Free Home Fires by Luanne Rice Page B

you, it doesn't bother me. He'll wear a condom. . . .”
    Maggie couldn't believe her ears. She leaned back, to look Kurt right in the eyes. Had Fritz slipped him some bizarre personality-altering drug?
    “Kurt . . .” she said. “Please?”
    “Oh my God,” Vanessa whispered.
    They were slowing down. Maggie craned her neck, to see out the window, and saw that Fritz was pulling into a rest stop.
    “One hundred bucks,” Kurt said urgently. He held Maggie's upper arms with such force that they throbbed. She pushed him away.
    “Get us out of this,” she said.
    His eyes narrowed, and she could feel his disgust.
    “Hey, Fritz,” Kurt said. “Never mind. We've really gotta get to Boston.”
    “My father's waiting for us,” Vanessa said, her voice practically a trill.
    “You got no daddy waiting in Boston,” Fritz said pleasantly. Maggie could see that he'd taken one hand off the wheel. Between downshifts, he had unzipped his fly and was stroking himself.
    “Fritz, man,” Kurt said. “We've gotta book.”
    “We'll have us a little party,” Fritz said. “Teach you boys a thing or two.”
    Kurt was stammering away, trying to change Fritz's mind, while Maggie looked around the cabin. She felt under the pillow, slid her hand along the bottom of the mattress in search of a weapon. Then she saw it: the bookshelf.
    While Fritz parked the truck Maggie slipped behind Kurt. Very carefully, without drawing any attention to herself, she slid free the slat that kept the books from flying around. Flat and narrow, about twelve inches long, the wooden bar felt solid in her hand.
    “Why'd we stop?” Eugene asked, coming to.
    “No, please, no,” Vanessa said to the back of Fritz's head. She started to cry.
    From where Maggie sat, she saw Fritz reach into the door pocket. His hand closed around an object; she caught the glint of metal. Later, she would realize that she'd seen a gun. But in that split second, she merely reacted to her own sickening fear. She swung back and hit Fritz across the face with the bar.
    He reeled back, blood spurting from his nose. He dropped whatever he'd been holding to cover his face with both his hands.
    “Little bitch!” he screamed, blood burbling through his fingers.
    Maggie and her friends scrambled out of the cab. Except for one other truck, the parking lot was empty. They ran into the woods, a shallow stand of scrub pines interspersed with trash cans and picnic tables. Two gunshots rang out; they kept running until they cleared the woods and came to a busy strip of gas stations, fast-food restaurants, and a Quality Inn.
    Maggie paused, struggling to catch her breath. The others continued ahead, but stopped when they realized she had fallen behind.
    “Come on,” Kurt said.
    She stared at him with a steady gaze, taking in his handsome face, his strong body, the shame in his wide, green eyes. Then she turned away. Shivering, and not from the cold, she walked in the opposite direction.
    “Maggie!” Vanessa called. “Come on, we have to stick together.”
    Maggie just kept walking. She really expected Vanessa or Kurt to run after her, try to convince her to turn around, but they didn't. Actually, she was relieved.
    She walked into the Quality Inn. The lobby was warm, and one of her favorite songs by James Taylor was playing on the loudspeaker. The desk clerk was a pretty black girl, not much older than Maggie herself.
    “May I help you?” the girl asked.
    “Do you have a pay phone?”
    “Right over there.” The girl pointed to a bank of telephones along the wall. Maggie thanked her.
    She would call Anne. She'd make up some excuse and ask Anne to cover for her with her mother. She didn't ask herself why, but she knew she needed to hear a motherly voice. She'd hitchhike back to the ferry, slip onto the island, and everything would be fine again. Dialing Anne's number, she had to try three times before her fingers got it right.
    “Hello?”
    Maggie clutched the receiver, unable to