Lady in Flames Read Online Free PDF

rubbing them in slow, methodic strokes as if the grime won’t rub away.
    Buck remains fixated on him, never flinching, palms still planted on the edge of the bench. When he’s sure Willard is not going to comply, he says, “Don’t you ever come lookin’ for a loan from me—ever.”
    Willard doesn’t look up; he only continues to rub his hands with the spotted rag.
    Buck rumples his chin in disgust, creating an extra fold in his fleshy jowl. He spins around and heads for the front of the shop, raking his arm out across a shelving unit to send solvents and supplies crashing to the floor.
    Resolute, Willard doesn’t budge as Buck curses his way to the service door.
    I depart soon after Buck. In ghostly strides, I make my way back out into the square. I halt outside the shop to consider what Buck intends to do—to what he and his crass posse will lend their vicious wills.
    Down the walkway, Buck reenters Lady Luck, hollering for attention. Moments later he exits with three men in tow, all of them bent on their drunken, good-old-boy justice. They pile into Buck’s van and tear off into the bitter black.
    The urge to follow burns bright before fizzling out into a reluctant, disciplined ember. I shouldn’t go after them—I can’t. Not even to watch. It’s necessary, what they’ll do. I have to be selective and weigh-in only when it counts. And it’s not yet time.
    I don’t even hear my own steps as I tread back to the Camaro, but I swear I’m real. I have to keep reminding myself of that. Spend too much time in the physical world and you’ll question the validity of your own thoughts.
    Once wrapped in the familiar grip of the driver’s seat, I feel more grounded. With this comes self-derision for wasting so much time in Halgraeve when I should be searching for Grimley.
    Whipping the car around, I wrench the wheel in a determined grip. The motor howls as I rocket down the road where I’ll dissolve into the Territory and resume chase.

Kindling
    February 26 th , 2002, 9:02 PM
    Johnny Rollins inside his mother’s apartment
    I’ve loved fire for as long as I can remember. I swiped my first book of matches at six—stole ’em from my mom. She always kept them around for her cigarettes whenever her lighter went out.
    At first, I just liked the way they sounded when they took flame. There’s that small scraping noise before the spark and crackle. The flame never lasted long enough, so I’d light another. And another. I wanted to watch those golden licks forever.
    It didn’t take long to figure out that if I set something else on fire, I could watch the flames longer. I started with little things—piles of leaves, brush. They smoked more than anything. I wanted to see something burn .
    I suppose that’s what brought me trouble. I’ve been caught a couple times. Other times I haven’t. Fire is fire, and there’s lots of ways for it to catch. It don’t always take matches and gasoline, so people don’t always expect it was set on purpose.
    My mom yells from the other room to turn down the T.V. “It’s too damn loud!” she says.
    Ignoring her is easy. I turned it up in the first place so I didn’t have to hear her bitchin’ about this and that. I get enough of it at school. Teachers single me out for no reason other than they think I’m screwing off. Usually I’m just waiting for the bell to ring.
    What a dead-end town. And full of dead-end people, too. Like I’m supposed to be excited about graduating and getting a job with the street department? Or maybe I’ll get lucky and get in at Union Chemical. Maybe I can get a hole blown into my head while I’m at it.
    I drop the lighter I’ve been playing with onto a stack of my mom’s celebrity mags and trade it for the remote. There’s nothing but infomercials and stupid news programs as I flip through the few stations.
    I wish I could hang out at Doppler’s place. I used to go over there after school sometimes. He’d let me smoke and stuff like that.