Getaway Car [HS]

Chapter One

This is a bad idea.

Her fingers drum against the steering wheel to the raucous beat of the song blasting through the speakers of her used Subaru. The repetitive action keeps her from going insane as a consequence of the pent-up anxiety bubbling inside of her. Her stomach churns with nausea just thinking about what she's doing, let alone chancing a glance at the bag sitting on her lap beneath her favorite hoodie.

"Come on," she mumbles. "Don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up..."

This deal cannot fall through.

It's simple. She and the buyer meet at the predesignated side street of her choosing, they get in the car and give her the money, she gives them their ounce of pot, then she drives off alone with two-hundred dollars. If it's so simple, clear-cut, and well-planned, why does she have a sick feeling in her gut telling her everything will go awry?

Her eyes scan the street ahead with a naive brand of cautiousness that'll tell anyone who cares enough to look inside that she's up to no good, so she tries to force a poker face to the best of her ability.

She continues, meeting her own gaze in the mirror to berate herself, "This can't look like your first drug deal, Harley. You can't freak out like this, he's gonna think you're a cop or something!"

Her hands are wrapped around the wheel with a white-knuckled grip. She cycles through her memories of this morning, when Alanis told her what to do and where to go, and thinks back to every word she said to assure she's doing everything correctly.

The faint sound of a door opening and closing at the other end of the narrow alleyway is drowned out by the music flooding the small space within her car. Anderson .Paak's voice echoes around her as she takes deep huffs of air and murmurs the instructions back at her reflection.

They were talking about it in the back office of the auto shop where they work together with the door shut and blinds down to keep passing customers or workers from overhearing. If she concentrates, she can hear her friend speaking in the back of her mind.

"Park in the alley behind 930 Poydras Street at eleven." Her soft voice barely reaches her ears over the music. "Ask the guy what his name is, and if he says Andrew, let him in"—she reaches down to feel for the switchblade stashed in the door's compartment—"and take something to protect yourself just in case. Once the deal is done, text me so I know you're home safe."

The passenger's side door is flung open to end her nervous rambling, and she lets out a sigh of relief despite her friend's instructions.

"I was starting to think you weren't coming, Andrew—"

She halts mid-sentence at the sight that greets her when she turns in her seat to look straight down the barrel of a Sig Sauer. It takes a momentary pause for her wide-eyed stare to roam up from the gloved hand wrapped around the gun handle to the masked face looking back at her, and the only identifying feature she can take note of is his eyes.

The ski mask pulled over his head obscures everything to prevent her from taking note of the assumed criminal's face, that is except for the piercing green eyes burning into her. Two holes are cut to allow him to stare back at her along with another small gap in the fabric around his mouth for him to breathe and talk.

The man's deep voice sends chills down her spine.

"M'not Andrew, sweetheart."