Scotty ran ahead. “Let’s go.”
I ran after him to a relatively clear spot on the edge of a wooded area. We spent half an hour kicking the ball back and forth, until I kicked it too far, and it whizzed past Scotty into the woods.
“I’ll get it, Sport. You stay right here.”
I trotted off, my eyes scanning the ground for a sign of the white and black ball. I finally spied it wedged against a sapling. I picked it up, and when I straightened there was a man in a dark suit standing a few yards in front of me.
I gasped and dropped the ball. It rolled toward him, hitting his shoe. He did some fancy maneuver with his foot and suddenly the ball was in his hands. With long fingers he twirled it in the air. “Tell your friend Axton I’m looking for him. Tell him I want what’s mine.” His voice was deep — smooth and polished. The afternoon sun at his back made it impossible to see his face clearly.
My heart started to pound, and despite the fact my legs felt wobbly, I walked toward him. “Who the hell are you?”
“He’ll know.” He threw the ball at me and I caught it without thinking.
“Aunt Rose?”
I spun and saw Scotty a few feet behind me. When I turned back toward the mystery man, he was gone. I searched the trees for any sign of movement, but he’d disappeared.
I didn’t know what Axton had gotten mixed up in, but you could bet your ass I was going to find out. Whatever it was, it involved strange men lurking in the woods. I’d read enough fairytales to know that was never a good sign.
I slapped on a smile and walked toward Scotty. “It’s time to go home, Sport.” The stranger had me spooked, but I didn’t want to freak the little guy out, I just wanted to get him safely home.
“But I still want to play.” There was a hint of whine in his voice.
I took off running. “Bet I can beat you,” I yelled over my shoulder. I let him catch up and win the race back to the house. As I ran on shaky legs, my eyes continuously scanned the area looking for the stranger in the suit.
I called Ax, but kept getting his voicemail — which consisted of Ax quoting the opening lines to the original
I knew if I sat around my apartment I’d brood, so I decided to stick to my schedule. And most Monday nights you could find me studying at Janelle Johnson’s house.
In her mid-thirties, Janelle had smooth, dark brown skin, an enormous, gravity-defying rack, and long, thin braids that skimmed her ample butt. We bonded over fetal pigs in biology class last semester. She had gone back to school after her husband cheated with a woman he picked up at Kentucky Fried Chicken. Janelle came home early from her afternoon shift at the Quickie Mart and found them eating fried chicken — and each other — in Janelle’s bed.
We lounged at her dining room table, studying for an ethics test. And by studying, I mean gossiping and eating.
I’d told Janelle about Axton, the club, the backpack, and the strange man.
“That Axton’s always been a little squirrelly.”
“No, he’s a sweetie. But something was up with him today. And the guy with the suit? Creepy.”
“Ask him about it.” She handed me a bag of pretzels.
“Oh, believe me, I will.” If I ever got a hold of him.
“So, Asshat has the kids tonight,” Janelle said.
I nodded, making an effort to get my mind off of Axton and the strange man and focus on her story. But I kept peeking at my phone, willing it to ring.
“Chicken Licker told my daughter,” she poked herself in the chest with a long, blue acrylic nail, “
“What did Asshat have to say about that?”
She rolled her eyes. “What does he ever say? Nothin’. I told Chicken Licker if she got her bony ass anywhere near my child’s ears, I would make my foot a permanent part of her anatomy.”
I munched on a pretzel. “I wouldn’t want her bony ass near my ears either.” Just then my phone rang. I recognized the number and quickly answered.
“Rose, it’s the Axman.”
“Thank God, I’ve tried calling you a million times. There was a strange man looking for you.”
“Listen—”
“I can barely hear you.” I put a finger over my left ear and held the phone closer to my right.
“Can you come and get me?”
“Ax, what is going—”
“I need a ride, man. Can you come or what?” Something about his tone sent chills up my spine. “Aw, shit. Rose…” I heard clattering, like something hit the phone.
I sat up straight. “Axton? Where are you? What’s—”
His phone cut out before I finished the question.
I looked at Janelle. “Something’s not right.”
“See? Squirrelly.” She sipped her Coke. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Can I use your phone to call him back? My battery’s almost out.”
Janelle waved vaguely at the phone on the counter. I dialed Axton’s number, but my call went straight to voice mail. Dread swept over me. “He’s not answering.”
I walked back to the table, closed my books, and shoved them in my backpack. “I need to look for him.”
“You want me to go with you?”
I zipped my bag. “No. I’ll drive around, see if I can find him. He’s probably fine.” I tried to reassure myself, but even as I said it, I didn’t believe it.
Axton Graystone was in trouble.
Chapter 3
I drove toward Axton’s house, way south of Apple Tree Boulevard. The Boulevard — mysteriously named as it was devoid of apple trees — was the dividing line in Huntingford. To the north, subdivisions with names like Stony Gates, The Cottages, and Crabapple Estates surrounded manicured golf courses or large man-made lakes. South of Apple Tree contained the historic district of Huntingford. Or as most people called it, the crappy side of town.
Axton lived in a tiny, white clapboard two-bedroom, one-bath home with his stoner roommate Joe Fletcher. Joe worked sporadically. Mostly, I think he sponged off Axton.
I pulled into the driveway behind Axton’s blue Honda. A huge sense of relief washed over me at the sight of his car. That phone call really freaked me out. I didn’t know what was wrong, but I wasn’t leaving until he told me everything.
I bounded up the front steps and knocked on the door. After about a minute, Joe answered.
Joe was a little taller than Axton but just as thin. His brown hair was shaggy and greasy and he always wore a purple tuque with strings that fell on either side of his head. Even in the summer.
“Rose, hey man. Like, mi casa es su casa.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm.
I hadn’t been inside Axton’s house very often and frankly it was not an experience I wished to repeat. It was dusty and smelled like old bong water. I stepped in and glanced around. A guy with a long ponytail and chin stubble sat on their old corduroy couch. He was completely engrossed in a video game that involved shooting people. Nazis, by the look of it.
“Where’s Axton?”
“In his room.” He waved toward the hall, his attention fixed on Ponytail and the video game. “Dude, you totally shot the shit out of that dude.”
