Revved to the Maxx

by Melanie Moreland

  Charly: When do I start?

  I glanced at the calendar on the wall. It was Wednesday. I was booked solid tomorrow and Friday.

  Cycleman: Are you driving here?

  Charly: Bus. Coming from Toronto.

  I scratched my chin. Toronto was about three hours from here. Far enough away, they probably had no connections to anyone here. That was a plus.

  Cycleman: But do you drive? Stick a problem?

  Charly: No problem. I can drive standard. Having a car in Toronto is too expensive.

  That made sense. I checked the bus schedule then replied.

  Cycleman: I looked at the schedule. There’s a bus that gets you here at ten Saturday. You get off at Littleburn. It’s the stop after Lomand. Tell the driver to let you out, or he’ll just go past it.

  Charly: Okay.

  Cycleman: I will be waiting by the general store.

  Charly: Okay. See you then.

  He signed off.

  I sat back, feeling pleased. Having a guy made the accommodations decision easier. If it had been a woman, I was worried I might have to give them a room in the house, but I really didn’t want to. The space at the back of the garage wasn’t much, but it was private, had a comfortable enough bed and a decent bathroom. There was even a chair and a TV and a small storage area. The kid could use the fridge here in the office to store cold drinks if he wanted. He could keep some snacks around, although I would have to warn him about mice. Leaving unsealed food around was a written invitation for the little buggers. Even in the house, I kept stuff in sealed containers.

  I stood and stretched, calling for Rufus. He appeared from the back, his tongue already out and his tail wagging. It was dinnertime, and he knew it.

  I locked up and headed back to the house, wondering what frozen entrée I would heat up tonight. The kid said he could cook well enough. I hoped that meant it was better than mine.

  I regarded the contents of the freezer and threw another tasteless meal into the microwave.

  It certainly couldn’t be worse.

  Chapter 4

  CHARLYNN

  I stared at the computer screen, not really believing what I had just done. Taken a job I had mocked the other night. Hired by a stranger to basically be a maid and go-fer.

  He seemed very straightforward, asking the basic questions. I supposed that came with age. He didn’t care about my background or anything, only that I filled the requirements and could do the job.

  I shut the laptop, pushing it away. This was not how I’d planned my life to be. I shut my eyes, refusing to cry. It was only temporary. My dad always said you had to make do with what you were given. I had a chance at a job. It would get me out of this apartment, and I could save money. I would work hard and show this Cycleman what I was made of. Once I’d saved enough, I could come back to Toronto and find another job. If it was terrible, at least I’d have a thousand bucks in my pocket and be somewhere other than here. I loved working as an assistant in a fast-paced office. I was great at organizing, details, and keeping people in line. I had a talent for websites and social media. I could handle multiple tasks at once, I never lost my cool, and I rocked the sassy assistant look. I got along well with coworkers and my superiors.

  I was certain I would get along fine with Cycleman.

  As long as he got over the fact that I was a woman and not a guy. Once I showed him what I could do, he’d adjust. I had always been good at charming older people.

  Curious, I grabbed my laptop and googled garages in the Littleburn area. Four came up, and I examined the information I could find. They all looked reasonably okay. One of them specialized in motorcycles and restorations, and they were the only one with a website, but it was very outdated. There were some pictures of bikes that had been restored, and I studied them carefully. They were all well done. My dad loved motorcycles and had worked around them his whole life. He’d had a small shop, which was where I spent my summers until I was old enough to know I preferred dresses to jumpsuits and makeup to grease. Still, I answered the phones and did invoicing and ordering for him in the summers to help defer the cost of hiring someone. When my brother died, my dad’s enthusiasm for the shop, and for life, died with him, and he sold it.

  I shook off those memories and looked at the computer again. I was at least honest with Cycleman about that. I could name engine parts and knew how to do an oil change or switch out a tire, but I was better acquainted with the workings of an office.

  I had no idea which of the shops it was I was now going to be working for. One picture caught my eye of an older man, standing beside a Harley, obviously ill at ease in front of the camera. He scowled at the lens, and behind him, the shop was chaotic and messy. I had a feeling that was the one. It certainly looked as if he needed help. I peered at the grainy picture. If that was Cycleman, he didn’t look mean, just a bit grumpy.

  I could work with that.

  A sudden thought occurred to me, and I pulled up the bus information, found the bus Cycleman had mentioned, then swallowed when I looked at a one-way fare.

  It was forty-two dollars. I now had twenty-one dollars in my purse. It was all I had. I would have to borrow the money from Kelly. She was the only one I could ask. It wasn’t much, so I had a chance at least. I shot her off a text, asking where she was. Her reply made me groan.

  Kelly: Had a chance to fly to Jamaica for a shoot. Back in a week! You okay?

  Kelly was an assistant to a photographer. The pay was terrible but the fringe benefits great for her, plus she was learning a ton. If she was out of town, I couldn’t borrow from her. She was a little leery of online banking and did everything in cash. I sent back a fast reply, not wanting to upset her.

  Charlynn: Found a job, things looking up. It’s out of town—will be in touch when settled.

  All I got back was a smiley face, so I knew she was busy. I sighed, wondering how I was going to get the rest of the money for the bus fare. I wondered about sending Cycleman a message and asking him to forward me a little cash, but I had a feeling he wouldn’t like that, so I decided to use that as my last resort. I was about to get up when I saw it again. The shadows of feet outside my door. The handle turning slowly.

  I crept to the door, knowing Terry was on the other side. I could hear him breathing, cursing low under his breath. I wanted to peek through the peephole then suddenly remembered seeing a show where the person on the other side had a piece of equipment that let them see inside using the peephole. I tiptoed to the kitchen and found some masking tape and a black marker. I soaked the tape with the ink, then snuck back and covered the peephole.

  “I hear you,” he muttered. “I know you’re in there.”

  I held my breath and lowered myself to the floor, picking up the sawed-off hockey stick I usually used to prop open the window.

  He jeered. “You can’t stay in there forever. I’ll be back. You have a debt to pay.”

  Carefully, I opened the mail chute. As I suspected, Terry was in front of the door. I flattened myself and peeked under the doorframe, lining up the stick with his feet.

  He loved to go barefoot around the building. I thought it was disgusting to walk in other people’s homes with your bare feet and asked him to wear shoes once. He had laughed in my face.

  “Should have listened, asshole,” I muttered, then drew back my arm as if I were holding a pool cue and let it thrust forward fast.

  His howl of pain was loud. I pushed back away from the door, holding my breath.

  “You are going to pay for that, bitch,” he hissed and stormed away.

  I began to shake. Maybe I needed to simply ignore him. Except it pissed me off. This, for all intents and purposes, was my home, and I wasn’t safe here. But where was I going to go? I had no money, no place to crash, and I was stuck. I had no one to turn to anymore. I was really alone.

  I felt better once I shoved a chair under the door handle. I couldn’t get out, but between the knives and the chair, he couldn’t get in either. I ma
de sure my windows were shut and locked, although, being on the third floor, I was sure I was safe that way. I did draw my curtains closed in case he was looking in from downstairs.

  I walked down the hall to my bedroom. I needed to stay busy, or I was going to go crazy. I was leaving here in two days and there was nothing I had to leave the apartment for until then, so he wouldn’t have a chance to get in. I could handle it. In the meantime, I would get organized.

  I pulled out my suitcase from under the bed and turned to the closet. The bag had been a gift from my dad—the bright flowers on it hard to miss. I could only take what I could carry, so it would only be personal things. The first items that went into the suitcase were my photo albums. The rest of the possessions I got after my dad’s death were in a small storage locker up north. One day when I had a place for them, I would collect them. Luckily, I was prepaid for another little while, so I didn’t have to worry about that bill right now, or not being able to pay it. I didn’t want to lose the items in storage.

  I added my favorite clothes, then went into the kitchen and made a sandwich. I ate it while scouring the drawers for loose change. On occasion, I used to leave a five-dollar bill in places for emergencies, but Trish must have found them all. All I came up with was a buck-fifty in coins.

  In vain, I ran my hands under the sofa cushions and through the drawers in the mostly empty bathroom vanity. The bitch had even taken my makeup. But it was all for nothing.

  I sat on my bed, noting my suitcase was mostly full but pleased I had most of the things I wanted packed. I brought my laptop into the bedroom and figured out how far I could go for $22.50. I would be about an hour from Lomand. I wondered if I could hitchhike.

  My head fell back to the wall as my father’s voice ranted in my head about the danger of hitchhiking. Growing up in a small town, a lot of kids did hitchhike. Often, they were picked up by neighbors or friends. It didn’t work that way closer to the big city, and I knew no one out Lomand way. But what choice did I have?

  I turned my head, wiping away a tear. A glint caught my eye, and I recalled the box I had stuffed in the back of the closet. I dragged the stool over and climbed up, pulling out the shoe box and carrying it to the bed. I stared at the contents, smiling and crying at the same time. For years, my father had given me the same gift at Christmas. Every year, he gave me a new wallet. But not a regular, usable wallet. It was as if he went out of his way to buy me the ugliest wallet made. Bright colors, patchwork, fringed, bedazzled—if a wallet could be jazzed up, my father found it. The funny part was, he thought I loved them, and I never had the heart to disabuse him of that fact. Even after I moved here, the wallets appeared. I laid them on the bed, staring at them. Ten in all, each one provoking a memory. Happier times when my brother was alive. The three of us on Christmas morning, opening presents, drinking hot cocoa. There was never a lot of money, but there was love. The gifts were simple, but every year, both my brother and I got a wallet. The biggest difference was Sean’s were simple, black or brown, double folded, normal wallets. Mine were anything but plain. We bought my dad one as well since he felt each new year deserved a new wallet. It was our tradition.

  Inside each one there would be a quarter in the change purse and a ten-dollar bill tucked away.

  Sadly, both the quarters and the ten dollars were long gone. I ran my fingers over the ones my dad had given me once I moved. They were even more outrageous than the rest—his thinking, no doubt, now I was in the city, I needed an even wilder wallet. His sense of style was pretty bad. To him, the louder the plaid, the dressier the shirt. I had to laugh, thinking of some of his “dress shirts” that I now used on occasion to throw over the top of T-shirts.

  I picked up a wallet, smiling at the number of zippers and pockets it contained.

  I looked at them scattered on my bed, an idea forming. I wondered if I could sell them to a pawn shop. Surely ten wallets would give me enough cash to get a bus ticket? I hated the thought of selling them since my dad had given them to me, but it made sense. Besides, if I pawned them, I could come back to the city and buy them back once I had some cash.

  I swallowed at the emotion I was feeling. My dad would understand, I assured myself. He would want me to sell them.

  Idly, I picked up another wallet, opening the zipper, remembering how my brother would keep his quarter and ten dollars in the lining of his wallet for emergencies. That was where my dad kept his too. For years, I’d kept the quarter, but eventually it, too, was spent. I was about to close the wallet when I felt a small thickening in the lining. Curious, I ran my finger over it again. There was something inside. I slid my finger around, finding a loose edge, and delved under the satin interface. A folded bill fell out, and I stared down in shock at the fifty lying on the bed. With shaking fingers, I picked it up, recognizing my dad’s handwriting on the Post-it note attached.

  If you found it, I hope it helps. Love you.

  Fifty dollars. He had slipped fifty dollars into the lining. I looked at the wallet again. It was the last one he had given me. Scrambling, I placed all the wallets in order, then I examined them all. The ones he’d given me before I left home were empty, but the three I’d gotten after I moved each contained hidden cash and a little note.

  I began to weep. I had one hundred and fifty dollars. In the grand scheme of life, nothing, but right now, a fortune.

  Enough to escape from this city and start again. It also meant I could keep these silly little wallets with me.

  I checked the bus schedule, noting there was another bus Friday to Lomand. It left at ten in the morning. I only had to make it through tomorrow, and I could leave on Friday. That meant I just had to get through one more day. I had enough cash to get a motel room overnight once I got there and to buy something to eat. Saturday, I could catch the bus as it went through Lomand and get off in Littleburn. Once I was there, Cycleman would pick me up.

  I racked my brain, trying to recall Terry’s schedule. He was always in the basement early on Friday morning, getting the garbage ready for the truck. As soon as I saw him leave, I could go. He would never know.

  I’d be gone before he figured it out and wait at the bus station.

  I’d be safe.

  I cast my gaze upward. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  Chapter 5

  CHARLYNN

  I stayed up well into the early morning on Thursday, making sure I had everything packed I wanted to take with me. I had Friday planned—as soon as I heard Terry go past my door and the stairwell door shut, I would head in the other direction. He would be busy for at least an hour—usually more. I had certainly heard him complaining about the amount of time it took him to “take out the trash.” I wished he would add himself to the pile.

  By the time he finished and came back upstairs, I’d be long gone.

  I fell asleep for a while, waking up when I heard my door rattling. Angry, I got up and went down the hall.

  “Get away from my door, or I’m calling the cops, asshole. I am not interested in your offer,” I shouted, getting my stuff ready.

  “Then you owe me rent.”

  “It’s not the end of the month. I have until next week. Leave me alone, or I’m serious, I will call the cops. I’ll tell them you’re attempting to break in to my apartment.”

  His answer was low and threatening. “You think they’d believe you? The girl who claimed she was ripped off by an unknown roommate? A girl I was simply checking on since she hasn’t paid her rent in three months and I’ve been so nice to let it slide?” He barked out a laugh that made me shiver. “Good luck with that.”

  Part of me was afraid if I called the police, they wouldn’t believe me. And since I didn’t plan on sticking around, there seemed to be little point. “I will never sink to fucking you.”

  “Oh, you’re going to sink all right. Right on my cock. You’ll be begging by then. In more ways than one. I look forward to next week.”

  I delivered a fast jab to his knee with my stick through the mai
l slot. I grabbed the beer bottle beside me, popping off the top and shaking it hard. As I suspected, he cursed and bent down, opening the mail chute and meeting my eyes.

  “You are going to pay for that.”

  “So you’ve said before. I think you’re the one going to pay.” Then I shoved the neck of the beer bottle in the chute and lifted my finger. He yelled as the beer hit him in the face, no doubt stinging as it splashed in his eyes.

  I rolled away from the door, trying not to laugh but failing. I covered my mouth, holding in my guffaws. He was furious, thumping on my door.

  “You bitch,” he growled into the mail chute, keeping his voice down. “Now you have to clean it up.”

  “Nope,” I responded. “It’s outside my apartment. That’s the custodian’s job. Oh, that’s you. Get to it.”

  “You are going to regret this.”

  He finally walked away, dragging his sore leg, and I sagged against the door.

  “Good luck with that, asshole,” I whispered.

  I spent the rest of the day worried and anxious. I napped fitfully, showered in the middle of the night, and by six on Friday morning, I was ready. My bag was packed, my knapsack strapped on my back, and I stood by the door, listening. I heard the click of Terry’s door opening around quarter to seven, and his footsteps echoed in the hall in the early morning stillness. The rasp of his low chuckle as he passed my door made me want to throw up, but I remained still and silent by the door. The noise of the stairwell door shutting at the other end of the hall seemed to take forever. I waited five minutes, then I moved as quickly as I could.

  Late last night, I had discovered a mouse in the trap under the cupboard. I always trapped them then freed them outside. I hated killing them. At first, I thought I would simply release it back into the apartment, then I had a better idea. I knew Terry detested mice. I had heard him scream once when he thought he saw one in his apartment.