Aimee Laine
Little White Lies
Copyright © 2011 Aimee Laine
1
The in-dash display of Charley Randall’s burgundy roadster read eleven fifty. She needed every minute until midnight to reach her destination. Pedal to floor, the car hugged the curves with nothing more than a slight adjustment left or right. Headlights burned through the dark, illuminating the double, center lines.
Charley blew past warning signs for fallen rock, deer and the oncoming dead end at double the posted speed. She relied on her knowledge of her mountain’s terrain to get her home in one piece.
Another check of time revealed only eight minutes remained.
Her teeth ground together, knuckles paled. “You’ll make it, Char.” She blew out the breath she held and pounded the leather wheel with her palm. If she hadn’t stayed late for a celebratory drink, she’d have been on time.
The clock blinked eleven fifty-five.
She pressed the accelerator, as if to will the car faster, but slowed as the most dangerous of turns approached.
Eleven fifty-six.
The rapid blink of a vehicle’s emergency lights jumped into view as she rounded the curve. A single gasp accompanied the swerve. The steering wheel shook under her palms as the tires objected to the force of her turn and squealed into the dark of night. A cloud of dust rose around her as the car slid to the edge of the road and came to rest in a shallow ditch.
Eleven fifty-eight.
The engine stalled; the blink of the other car’s lights continued as voices called out in cries of worry.
Charley pounded the wheel with her fist. She grabbed a tendril of hair. The ends reflected her natural onyx while the rest shimmered with the gold she’d chosen for her last assignment. “I have ’til twelve!”
A double beep signaled the hour.
She stole a glance in the review mirror. Her eyes, once a bright green, swirled with a mix of hues. She cringed as pain radiated from the tip of her nose, shooting through to her toes.
“Hello?” a young male voice broke through. “You okay in there?”
The ultra-dark windows kept her hidden as hands cupped against the glass and a face peered between them. A flashlight beam attempted to penetrate the tinting.
Charley struggled against her own body’s need to shift from blonde to black hair, five-four to five-seven, size two to size eight, and thirty-five to eighteen years old again for the two hundred and fourth time. She grasped for her phone but caught only air until her fingers met a solid form. She yanked it from the passenger seat and speed- dialed.
He answered on the first ring. “Where are you?” His tone reflected concern as well as urgency.
Lips pursed, Charley pressed her feet against the floorboard, gripping the steering wheel tight. Her head snapped back and forth. Curls stuck where heat dampened her skin. “Up-almost-” Her lungs fought her as she spoke. “Car accident-”
“On our mountain?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll find you; just don’t let anyone see you.” He clicked off.
With a groan, she laid her head back and let her nature take over. Power rose upward from her toes, burning within her arms and legs. It radiated through her core seconds later.
The door handle jiggled. “I can’t open the door.” The boy’s voice returned. “Think it’s stuck. We’re calling for help.”
Charley shivered at his voice, pushed herself to complete her transformation. She resisted the urge to scream; to do so would waste precious energy and alert the good Samaritans to her plight. A ventured glance in the rearview mirror gave her a visual on her status. In mid-phase, every part of her body mixed with the one she would become.
Her legs stretched, her fingernails shortened and her torso tightened. Ragged breath slowed as she resumed her body’s mandatory, once-a-year shape: her natural, human, female form. Curls fell back to her shoulders in soft ringlets to match the midnight sky; her skin toasted a light rouge. The telltale sign of her kind firmed her pupil into a hard, vertical line around which irises of lavender glistened.
Raps on the window abated.
Eyes closed, Charley’s agony retreated. She fumbled for the door handle but stopped herself. If she left the confines of the car, she’d stagger like a drunken teenager and risk exposure.
She took a few steadying breaths. Eyes not yet focused, she could make out only the shadow at the trunk of one car while a second remained at the side of hers. Their voices pitched back and forth to each other, called out ‘Stuart’ as the other said, ‘Wyatt.’
Charley reached for the handle and pushed at the door as lights from another car burned their way down the mountain.
She struggled to a stand and leaned against the side of her car as James’s truck skidded to a stop at her back bumper. Pebbles dinged into her car as exhaust, mixed with the cool temperatures of the night, enveloped her.
Her legs wobbled, vision wavered. The heavy beams of the lights lit the area as well as a dozen flood lamps. The boys, the cars and James came into focus. He rushed to her side, Wyatt and his friend in his wake.
“Get back in the car, Charley.” James’s tone mixed anger with worry as she clung to his arms and dropped her head to his shoulder.
The look in his eyes suggested he understood what Charley already recognized.
One of the boys spoke before she could respond. “I’m sorry. I thought… well, the door was stuck.” His voice, so clear and deep, graced her ears like an old lover whispering his thoughts.
Charley let the sounds fill her. James turned; she leaned into his back.
“Thanks for the help, boys.” He’d changed his tone to one of kindness.
Charley caught movement around his broad shoulders; she could see just over him if she reached up on tiptoe. Dark hair hung in a mess, accenting the boy’s strong jaw line.
He shifted to the side, disappearing from Charley’s view. “Is she hurt? I mean, we didn’t see the car hit us or anything.”
Charley smiled behind James, gripped his shirt, and breathed in the headiness of male that did not belong to
