Letters She Wrote | Outer Banks

𝐱𝐯. 𝐛𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥

[ xv. bat out of hell ]

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"OH, MY GOD! WHAT the hell were you doing?" Willa Deveraux demanded forcefully, her sage eyes wide with terror and disbelief. Once she had pulled the Jeep Wrangler off to the side of the road and yanked the keys free from the ignition, she immediately crossed back over to John B. Routledge's side, the taller boy now waiting stiffly on the cracked sidewalk for her. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?!"

"I . . ." John B. trailed off hesitantly, his brows knotting together as he looked towards the road—towards where he had nearly become roadkill—and then back to Willa, who shared a mutual expression of confusion. "Uh . . . no?"

As the two young teenagers stood facing each other in the middle of the sidewalk, lost in a heated and panicked exchange, not a single passerby around paid them any attention. In fact, the downtown area of the Outer Banks—the unspoken middle ground between the Figure Eight and the Cut—was relatively empty. Almost too empty for an ordinary business day, and especially too empty for an island attempting to rebuild from the severities that Hurricane Agatha had left in her wake. For as far as the eye could see, regardless of which direction Willa looked, all of the roads were littered with debris and broken branches, each piece of ruin its own little imperfect scar on an island that thrived in haunted excellence.

After a long, bated moment, Willa exhaled a sharp, timid breath and raked a nervous hand through her hair, wincing at the familiar pain of her rings snagging in her frizzy knots as she pulled her low bun free from its loose loop at the base of her sweaty neck. She was breathing hard as she let both of her flannel-covered arms fall back down to her sides, her vision side-sweeping John B. as she looked further down the block in the direction that he had come from, as if likely expecting another sprinting figure to soon follow. To Willa's growing suspicion, there was absolutely no one behind the Routledge boy, near or far. "Where's Kiara?" She prodded.

John B. followed Willa's searching gaze and shrugged his shoulders tightly. "Her dad came and picked her up," He informed dully.

"Her dad?" Willa repeated, wrinkling her nose. "Picked her up from where?"

"The sheriff's station."

For the millionth time that day—just when Willa Deveraux was certain she could not be surprised by any more mayhem that John B. Routledge had to offer—her eyes widened in alarm once more and her jaw dropped. "What?" She gasped. "What the hell happened? Did you guys get caught in the lighthouse?"

"Not in the lighthouse," John B. clarified as he shoved his own hands into the pockets of his dark shorts. "but not much later after that, either. We decided to take a shortcut down the beach, and Shoupe was waiting for us."

Willa's jaw fell softly back to a close and she looked away from John B., allowing her attention to divert further down the wide street, in the direction that she had initially been heading before her near hit-and-run. She could still feel John B. watching her every movement, his body shadowing hers as he stood beside her, both of their hearts still beating unsteadily in their stiff chests, uncomfortable in the eerie calm that engulfed them both. "How did the cops even know you were there?" She questioned over her shoulder.