The Bucket List

1.1 The Accident

"Scatter my ashes in the sea. And no funeral. My cheap ass can't afford a funeral."

"Amara?" Gabrielle asks, voice groggy. Nine in the morning is pushing it for her. "What did you do this time?"

A hundred eyes watch my progress as I pace back and forth along the sidewalk, dodging patches of shattered glass and pointedly ignoring the hunk of junk that is—was—my car.

Years. I spent years saving for that piece of crap back in highschool. And now she's as good as dead. "I'm in a bit of a jam," I say at last. The understatement of the year.

I glance across the intersection, at the flash of red lights and the foreign car wrapped around a telephone pole. It's not that bad, I tell myself, searching frantically for a scrap of silver lining. Fixable. Totally fixable.

As if to spite me, the engine erupts in a burst of angry flames. I grimace.

"Was that an explosion?" Gabby demands. "Why do I hear sirens?"

I scramble for a good answer. The owner of the burning car is staring at the flames, expressionless. I flinch when our eyes meet and hide my face behind a curtain of bubblegum pink hair, mortified.

"Did I mention I was in a bit of a jam?" I mumble.

"Amara—"

"Gabby." Blue lights glimmer in the distance. Oh, fantastic. The blue coats are coming, the blue coats are coming. "Please. No questions asked?"

A long, suffering sigh. "You owe me."

"Always and forever."

"You keep saying that," Gabby says, irate. The sound of a slamming drawer makes me grin.

"I keep meaning it, too." I wedge my heel between a crack in the sidewalk, watching as a police cruiser breaks away from traffic to park in the emergency lane—the same emergency lane the hood of my car is currently occupying. The rest of the fleet converges on the flaming vehicle my old clunker destroyed, effectively dispersing the gathered crowd.

Please don't have a concussion, I pray to the universe as emergency responders approach the other driver. Please, please don't have a concussion.

"Gotta go," I tell Gabby, rattling off an address and thanking her repeatedly before hanging up. And just in time, too. I smile as a pretty technician with an enticing pout and hypnotizing eyes saunters over to my side of the street.

Hello, gorgeous.

I proceed to make a complete fool of myself for the second time that morning, stammering responses to her list of well-rehearsed questions. No, I'm not experiencing any pain (lie). No, I don't want a ride to the nearest hospital (also a lie, especially if it means getting a chance to flirt with her for an extra fifteen minutes). But not even her sultry smile can distract from the fact that a ride in the ambulance will cost an arm and a leg.

My arm. And my leg.

I can't afford a hospital bill. I can barely afford rent. Not that the technician needs to know that.

It's hard to have game when you're ass-broke.

"If you change your mind..." She picks up her field kit, eyeing me uncertainty.

"If I change my mind..." I lean forward. "Maybe I can give you a call?"

She pretends to consider the offer, eyeing me shamelessly before saving her number in my phone with a shrug. I watch her walk back to the ambulance with a triumphant grin on my face. A grin that quickly fades at the prospect of actually taking her on a date.