I trust her knowledge of the block’s layout and pull her away from the oncoming car, which I see, as I look over my shoulder, is of course a cop car.
When we hit the end of our alley, we head left down the intersecting one, and I assume we’re being taken to another that will lead us back to the main road and to my truck if we don’t end up in cuffs first. I can’t help but laugh at the thought of my father having to bail me out. Even for me, that would be a first.
But when we get to the alley I predicted would be there, any semblance of laughter stops when we face the one thing standing between us and, hopefully, freedom—an eight-foot-high, chain-link fence.
Fuck.
“Fuck.” Again. “We don’t even know if the cop saw us,” Maggie says, radiating an unusual calm.
“Yeah, but if he or she or whoever did, we’re caught unless we climb.”
Maggie looks down at her long skirt and then up at me.
“You got this, Pippi. I’m right behind you.” I throw her bag over my shoulder and across my body, nodding for her to climb. And she does.
I’m behind her and then next to her when we reach the top, my fingers numb against the cold metal, Maggie’s maybe surviving better in her cut-off gloves.
“What if my skirt…” She trails off, but I know what she’s thinking.
“I’m not gonna let you get stuck, Maggie. Okay? Do you trust me?”
She nods, hoisting a leg over the pointed top of the fence while trying to maintain her modesty. And if I didn’t glance back and see the beam of a flashlight approaching the end of graffiti alley, I might have thoughts of sneaking a peek. Now all I want is to keep her calm, keep myself calm, and, for reasons far different than the ones I felt nearly an hour ago, get the fuck out of here.
When Maggie makes it over the top without incident, I’m more than confident I’ll do the same, which is why when the front of my hoodie catches on the intertwined spindles of metal, lifting it and my shirt up to my chest, I panic. Haste clouds any rational thought as I slide my torso up the fence, flush against the metal, freeing my clothing but leaving a tiny bit of me as a souvenir.
Fucking hell. I make my way down the rest of the way, wincing at the sting where the topmost point of the fence grazed my skin as it gave me back my clothes. That’s gonna leave a mark.
When my feet hit the ground, Maggie says nothing but holds out her hand, and we run once again toward the street, only to look in the direction of my truck and see, far beyond where we parked, the cop car fading in the distance. When I turn again toward the fence, I find the flashlight’s owner—a woman walking her small dog, and bark out a laugh.
“What?” Maggie asks as we slow to a walk, both of us breathing hard.
“Nothing,” I say, stopping to catch my breath and shaking my head as I laugh even harder. I take her bag off my shoulder and hand it to her.
She laughs, too, a sound full of relief, as she backhands my stomach.
I wince.
“Hold it there, Fancy Pants,” she says, grabbing the hem of my hoodie and lifting it slowly to reveal what looks like an attempt to slice me open with a serrated knife.
“It’s a scratch,” I say, because it isn’t much more, aside from the few locations where the metal took a bit more skin. The blood is already drying, but yeah, it stings. And I’ll be lucky if I don’t wake up with tetanus spasms.
“I’m sorry,” she says, my skin still exposed to the chilly air. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t brought you here, this never would have…”
“Hey…Maggie…” My hand covers hers as we ease my sweatshirt down together. And while I’m careful not to pull her hand too close, her fingers trail over my skin, and tetanus or not, I feel nothing other than her touch.
“I am a willing participant in this entire evening—morning—whatever you want to call it. I panicked at a goddamn flashlight some lady was using to walk her dog. So unless she is some sort of pawn in your evil scheme to end the night by drawing my blood, this is all me.”
A corner of her mouth quirks in an attempt to smile, but the guilt still hangs on her expression.
“I guess this would be the end of the night,” she says, backing away from me and heading down our original alley. Questioning my sanity every step of the way, I follow her until she stands in front of our wall, instant camera in hand. Her flash won’t illuminate the picture completely, but I hope it will be enough.
I wait, letting her have her moment with our creation, and a minute later she’s back by my side where the alley meets the street.
“A memory of our memories,” she says, handing one of two developing pictures to me. As I take it she asks, “Will you take me home, Griffin?”
I nod, the finality of the request causing an unfamiliar ache in my throat.
“Sure,” I say. “Where do you live?”
We’re at the car now, and she waits to answer until we’re both inside.
Her eyes find mine, and she makes the request again, only this time it isn’t a question.
“Take me home, Griffin.”