The Podcast

Chapter 6

Tuesday Night

A flickering yellow neon light dances across the front window of Lucas' SUV. He takes a few deep breaths before reaching across the seat and grabbing the pack of Marlboro Reds he bought inside the gas station. During his time in the Army, smoking was rampant. Dying of lung cancer wasn't a threat but a promise—a promise you'd live longer than the next deployment. The next forty-eight hours. The impending surprise attack.

The paper filter between his lips feels precious, almost intimate. He slows his movements, reaching into the center console for a lighter. The flame sharply catches and then sways, the movement sensual as he stares down his nose at it. The smell brings him back to the oppressively hot deserts of Afghanistan, the heat so pervasive it weighs on your chest like a physical thing. The feel of sand crunching between your teeth all hours of the day or night. The smell of acrid gunpowder and trapped sweat lining the inside of your nose. He misses it. Craves it just the same as the nicotine. Feels rotten to admit as one of the few who made it out alive.

But he's allowed himself this indulgence for a reason. He looks down at the Podster app on his phone that he downloaded in the short trek between Maria's house and his car, his fingers itching for it in the App Store. Sure enough, West Coast Killers is at the top of the most popular podcasts list. There's a small thumbnail image above the show's name featuring a porcelain-skinned, dark-haired girl with haunting gray–green eyes and a wide unsmiling mouth.

Leaning his seat back, he pulls the cigarette smoke all the way down to the very base of his lungs like a pail dredging water from the bottom of a well. He savors the inhale, holding it until it burns, as he connects his phone to his car's Bluetooth and presses play.

A flickering yellow neon light dances across the front window of Lucas' SUV. He takes a few deep breaths before reaching across the seat and grabbing the pack of Marlboro Reds he bought inside the gas station. During his time in the Army, smoking was rampant. Dying of lung cancer wasn't a threat but a promise—a promise you'd live longer than the next deployment. The next forty-eight hours. The impending surprise attack.

The paper filter between his lips feels precious, almost intimate. He slows his movements, reaching into the center console for a lighter. The flame sharply catches and then sways, the movement sensual as he stares down his nose at it. The smell brings him back to the oppressively hot deserts of Afghanistan, the heat so pervasive it weighs on your chest like a physical thing. The feel of sand crunching between your teeth all hours of the day or night. The smell of acrid gunpowder and trapped sweat lining the inside of your nose. He misses it. Craves it just the same as the nicotine. Feels rotten to admit as one of the few who made it out alive.

But he's allowed himself this indulgence for a reason. He looks down at the Podster app on his phone that he downloaded in the short trek between Maria's house and his car, his fingers itching for it in the App Store. Sure enough, West Coast Killers is at the top of the most popular podcasts list. There's a small thumbnail image above the show's name featuring a porcelain-skinned, dark-haired girl with haunting gray–green eyes and a wide unsmiling mouth.

Leaning his seat back, he pulls the cigarette smoke all the way down to the very base of his lungs like a pail dredging water from the bottom of a well. He savors the inhale, holding it until it burns, as he connects his phone to his car's Bluetooth and presses play.