The End of Never by Tammy Turner

Author:Tammy Turner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC009010, FIC009050, FIC010000
ISBN: 9781939371157
Publisher: Boutique of Quality Book Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2014-04-09T04:00:00+00:00

16

No Place Like Home

Taylor stared into the restroom mirror and poked her tongue out at the glass. You are so not the fairest of them all today, honey, she thought.

Her bubblegum-pink fingernails prodded at an angry red zit doubling in size every second on her chin. She leaned her worried face closer, the cracks of the mirror distorting her reflection.

“Texas,” she muttered with her fingertips rubbing the blemish. “This bad boy is as big as Texas. Maybe it’s stress.” She knew greasy French fries and chocolate did not cause the explosion on her perfect face. She never touched the stuff.

“This is not good,” she told herself. “I need to chill.”

In the middle of her forehead, a red welt reminded Taylor that relaxation might not be an option. She needed to make Krystal pay. She touched her forehead tenderly while her delicate skin turned black and blue. The smack of her face into the detective’s desk had not concerned her. Taylor did that sometimes when she had not eaten in a while. But she usually made sure to faint backward and not fall flat on her pretty face. Dabbing at the trickles of dried blood beneath her nostrils, she felt a surge of panic when the swipe of the rough paper towel revealed a pink stain beneath her nose and above her pouty lips.

“How does Alexandra do this?” she asked, barely above a whisper. Her best friend did not give much thought to her skin, hair, or make-up, which Taylor chalked up to innate good looks.

Bending over the sink, Taylor spat into the drain. She ran her fingers under the cool water dripping from the faucet. “I hate bananas,” she said angrily and cupped her palms under the stream. A sip of water rinsed her mouth clean of the taste. She had forced herself to eat the brown, mushy mess because she knew the detective would not have let her excuse herself to the bathroom unless she did.

Above her head, the flickering light bulb died and darkness drenched the restroom. The pitch black was an improvement on the jail’s battleship-gray interior design, as far as Taylor was concerned. She began feeling in the dark for her crutches. Suddenly a barrage of sharp taps rattled the door, causing her to suck in a deep breath.

Gunfire? she worried, the shock sending her crutches clamoring to the tile floor. Crouching and blind, she whimpered until her hands found the metal sticks.

“Taylor!” a voice yelled from the hallway. The rapid knock of a pair of knuckles on the steel door ceased, and a shaft of light slid into the unlit room.

With the door cracked open, Taylor recognized the raspy voice. It was the detective, the frizzy halo of her too-short bangs backlit by the fluorescent bulbs in the hallway. “There is someone here for you. Why are the lights off? Are you okay in there?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Taylor assured her as she clasped her crutches in her shaking fists and hobbled toward Detective Monroe. “Sure took Connie long enough to get here, huh?” she asked, stepping past the detective into the hallway.

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