. I squeal, “Hurry, baby!” My stomach twists when I see it’s the same well-dressed guy with the outturned ears from my first vision—Clyde Barrow. I turn my head in rapid succession, looking first at the storefront and then at Clyde. He finally pops the gear into place just in time as the shop owner runs outside shooting at us. I scream, ducking down, hearing bullets ricochet off the car’s exterior. Clyde floors the gas pedal, tires squealing.

  A hard bump against my shoulder makes the scene
pop like a pricked soap bubble. I open my eyes, realizing the slugs got knocked out of my hand. I scoop them up and jam them in my pocket. The hailstorm of images flowing through my thoughts are overshadowed by seeing Jack pound on his chest like he’s trying to get his lungs working again. He coughs and shouts, “Hallelujah!” followed by a loud gasp for air. Finding out that Jack is a Bible thumper is just one more stop on the crazy train tonight. He blinks several times, his mouth open.

  “Whoa! I felt like I was going to die for a second there.” He stares at the indentations of the slugs embedded on his palm, as if unsure how they got there.

  “Are you okay now?” I ask, biting my lip.

  He nods, takes a deep breath. “Yeah. But you got sick at the same time I was.” He eyes me warily. “You sure those slugs aren’t possessed?”

  “I’m starting to wonder myself,” I say, hoping he doesn’t press further. Were the evil spirits of Bonnie and Clyde locked up tight in that box, and when I unsealed it, did I unwittingly unleash them into the world like the bubonic plague?

  Too late to turn back now.

  I don’t have a second to respond when a loud commotion brings Jack to his feet. I follow suit, watching as a guy flies down the stairs yelling something unintelligible. A girl darts in front of us, grabbing her purse that’s on the table next to me.

  “What’s going on?” I ask her. “Is someone hurt?”

  “The cops are here!” she yells, her face white with panic. “Ditch your drugs!”

  Damn it! I knew this would happen! I take a quick check for Clarissa, but don’t see her anywhere. I turn to look at Jack, but he’s standing on the loveseat, pushing open the window. Seconds later, he steps up on the back of the couch and shinnies himself up and out. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the only way out of getting busted is to run.