East West Sunset - A Darry Curtis Fanfiction

Chapter Two

"So what was Dad like?"

"Mischievous. He and his pals got into a lot of trouble when they were your age."

"What kind of trouble?"

"As if I'd tell you that! He was crazy, your father. But he was crazy in the best way. I was crazy too, to fall in love with a man like that."

The bus adhered pretty well to the schedule I had been given. It roared into the busy Tulsa bus station a few minutes past eight, the windows glistening in the still-cool morning air. There were dozens of people milling about on the cold pavement below my window, and I could almost feel their harried, bustling energy from where I sat. It made me nervous. I knew it would be a while before I'd get used to the fast-paced city life after growing up in a sleepy town in the middle of Oklahoma.

The people around me were getting off at a remarkable speed, dragging their bags behind them. I smiled a goodbye to the nice woman who had given me the slightly nerve-wracking information about the gangs, but she didn't see my grin and instead ducked out the bus door without saying a word. Slightly disheartened, I stood and glanced around the almost empty bus. There was only one other person on the bus, a suspicious looking kid probably a few years younger than me. He looked to be about sixteen, and his eyes were hard and unfeeling. I was hit by the supreme good looks of him, though, even though he was a couple years younger than me. His dark hair was swept back with what looked like several bottles of hair grease, and he had a worn leather jacket slung over his shoulder. His arms were taut with rope-like tendons and muscles; instinctively, I knew this kid should not be messed with. 

His eyes followed me as I reached under my seat for my bag. I felt uncomfortable with his intense gaze following me so closely, but I didn't know what to say to him, so I decided to just ignore it. I set my satchel carefully on the seat next to me and turned to the slightly reflective window to fix my hair. In the reflection in the glass, I saw the boy walk down the aisle and stop right next to my seat. I was about to turn around and ask him, somewhat angrily, what he wanted, when he grabbed the handles of my satchel and dashed off the bus.

I was momentarily stunned, but then I regained my composure. He had taken my bag, and all of my money and clothing was in there! "Stop! Thief!" I yelled as I took off after him. People disembarking from other buses jumped out of my way, looking shocked and murmuring to each other, as I raced past them in pursuit. "That boy took my bag!" I cried and pointed to the boy, who by this point had squeezed past the crowd and was heading for an alley across the street from the bus station.

I heard the shriek of a police officer's whistle as I ran, but I didn't stop to let the officer catch up with me. Instead, I plunged into the rather foul-smelling alley after my stolen bag, desperation raw in my throat. I needed my bag! I couldn't go anywhere or do anything without it!

I increased my pace, and my footsteps pounded against the cracked concrete like Godzilla. The alleyway was deserted, with broken pop bottles, burnt out cigarettes, and other trash piled like dirty snow drifts against the dilapidated garages on both sides. The depressing atmosphere was making me feel a bit hopeless in my search, especially as I seemed to have lost the boy. I couldn't see him ahead of me anymore, and I assumed he had dashed down a different side street and was lost in Tulsa somewhere. 

The thought of scouring the city's dangerous east side in search of my stolen bag was not appealing to me, but I couldn't think of any other option. Surely the police department had better things to do than search for a silly girl's missing bag; I couldn't rely on them for help. At the end of the alley, I slowed to a walk, panting slightly from the exertion. My breath hitched in frustration. What a lousy way to start the trip! I untied the pale purple ascot from around my neck and used it to wipe the sweat from my forehead before sticking it into the pocket of my high waisted denim shorts. Scowling, I peered up and down the street and crossed my arms, the chill air picking out goosebumps on my bare arms.

"My sweater was in there, too," I muttered to myself miserably. "I was a fool to wear such summery clothes in September weather!"

I stood there for a while, forlorn and angry, until I finally decided to continue my search. "It's no use just standing here," I told myself bracingly. "At least I've got to try to find it!"

I began to walk again, looking up and down the streets at the small, one-family houses that repeated again and again down the line. The farther I walked, the shabbier the houses got, until they were dark old shacks with hardly a screen door to keep the brisk wind out. The streets became worse, too. In some places there was hardly a sidewalk; instead, I had to muck along in the mud at the side of the road. My temper was fouling by the second, and yet I still hadn't managed to locate the boy, or more importantly my bag.

It was getting hopeless. After almost an hour of walking around, I still had no luck. I was about to call it quits and find the nearest police station when I heard someone yell at from across the street. I whipped around, startled and slightly afraid, remembering what the lady on the bus had told me about gangs in this area.

"Hey, girlie. What's a nice-looking chick like you doing around here?"

It came from a tall, lean boy who was leaning against one of the houses, lazily smoking a cigarette. For a second I thought he was the one who had stolen my bag, because his hair was greased back and he wore a leather jacket, but this boy was much taller and looked to be about my age, maybe even a little older. He had intelligent eyes and a cocky, crooked smile, and his long hair was chocolate brown. He had grease spots on his bare arms, from working, I assumed. He wasn't terrible to look at, but he sure wasn't anything special.

"I sure don't WANT to be here," I said, my bad mood making my reply a little short.

"Aw, honey, that's no way to act," laughed the boy. He drew the cigarette from his lips and flicked it to the ground, grinding the lit end into the dirt with his heel. "It's lovely here. Beverly Hills, practically."

"Uh-huh," I replied skeptically. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got to track down the person who stole my satchel."

"Oh, I see." He peered at me carefully. "You're the chick Bryon nicked that bag from."

My heart leaped. Did this boy know who had stolen my bag? "Who's Bryon? Can he please give me my bag back?" I asked angrily.

"Not so fast, honey," the boy said, holding his hands up and grinning. He was enjoying teasing me entirely too much. "You haven't even told me your name yet. A pretty chick like you must have a pretty name to go with."

I almost rolled my eyes at his cheesy attempt at flattery, but I decided to humor him. After all, he could potentially return my bag to me. "Diana Jean," I said. "And you?"

"I'm Steve. Steve Randle. I must say, it's a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Diana," he said with a grin.

"All right, all right. Can I just get my bag back now?" I fairly begged him.

"Impatient, are we? You'll get your bag back soon enough. We have to go in first," Steve told me.

"Go in?" I asked, confused. "Go in where?"

Steve hopped up the steps to the house he had been leaning on. "The Curtis house, of course," he said.