Status: Completed. Comments?
The Passenger's Seat
Seven
“Was that your brother?” asked Roxie, her voice hoarse.
Garrett nodded and smiled, clandestinely glad that she was awake.
Roxie smirked, feeling for the bottle of whiskey on the car floor.
He saw what she was doing and reached for the bottle faster than she did. Roxie looked distraught. “But I’m thirsty!”
“You need water. I need this,” said Garrett smugly, drinking from the bottle, immediately feeling the warmth in his throat. Ah, alcohol, he thought. No doubt, it fixes everything.
While Garrett was busy drinking up, Roxie rolled down her window and scanned the outside perimeter. “Where are we?” she asked him.
“We’re in an alley somewhere downtown,” murmured Garrett, who was now fumbling around his car compartment for a pack of cigarettes he always kept handy in times of need. He supposed it was nearly five in the morning, and he was tired. He also needed a smoke. He couldn’t find the pack in the assortment of things inside the compartment and commenced removing everything inside it, determined to locate the pack.
“Did the police come and chase us?” she said, her upper body out the window, as Garrett threw out a roll of duct tape.
“Yeah, actually, they did,” Garrett said, plucking out a pack of Oreos that must have been there for over a year now.
“And?”
“And we got away,” he told her. Garrett pulled out a two day old copy of the state newspaper from the compartment. In his free time, he liked to do the crossword, something he also learned from Mark. It was also a great way of attracting girls. But he hasn’t gotten around to solving this puzzle in Wednesday's issue.
Before he set it down, he saw a girl’s familiar blonde hair on the front page and brought the newspaper closer so he could see in the dim light of the early morning.
“What are you looking for?” asked Roxie, who was still out the window.
“Er, just a smoke,” said Garrett, focusing his eyes on the picture of a pale slender girl on the newspaper, only with less make up and her hair tied up to a bun, next to an severe looking older man in a suit, with his head down.
“Oh, gimme some,” said Roxie, climbing back on her seat. She paused when she saw what Garrett was looking at, and bit her lip, waiting for him to say something.
“You’re Roxanne Locke,” he said slowly, processing it in mind. He knew he recognized her from somewhere. Roxie’s father, John Locke, was one of the richest men in America, owning more than one hundred and fifty power plants across the globe. The picture on the front page was at her mother’s funeral, a few days ago, who died of natural causes. But there were certain suspicions from the public that Mrs. Locke, who happened to be a well-known Hollywood actress, died of drug overdose. It had been all over the news.
Roxie nodded gravely and grabbed the newspaper from his hands. “Took you long enough,” she said flatly. “Do I look good in this picture?”
Garrett didn’t answer. Instead, he asked her, “Are you okay, Roxie?”
She snorted. “Do I look okay?” she said, flinging the paper back at him.
Garrett studied Roxie’s picture. She looked… different. The girl in the picture was a softer, milder version of the current Roxie beside him. She was in a white, flowing floor-length dress. Her back was straight, her chin was held high, and she exuded an air of profound grace and elegance, despite the tragedy that had just happened in her life. She was beautiful, Garrett realized.
Garrett nodded and smiled, clandestinely glad that she was awake.
Roxie smirked, feeling for the bottle of whiskey on the car floor.
He saw what she was doing and reached for the bottle faster than she did. Roxie looked distraught. “But I’m thirsty!”
“You need water. I need this,” said Garrett smugly, drinking from the bottle, immediately feeling the warmth in his throat. Ah, alcohol, he thought. No doubt, it fixes everything.
While Garrett was busy drinking up, Roxie rolled down her window and scanned the outside perimeter. “Where are we?” she asked him.
“We’re in an alley somewhere downtown,” murmured Garrett, who was now fumbling around his car compartment for a pack of cigarettes he always kept handy in times of need. He supposed it was nearly five in the morning, and he was tired. He also needed a smoke. He couldn’t find the pack in the assortment of things inside the compartment and commenced removing everything inside it, determined to locate the pack.
“Did the police come and chase us?” she said, her upper body out the window, as Garrett threw out a roll of duct tape.
“Yeah, actually, they did,” Garrett said, plucking out a pack of Oreos that must have been there for over a year now.
“And?”
“And we got away,” he told her. Garrett pulled out a two day old copy of the state newspaper from the compartment. In his free time, he liked to do the crossword, something he also learned from Mark. It was also a great way of attracting girls. But he hasn’t gotten around to solving this puzzle in Wednesday's issue.
Before he set it down, he saw a girl’s familiar blonde hair on the front page and brought the newspaper closer so he could see in the dim light of the early morning.
“What are you looking for?” asked Roxie, who was still out the window.
“Er, just a smoke,” said Garrett, focusing his eyes on the picture of a pale slender girl on the newspaper, only with less make up and her hair tied up to a bun, next to an severe looking older man in a suit, with his head down.
“Oh, gimme some,” said Roxie, climbing back on her seat. She paused when she saw what Garrett was looking at, and bit her lip, waiting for him to say something.
“You’re Roxanne Locke,” he said slowly, processing it in mind. He knew he recognized her from somewhere. Roxie’s father, John Locke, was one of the richest men in America, owning more than one hundred and fifty power plants across the globe. The picture on the front page was at her mother’s funeral, a few days ago, who died of natural causes. But there were certain suspicions from the public that Mrs. Locke, who happened to be a well-known Hollywood actress, died of drug overdose. It had been all over the news.
Roxie nodded gravely and grabbed the newspaper from his hands. “Took you long enough,” she said flatly. “Do I look good in this picture?”
Garrett didn’t answer. Instead, he asked her, “Are you okay, Roxie?”
She snorted. “Do I look okay?” she said, flinging the paper back at him.
Garrett studied Roxie’s picture. She looked… different. The girl in the picture was a softer, milder version of the current Roxie beside him. She was in a white, flowing floor-length dress. Her back was straight, her chin was held high, and she exuded an air of profound grace and elegance, despite the tragedy that had just happened in her life. She was beautiful, Garrett realized.