“Turn left in four-hundred feet,” the electronic voice of the GPS intoned from the front dash of the Buick.
Ryker sighed. He stretched across the back seat as much as the cramped space allowed. With his back pressed against one door, he stared at his sneakers, one tapping against the opposite car door. He had to admit. He had forgotten how convenient shoes were. And they were not too uncomfortable once socks were taken out of the picture.
He longingly watched the world flashing by outside the window. The drive had been long and arduous. Though he spent most of it pretending to be asleep, every bit of him ached to be out there, wandering and, more importantly,
searching. He had tried running off during their first rest stop, but, alas, his plan had failed quite utterly.
His fingers tapped at the seat beside him with his anxiousness to escape the confined car. His other hand toyed with the cord hanging around his neck. The only bit of what remained of his beloved jaguar pelt wrapped the pendant, hiding its abnormal appearance.
“Ryker?” Not receiving an immediate answer, his mother, Donna, turned to peer at him around the backrest. Noticing his bare chest, pity flashed over her face at the handful of scars marring his tanned torso, some more noticeable than others. But only for a moment. Her lips pulled instead into a frown. “We’re almost there. Put your shirt back on. First impressions are everything, and I won’t have my son running around like an uncivilized vagrant.”
Ryker groaned. He rolled his eyes, their irises darkening irritably to a shamrock green. Under his mother’s disapproving gaze, he made a show of groping around at the floor in a hunt for the garment he knew was not there.
“Musta left it at the last rest stop.” He shrugged animatedly, a corner of his lip quirking upward.
Donna shook her head, then glanced to the black hoodie shoved in the back window. She nodded to it. “Then at least put that on.”
“It’s too hot. I’d die of heatstroke.” He shrugged again, as if that should have been common knowledge.
“Ryker.” His father’s stern voice cut in as Karl Porter adjusted the rear view mirror.
Ryker scowled, wishing they would stop calling him that. All the same, he refrained from demanding they call him Jaguar. He already knew what would come of
that. Instead, raised his eyebrows in answer as Karl’s green eyes and part of his dark, pyramidal mustache reflected in the mirror.
“Don’t argue. Do as your mom says.”
Ryker snorted softly, his eyes deepening another half a shade. He had heard that a lot since being forced from his true home in Neverland: ‘Just do as we say.’ As if their way was the only way. Was
his way.
He leaned forward to grab his hoodie to get his parents off his back. He stole a quick glance at the GPS, wondering how far ‘almost there’ meant. The device told him they were still thirteen minutes out. Thirteen minutes until he could be out in the warm summer air. Thirteen minutes until he was passed on to what he was sure would only be his next prison cell.
Until he managed to slip away, that was.
