Free Hexed by Michelle Krys Page B

as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I sound jealous. Which I’m so not.
    “It’s just a shitty thing to do,” Paige says.
    Yeah, it’s shitty, I want to say. So what? But of course Paige doesn’t treat her friends this way. She probably bakes Jessie cupcakes when she’s had a bad day or something. I nod and shift the car into drive.
    Paige sighs. “Stop. Just give me a minute to talk to Jessie.”
    A stupid grin spreads across my face. Paige rolls her eyes before sprinting off across the street.
    Minutes later she’s shuffling back to the car, this time with a giant duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She dumps the bag on the backseat before climbing into the passenger side.
    “I hope you’re happy. I had to make up a lie so she’d let me off the hook. I hate lying.”
    “Thanks, Paige. I mean it.” I smile across at her.
    “Yeah, whatever.” Her reflection gazes out the window.
    Somehow I thought she’d be happier about this.
    A few minutes pass in silence, and I don’t know what to say to cut through the awkward tension.
    Luckily, Paige finally speaks. “So what happened, anyway? It sounds pretty crazy.”
    I heave a relieved sigh. And suddenly words are spilling out of my mouth faster than I can organize my thoughts. “The Bible, it went missing and Mom’s going crazy. I said I’d find it, but I have no clue where to start. See, Mom had this accident and she blacked out. And there was this guy, and he lifted the shelf off her, but he was at the game too, and he knew about my mom being hurt, which is, like, really, really weird, right? And now—”
    “Stop,” Paige interrupts. “What. On earth. Are you talking about?”
    I deflate.
    “Tell me what happened,” Paige says, clapping her hand on my shoulder. “And start from the beginning.”
    I fill her in on the history of the Bible and the events of the night. And it feels good—really good, actually—to get it all off my chest.
    When I’m finished, Paige lapses into a deep silence. I can practically see the gears shifting in her head. “Okay, so we have to search the area around the shop,” she finally says. “When you lose something, you’re supposed to retrace your steps. Same thing for people, right?”
    I smile. “That’s just what I had in mind.”
    Silence once again takes over the car. But it’s a comfortable silence now.
    “You got a text.” Paige picks up my cell from the dash, but I yank it from her before she can see anything.
    Devon’s sent me no fewer than a dozen texts since the concert. They started out nice: where u at? cant believe you left. Then: is everything ok? As the night progressed there was: thinking of you :) And my favorite: this party sucks without you. That one made me smile, even if I currently hated him for not leaving the concert with me. A few beers later came: wht r u wearng? :P And how can I forget: i’m hrny.
    Nice.
    “Well, aren’t you going to see who it is?” Paige asks.
    “Illegal to text and drive,” I say.
    “Uh, yeah, I guess.”
    We slog through the insane bar-hour traffic. The sidewalks pulse with people, and lines several blocks wide of girls dressed in six-inch heels and miniskirts snake outside clubs wedged between nail salons and all-night check-cashing joints. Car horns, thumping basses, and sirens fill the thick night air, and neon lights brighten the inky sky.
    We circle the area of Melrose Avenue where the shop is located, then every main and side street from La Cienega to North Highland, craning our necks to scan every man, woman, and child we pass. Nothing. Not one person remotely resembling Leather Jacket Guy. It’s not like I had much hope to begin with, but now it’s becoming increasingly clear we aren’t going to find him.
    My phone buzzes for the zillionth time in ten minutes.
    “I guess we must be the only people not at Jarrod’s party tonight, huh?”
    Paige’s arms are loosely hugging her drawn-up knees as she stares at the whirring L.A. landscape outside