Affliction

by Marilee Brothers

  “We call this the Corral,” Nick says. “It can get a little rowdy in here, so watch yourself. I’ll try to keep an eye out, so give me a high sign if you need help.”

  Next, he leads me down the hall to a small storage room. He points at a bucket and mop. “Cleaning supplies here in case there’s spillage. There’s almost always spillage.”

  On the way back to the dining room, I glance at the photos of local athletes lining the hall and spot a familiar face. Clad in a football uniform, a helmet hanging from his right hand, William Henry McCarty stares into the camera with a surly gaze.

  Nick turns and finds me studying the picture. “The Kid’s one of our regulars. You know him?”

  “We’ve met. Why do you call him the Kid?”

  “You’ve heard of outlaw Billy the Kid…right?”

  I nod.

  “Our Billy was the best fullback to come out of 3 Peaks High School. A sports writer from the Oregonian found out William Henry McCarty was also outlaw Billy the Kid’s real name and compared the two in an article. He said, ‘The Kid flat mows ’em down like his famous predecessor.’ I guess the name sort of stuck.”

  “Huh.” I say it like I don’t give a rat’s ass.

  By the time Helen bustles in, my head is swimming with confusion. Nick had tossed out a bajillion terms, thinking I would know what he’s talking about. I don’t, of course. Not wanting to admit my ignorance, I nod and pray I can figure it out later. Sum total of what I know? Each table needs a “setup.” Silverware, napkins, salt, pepper, condiments. Since Nick’s system isn’t computerized, we take orders the old-fashioned way, written down on a pad. Each waitress is allowed to keep her tips, but breakage comes out of my salary. Also, if my customers “dine and dash,” I’m stuck with the bill. Good to know.

  Helen is a big-busted redhead with long, skinny bird legs and muscular freckled arms. She looks me over and hollers at Nick. “Better let me take the Corral. Those guys will eat her alive.”

  “She’s tougher than she looks,” Nick hollers back.

  More confusion. Am I supposed to wait on customers in the Corral or not? Instead of asking, I decide to wait and see how it plays out.

  At exactly three fifty-nine, Nick unlocks the front door and two old couples shuffle in.

  “They come in every day for the early bird special,” Helen tells me. “Go ahead. It will be good practice for you.”

  I soon discover this isn’t an act of generosity. After downing their meatloaf specials, each of the elderly couples gives me a one-dollar tip.

  When happy hour starts at four-thirty, the place gets crazy. Drinks and appetizers, half price until six. Helen and I are busting our buns, trying to deliver food and keep pitchers of beer refilled. Nick’s behind the bar, deftly mixing drinks while keeping a watchful eye on the crowd.

  A shrill whistle splits the air, followed by, “Hey, Sweet Cheeks! Get your butt over here.”

  The summons comes from a table crowded with blue-collar guys. One of the men holds up an empty beer pitcher.

  Helen brushes by me. “I believe he’s talking to you, Sweet Cheeks.”

  Nick gives the guy a look, but says nothing. Is this a test to see if I can handle the situation? Even though I’m pissed off, I approach the men.

  “Another refill?” I reach for the empty pitcher.

  The jerk pulls it away, forcing me to move closer to him. He tilts his chair back, balancing it on the two back legs. His legs are spread like he’s giving me an up-close, personal view of his manly junk. I feel the heat of his gaze crawling over my body. His buddies watch the action with anticipatory grins. Even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I move in until my legs are touching his. We lock gazes and I look into his soiled mustard-yellow soul.

  “You might want to be careful, sir,” I say. “Looks like that chair’s about to tip over.”

  My hand closes around the empty pitcher. Just a teensy little bump, Mel, and over he goes. I really want to do it, but then I remember Adam Boyle. Instead, I refuse to blink and move closer. Uncertainty clouds his eyes and he lowers the front legs of the chair to the floor.

  Still staring into his eyes, I pull the pitcher from his grip. “Same as before? MGD?”

  The corners of his mouth turn down. “Yeah, that’ll work. And make it snappy.”

  I give him a sweet smile, knowing he’s trying to save face with his buddies. “Right away, sir.”

  As I turn to leave, my peripheral vision catches sight of a hand moving toward my ass. I switch my hips the opposite direction and call over my shoulder. “Bad boy! No grabbing the help.”

  Thankfully, everybody at the table busts out laughing. As I approach the bar, Nick gives me a big thumbs up. “Way to go, Mel. Think you can handle the Corral?”

  “Sure. No problem.” At least, I thought I could at the time.

  I deliver a platter of Buffalo wings to the boys in the Corral and hurry back for their drinks. I pick up the tray of eight frosty mugs filled with draught beer. Making sure the mugs are balanced on the tray, I take a tentative step. At precisely the same moment, a guy at the bar whirls around and flings out an arm to greet his buddy across the room. His arm whacks me in the back of my head and I lurch forward. The tray shoots from my hands. Beer mugs fly. A foam-capped tsunami of beer cascades across the floor. I stagger forward, trying to catch my balance but instead, splat face-first in the beer spill.

  I struggle to my feet and without benefit of thought, scream, “Fuck.”

  After a brief moment of silence, the crowd begins to cheer, clap and yell comments.

  “Way to go, new girl.”

  “Anybody got a straw?”

  Dripping with beer, I clap a hand over my mouth, afraid to look at Nick. He has two good reasons to let me go. If the beer crash doesn’t do the trick, the F bomb surely will.

  A big warm hand grips the back of my neck. “Need some help?”

  I turn. My forehead brushes against the stubbly chin of the man standing behind me. Billy the Kid is in the building.

  Chapter Seven

  My face is hot with embarrassment and I’m unable to string together a complete sentence. Instead, I stammer, “Um, well, uh…”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Nick approaching. Fortunately, the guy who caused the accident slides across the beer-slickened floor to apologize. “Don’t you worry, little girl. I’ll tell Nick it was my fault.” He slip-slides away and intercepts Nick who, I’m sure, is on his way to fire me.

  My feet feel glued to the floor. Billy puts his hands on my shoulders. “Let’s go get the mop. I’ll help you clean up.”

  His kindness puts me over the edge. I bite my lower lip and blink back tears. Do not cry, dumb shit. Especially not in front of this guy.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and croak, “Yeah, good idea.”

  I begin to pick my way through the mess.

  “Hey, Mel.” Nick’s voice.

  I stop in my tracks. I’m about to get the axe. I know it. Nick’s expression is unreadable. I lift my hands and say, “Sorry about all this, especially the language.” I dig around in my pocket and hold out the key to my room. “You want me to go?”

  Nick’s brows draw together. “Go? Why would I want you to go?”

  To my amazement, he turns to Billy and gives him a big bear hug. “Back from sand land, huh Kid? Heard you landed a job with 3 Peaks P.D. When do you start?”

  Billy delivers a friendly punch to Nick’s midsection. “One of their detectives is due to retire. Have to wait until he decides to pull the plug.”

  Hmm, so Billy the Kid will soon be Detective Billy the Kid.

  Helen bustles over and pats my arm. “Tough break, Mel. Shit happens. Then you die.”

  Still shaky, I make my way to the storage room, Billy trailing behind me. Armed with bucket, mop and a handful of old towels, we tackle the beer spill together. Out of the eight mugs, only two broke, so it’s possible I may still be on the plus side, salary-wise. At least that’s wha
t I think until Billy says, “Me and the guy who caused the accident took care of the beer.”

  I stop mopping and give him a blank look. “Beer?”

  He quirks a half-grin and points at the floor. “That beer.”

  Oops. My face heats up as I factor in the cost of the eight mugs, each holding sixteen ounces of beer. I stare at the floor and mumble, “I’ll pay you back when I get my check.”

  Billy tosses a chunk of broken glass into the trash. “No you won’t.”

  I lean the mop against a stool, put my hands on my hips and glare up at him. “Yes, I will.”

  Hands on hips, Billy mimics my pose. “We’ll see about that.”

  Clearly, this guy has to have the last word. I shake my head in mock disgust.

  We’re almost done cleaning when Nick strolls over. “I’ll finish up. Take five, Mel, and go change your clothes.” He pauses and grins, “Not that the boys aren’t enjoying the wet T-shirt.”

  I’m so rattled by the accident, I don’t realize I’m a friggin’ mess. My pink tee is soaked and clinging to my body. My nipples stand out like headlights on high beam. Suddenly self-conscious, I glance at the guys sitting at a nearby table. A young guy with a ponytail gives me a wink. His buddy says, “Nice tits, honey.”

  Face flaming, I hand the mop to Nick and head for the door.

  The rest of my shift passes in a blur of activity. The noise level rises in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed. While carrying heavily laden trays, my head swivels back and forth as I dodge the crowd clustered at the bar, always on high alert for the unexpected lurching drunk. When the place closes at two a.m., my ass is dragging, but I’m stoked about the tip money crammed in my pocket. First thing in the morning, I’ll head to the thrift store up the street and pick up some jeans. After the beer spill, I’m down to my last ratty pair until I get a chance to do my laundry. Then, I’ll check on Dani.

  I’m learning things don’t always go according to plan. I’m in a deep, dreamless sleep when a heavy fist pounds on the door and jolts me awake. Still groggy with exhaustion, I open one eye and check the bedside clock. Eight forty-two in the a.m.

  A heavily accented voice accompanies the pounding. “Hey, you. Rosa no show up. You come help me clean rooms. Now”

  I groan, drag myself out of bed and open the door a crack, clad only in panties and bra. I’d been too tired to paw through the contents of my backpack in search of pajamas.

  A short, plump Hispanic woman peers through the crack. “You Mel?” she screeches.

  “Yeah,” I croak.

  “I’m Consuela. You call me Connie. Nick say you come help me clean rooms. Rosa not here. Put clothes on. Come with me.”

  I splash water on my face, throw on my clothes and stagger through the door where Connie waits with a cart loaded with fresh towels, sheets and cleaning supplies. She points at the cart and then to a room with its door ajar. “You start there.”

  She whirls and stomps away before I have time to form a reply. Muttering under my breath, I use my butt to push open the door to Room 8 and pull the cart across the raised threshold. Despite the fresh mountain air pouring through the open door, the smell of sex and stale bourbon overlaid with a sickly-sweet vanilla scent permeates the room. I hold my breath and flip on the lights.

  “Oh, hell no.” I back out of the room. Connie peers out of Room 6, a sly look on her face. “Gloves! I’m not touching anything in that room without rubber gloves.”

  Connie gives a snort of disgust. “You big baby. Gloves in cart. Go look.”

  I glare back at her, knowing she’s already checked out Room 8 and decided it would be a good starter room for the newbie.

  Since there are no surgical masks on the cart, I pull a hand towel across my face and tie it behind my head to block the odor making my stomach do backflips. Rubber gloves firmly in place, I dump the wastebasket. Two spent spray cans of fake whipped cream and an empty bottle of bourbon tumble out.

  I start by cleaning the mirror, obliterating the words, “WE HAD FUN” written in scarlet lipstick. The toilet is next. Whoever the guy was, his aim was damn poor. Before I tackle the sticky bed sheets, I step outside to breathe some fresh air.

  “Morning, Sunshine,” Nick calls as he saunters across the inner courtyard, a container of coffee in each hand. He hands me one of the cups and studies my towel-draped face. The corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “Any serious damage in Room 8? I’ve got the guy’s credit card information.”

  “You mean like a broken bed?” I ask. The words come out muffled through the towel.

  Nick looks puzzled. “Bacon? There’s bacon in the bed? Man, I’ve seen some kinky stuff but, what the hell…bacon?”

  He brushes by me and steps into the room.

  I pull the towel down and call, “Broken, not bacon.”

  When I go inside, I see Nick has stripped the bed. He holds a pair of pink thong panties between his thumb and index finger. “Found ’em under the pillow. No serious damage as far as I can see.”

  Silently, I hold out the wastebasket and he drops the panties in. He grins at me. “Looks like they had a real good time.”

  “According to the message on the mirror, they did.” I shake my head in disbelief and blurt, “What kind of a place is this anyway? Do you rent by the hour?”

  Nick’s face darkens. “Hey, little girl, don’t judge me. I run a decent establishment. What people choose to do here is their business as long as they don’t wreck the place.”

  I stare at the floor, wishing I could take my words back and mumble, “Sorry.”

  After a long moment, he cuffs me lightly on the shoulder. “Yeah, whatever. Put your burka back on and get to work.”

  “Thanks for the coffee.”

  He nods and strides away.

  It takes another hour, but when I close the door to Room 8, I feel a sense of accomplishment. It is scrubbed, sterilized and spiffy, ready to rent to the next horny couple. Hold the Jell-O. Please.

  Three more rooms. At eleven, my tummy recovers from the malodorous Room 8 and demands food. I find a vending machine and feed it four quarters for a bag of chips. They get stuck and refuse to drop down to the opening at the bottom. Tired and hungry, I curse and kick the side of the machine, which does the trick. I sit on the curb and eat my chips.

  I’m about to tackle my final room when I hear the unmistakable sound of a Harley Davidson motorcycle, its subdued rumble bouncing off the cinder block line of motels.

  Billy the Kid pulls up next to the curb. He dismounts and removes his helmet. His aw shucks grin is missing. I stand and search his face for a clue. When I look into his soul, I see my own face again and it is wet with tears.

  I draw a shaky breath. “What’s wrong?”

  He places his hands on my shoulders. “Dani died last night. I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter Eight

  I’m aware of an agonized cry escaping my lips and then, I see a darkening sky streaked with shooting stars. My stomach seizes up. I gasp for breath. My knees buckle. Before I hit the unforgiving pavement, I’m swept up and cradled against a warm presence. My ear is pressed against a muscular chest. I hear the strong heartbeat of the man who holds me and know I am safe. Then, blackness engulfs me.

  When I open my eyes, I’m sprawled on a bed in one of the motel rooms. A clean bed. Recently re-made with fresh sheets. Possibly by me.

  I lie still and listen while Billy reams out Nick Holloway. I open one eye and see they’re standing toe to toe in the middle of the room.

  “Jesus Christ, Nick! She works ’til two in the morning and then she has to crawl out of bed and clean up other people’s shit? Did she eat breakfast? Hell, did she even get a dinner break last night? What is this, a slave labor camp?”

  Nick’s voice sounds conciliatory. “Listen, Kid. She has a room to stay in and two meals a day. She knew the deal when she took the job. If she doesn’t eat, it’s not my fault. And, besides, she’s a tough little cooki
e. She knows Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. She put a move on me and had me begging for mercy.”

  “I don’t give a damn about any judo crap,” Billy says. “All I know is she passed out when she found out her best friend died. What does that tell you? If I hadn’t caught her, she’d have conked her head on the pavement. She needs somebody looking out for her.” He stops his tirade and stabs a thumb into his chest. “Me.”

  “Yeah, I get it, Kid. She’s all yours.”

  What? I swing my legs over the bed and sit up. “Quit talking about me like I’m a stray cat who needs to be rescued. I can take care of myself, thank you very much. And, just for the record, I don’t belong to anybody.”

  I struggle to a standing position, a little too fast. I’m still woozy, so I brace my hands on my knees and take a couple of deep breaths. Both men turn and stare at me like I’ve just arrived from a far-off planet. The weight of Dani’s death hits me like a punch and I bite my lower lip to keep the tears from flowing.

  I stand as tall as possible and make eye contact with both men. “I have low blood pressure. The shock made me black out. The news about Dani.” My voice trails off and I stifle a sob.

  Total silence in the room. Obviously, these dudes are clueless when it comes to women’s emotions. Damn, I don’t like looking weak, so I take a shuddering breath and say, “Okay, I’m going back to work now.”

  “Like hell,” Billy says. “You’re going with me to get something to eat.”

  “I’m okay.”

  Nick lifts a hand. “No, he’s right, Mel. You’re no good to me if you’re passing out from hunger and… whatever. Be back by three thirty.”

  “Come with me, Minnie.” Billy takes my hand and leads me from the motel room. He pulls a second helmet from his saddlebag and places it on my head, carefully fastening the strap beneath my chin.

  I’m too tired, too hungry and too heartsick to argue. I climb on the bike behind Billy. Sitting erect, I maintain a few decorous inches of distance between his body and mine, hands clamped on the bars next to the seat. But then, he says, “Hang on,” and punches it. With a little yip of surprise, I wrap myself around Billy like a baby orangutan clinging to its mother. The brisk wind in my face, the blur of asphalt beneath us and the sensation of flight creates a sensory overload that lifts my heavy heart.