Chapter 1
Driving in Cars With Boys
I puckered my red lips to kiss the stubble on his chin.
He frowned, and with his large hands he gently pushed me to stand back. His dad, who looked like a psycho rapist that would pick up an underage cutie outside a bar, drove up to us. He pulled up to the curb next to me in his old red truck and rolled down the passenger side window.
I bit down on my oversized lips and tried not to make eye contact with him. Not because he was the town's most hated, but because me and my man spent many useless nights in that truck.
“Hello, Mr. Carson,” I said in my soft tone, that many men thought I faked because it was much too sultry for a seventeen year old. “Isn't it late for you to be out here; especially with a murderer loose?”
He laughed as if he were at a comedy show, which made me cringe. Just hearing him laugh made me think about an old creep up to no good. “Do you need a ride home, baby doll?” Mr. Carson kept his green eyes pierced on me as he leaned over and opened the passenger door. “I'm going by your Mama's house right now, doll.”
I stared into my man, Tyler's worried eyes and then looked away. “It is getting late. I should be heading home,” I whispered, knowing he would be angry if I left him alone.
Tyler rolled his eyes and without a word, walked away to his job as a waiter at the diner, Margret’s Chair. I did not bother chasing after him, because that was what I did ninety percent of the time. Like fifty percent of woman, I needed to learn to let go and learn what I was worth.
I really wanted him to kiss me good night; it was all I wanted, but he would not dare. He only liked the bad girls. Unfortunately, he was missing out on the baddest one.
And not bad in the sense of selling drugs and having cocaine binges, but the reckless kind; the kind that thought I could live forever.
“Well...” Mr. Carson said as he waited for me to get into his truck. He played with his disgusting biker mustache and hummed to me, what sounded like a Madonna song. How would a “gangster” man like him know a Madonna song?
I swung my cheap swap-meet purse, that carried way too many things, over my shoulder. I held my little hand out for him to pull me inside his truck, as I only stood at five foot four. I was more worried about my overly tight shorts ripping, and how my long hair that went straight down my back could get frizzy.
As I put my seat belt on, he slowly drove down the silent empty streets. I kept my eyes on the homes we passed through; all simple brick homes with perfect lawns that struggled to stay green in the cold autumn weather. On boring days, I liked to ride in Tyler's truck and wonder what people did in their brick homes. I always imagined the good happy family stuff. But, now all I thought about were chilling things, like people being killed and tortured to death because that was all the local news talked about.
Mr. Carson, who mainly went by Derek, leaned down under his seat to find his CDs. I gripped tight onto my seat belt as he took his eyes off the road several times. Even though there were no cars in sight; no one crazy enough to be out when the town was scared straight from a recent murder that happened a block from my street.
“That murder sure does have everyone crying,” he laughed as he put in a CD that was titled, hot mixtapes —that immediately made me want to puke.
It made me feel uneasy as he went through tracks one to seven. He took his eyes off the road one more time and stared into my eyes as the voice of Caleb Followill from Kings of Leon began to sing “17.”
“I like this song,” he said as he began to talk in a lower tone. “Do you know why?”
“I don't want to know,” I whispered, because just the tone of my voice would have him pouncing all over me.
And I was no self-centered brat; I just knew what I was capable of. Someone like me, knew my power; with full auburn hair only styled with a side-part and big hazel
Driving in Cars With Boys
I puckered my red lips to kiss the stubble on his chin.
He frowned, and with his large hands he gently pushed me to stand back. His dad, who looked like a psycho rapist that would pick up an underage cutie outside a bar, drove up to us. He pulled up to the curb next to me in his old red truck and rolled down the passenger side window.
I bit down on my oversized lips and tried not to make eye contact with him. Not because he was the town's most hated, but because me and my man spent many useless nights in that truck.
“Hello, Mr. Carson,” I said in my soft tone, that many men thought I faked because it was much too sultry for a seventeen year old. “Isn't it late for you to be out here; especially with a murderer loose?”
He laughed as if he were at a comedy show, which made me cringe. Just hearing him laugh made me think about an old creep up to no good. “Do you need a ride home, baby doll?” Mr. Carson kept his green eyes pierced on me as he leaned over and opened the passenger door. “I'm going by your Mama's house right now, doll.”
I stared into my man, Tyler's worried eyes and then looked away. “It is getting late. I should be heading home,” I whispered, knowing he would be angry if I left him alone.
Tyler rolled his eyes and without a word, walked away to his job as a waiter at the diner, Margret’s Chair. I did not bother chasing after him, because that was what I did ninety percent of the time. Like fifty percent of woman, I needed to learn to let go and learn what I was worth.
I really wanted him to kiss me good night; it was all I wanted, but he would not dare. He only liked the bad girls. Unfortunately, he was missing out on the baddest one.
And not bad in the sense of selling drugs and having cocaine binges, but the reckless kind; the kind that thought I could live forever.
“Well...” Mr. Carson said as he waited for me to get into his truck. He played with his disgusting biker mustache and hummed to me, what sounded like a Madonna song. How would a “gangster” man like him know a Madonna song?
I swung my cheap swap-meet purse, that carried way too many things, over my shoulder. I held my little hand out for him to pull me inside his truck, as I only stood at five foot four. I was more worried about my overly tight shorts ripping, and how my long hair that went straight down my back could get frizzy.
As I put my seat belt on, he slowly drove down the silent empty streets. I kept my eyes on the homes we passed through; all simple brick homes with perfect lawns that struggled to stay green in the cold autumn weather. On boring days, I liked to ride in Tyler's truck and wonder what people did in their brick homes. I always imagined the good happy family stuff. But, now all I thought about were chilling things, like people being killed and tortured to death because that was all the local news talked about.
Mr. Carson, who mainly went by Derek, leaned down under his seat to find his CDs. I gripped tight onto my seat belt as he took his eyes off the road several times. Even though there were no cars in sight; no one crazy enough to be out when the town was scared straight from a recent murder that happened a block from my street.
“That murder sure does have everyone crying,” he laughed as he put in a CD that was titled, hot mixtapes —that immediately made me want to puke.
It made me feel uneasy as he went through tracks one to seven. He took his eyes off the road one more time and stared into my eyes as the voice of Caleb Followill from Kings of Leon began to sing “17.”
“I like this song,” he said as he began to talk in a lower tone. “Do you know why?”
“I don't want to know,” I whispered, because just the tone of my voice would have him pouncing all over me.
And I was no self-centered brat; I just knew what I was capable of. Someone like me, knew my power; with full auburn hair only styled with a side-part and big hazel
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