Keep Calm and Kill Your Wife by Lucky Stevens Read Free Book Online Page B

read.
    Maybe she could just back up on the freeway, she thought, an idea complicated by a pair of headlights that went zooming by. As the car passed, it launched a long drawn out honk clearly meant for her. She had slowed down quite a bit and now realized that yet another car was bearing down on her. So she pressed the gas hard and watched in her rearview mirror as the car swerved around her, this one thankfully laying off the horn. It didn’t look like backing up was going to be an option.
    The next eleven and a half miles were a virtual cacophony of yelling, slapping and singing with heavy doses of blasting music and the faint sound of Brandy’s head intermittently banging backwards against the headrest. Anything to stay awake.
    She toyed with the thought of pulling over to the shoulder of the freeway, but the idea of being struck by some drunken asshole while she slept, dissuaded her. She could make it, she told herself. God, she was tired. If she missed the Cornhinter off ramp, she’d have to kill herself, she muttered as she stuck hard to the far right lane.
    “Yes!” she whooped, as she turned her wheel to the right, exiting the freeway at last. Pure darkness. No hotels, no coffee shop, no nothing. Just sleep.
    She drove about thirty feet before she pulled off the road, next to some large overgrown bushes. Killing the engine, she couldn’t pull the seat lever fast enough, dead to the world before she was fully reclined. The Blue Jay Inn could go to hell.

ELEVEN
    H UNCKE’S SERVICE STATION had stopped serving deli food a long time ago. And while some businesses that have been around for decades manage to maintain a certain charm wrapped in its glory of yesteryear, Huncke’s personified none of this. Its worn out rusticity was the living embodiment of a functional and aloof shell where weary travelers and indifferent locals got gas and pre-packaged snacks—not necessarily in that order.
    Grandma had remembered Mrs. Huncke’s fresh homemade apple pie and Summer had vague recollections of Huncke’s soft-serve ice cream. But those days were long gone and as Hart pulled his car into the station, Summer arched her back and stretched, seeing no reason to exit the car to visit this outdated relic “for old time’s sake” or any other reason.
    “Dammit,” Hart yelled as he cut the engine.
    “What is it?” asked Summer, her heavy eyelids springing open.
    Hart pointed out the driver’s side window at a crudely written sign: NO GAS TODAY sorry
    “It’s okay, Honey,” Summer said. “We’ll get gas tomorrow. We have enough to drive around town for a little while until then.”
    “I guess,” Hart said. Stupid hick little town. This kind of thing never happens in the city. He reached for the key.
    “Wait,” she said. “Let’s take a break. You’ve been driving for a long time. Why don’t you get yourself a snack inside? Oh, and some breakfast stuff for tomorrow.”
    Hart shrugged. “Alright. You coming?”
    Summer yawned and stretched again. “No thanks, I’m fine.”
    When Hart exited the car, his nostrils filled with the fragrant and familiar scent of pine. It was a whole different world out here, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice a certain freshness that permeated the air, and the wonderful background soundtrack that just a few scattered birds were providing.
    And then the city was back. Beelining straight toward him was a hippie drifter, his hand out. “Brother, can you spare a dime?” may have been the appropriate opener had Huncke’s maintained its original 1930’s constitution. The drifter’s eyes were dead but penetrating. His entire hue, almost a dull sepia, as if he was fairly rusting away. He was the personification of a living, breathing monochromatic being, brought about by a complete covering of the same dust from head to toe.
    A cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, the man was clearly on something, and he approached in a manner that was difficult to ignore. But Hart was