Breathe the Sky

by Michelle Hazen

  Jack pulled over behind her. Probably she was just stopped to text, or whatever young people did on phones these days. Mari’s hair had more threads of silver than his, but her face looked younger. He had no idea how old she was, and he may not have known much about women, but he knew enough not to ask that. Still, thirty-five or forty-five, she was likely more interested in technology than he was, because who wasn’t? But just in case she had broken down and wasn’t just on her phone, he might be of a little use. Besides, it’d bug him all night if he didn’t check on her before he drove on by.

  His crew had gone home, but there were probably worse men than Ricky roaming this open desert. He wouldn’t leave any woman there alone, much less his biologist.

  His door popped open with a creak and he frowned at his own thought—his biologist? It was ridiculous to think of her that way just because she lasted two weeks without crying or disappearing midday to be replaced by her judgy little bearded boss. That guy always came to fill in when Jack chased off another biologist, and he hated him. Seemed like the type who knew the “right” way to do everything and couldn’t wait to tell you all about it.

  Fortunately, he was distracted from that uncomfortable internal debate by the jack under the truck and the array of tools spread out around Mari in the dirt.

  “Got a flat?”

  “Two flats.” Mari huffed a sigh and sat back on the ground, draping her black-streaked hands over the knees of her jeans. She was wearing a cute little admiral’s cap instead of her normal hard hat, and Jack caught himself staring and pulled his gaze back to the tires lying next to her.

  “Spare gone bad?” he grunted. It happened a lot in the desert, where the dry air gnawed away at rubber things until they cracked and died like just another kind of corpse.

  “Yup.” She popped the p. “Should have checked on it before I needed it, but it’s too late now. And at six days a week of ten’s, we’re at work every hour the tire stores are open for business.” She glanced up at him. “My cell doesn’t work out here, so I was getting ready to hike it to the highway.”

  He frowned. “You don’t want to thumb a ride out here. Mostly crackheads and desert rats.”

  “Well, I probably should have thought of that around the time I was forgetting to check my spare.” She slapped her hands down on her pants and shoved to her feet.

  He scowled. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride to town.”

  She looked faintly surprised, and he scowled harder. Probably she’d rather not be alone in a truck with an asshole like him, and he couldn’t half blame her, but he also couldn’t leave a beautiful woman stranded like a target for whatever perverts and deviants were passing through.

  Strangely, his scowl brought a tiny smile to rise on her face. “Um, okay. If you’re sure you don’t mind. Here, I’ll be quick.” She hurried to put away her tools in the bed of the truck. She had a slick little setup in there: a bed stand built of two-by-fours with a big drawer underneath, a mattress tucked in with flower-print sheets on top, and matching curtains hung with a string over the long windows. Next to it lay a lineup of dusty water jugs and a milk crate full of cracker boxes and granola bars.

  Jack frowned harder. “You living in this thing?”

  “I wish.” She closed the camper shell and locked it. “Normally I do, but there’s too much privately owned land around this project. Nowhere to camp, so I had to pay for a motel in town.”

  “Never heard a woman complain that she’d rather live in the dirt than stay in a motel.”

  “Probably never heard a man say it, either.” She grabbed a small backpack from the front seat. “But come on. A motel can’t match this for square footage.”

  She swept out an arm at the whole Mojave. Tinged with sunset-pink light, it spread out for miles. The mountains in the distance reminded him of Mari’s face. Unadorned by anything, the pure lines of them were more beautiful than anything else he could remember seeing in his life.

  He nodded, not quite able to remember what he was agreeing to, but agreeing all the same. “You need me to help grab your stuff?”

  She waggled the backpack at him. “Got it. I travel light.” He lifted both her flats into the back of the truck while she knelt to check under his truck for tortoises. He frowned, because it felt like he was making her work when she should have been off the clock, but he supposed turtles didn’t ever clock out.

  “You don’t have to take me all the way to town if it’s out of your way,” she offered. “If you just get me into cell service, maybe I could—”

  “No.”

  She glanced over at him when he cut her off, and he chewed on the inside of his lip. Probably his own fault she thought he was such an asshole he couldn’t even be bothered to drive her all the way to someplace safe.

  “It’s fine,” he grunted, not quite sure how to apologize, and she nodded and shrugged.

  She didn’t force him to make small talk as they drove toward town, but the cab of the big truck felt more intimate than it ever had. He was uncomfortable enough that he didn’t stop at the yard to swap out this work truck for his personal one. It ran better but had a long strip of duct tape holding the seat together—courtesy of last year’s hunting season when he’d thrown his compound bow carelessly into the truck and one of the broadheads had slit the upholstery.

  Inside the truck, the radio didn’t fill the silence but somehow just managed to underline it. Every song that came on felt too loud and too awkward, as if by being on in his truck, it was saying something about him. What kind of music did treeless tree huggers listen to? Probably drums or chanting or some shit.

  Mari only piped up to give him periodic directions. Turn here, don’t go down this road there, it’s got road construction.

  When they pulled up at her place, he frowned at the motel’s potholed parking lot and broken sign.

  “This where you’re living?”

  “Aren’t you staying in a motel, too?” She dug her key out of her backpack.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, which one?”

  “Best Western,” he said grudgingly, feeling like he was one of those rich blowhards, bragging about their stuff. “Company pays for our housing. Guess yours doesn’t?”

  He eyed the tape holding a cracked windowpane together. The two-story motel had beige paint that was peeling in the heat. The metal railing on the upstairs story was bent outward in one spot, like somebody had been thrown against it in a fight. A fast-food cup rolled slowly through the parking lot, shoved by the gusts of wind huffing in from the open desert.

  “Best Western, huh?” She gave a slow whistle and a teasing grin. “Does it come with all the free six-shooter movies you can watch? Is that what makes it the best?”

  “It’s got all its windows,” he said bluntly. “That makes it best enough in my book.” He shoved the back of his hand across his nose and nodded at her motel. “It even safe here?”

  “It’s better on the inside, has fridges and microwaves and everything. And it was safe enough until Creepy Ricky moved in.” She rolled her eyes and laughed, but it must not have been a joke, because his gaze lit on Ricky’s Chevy pickup in the corner of the parking lot. Bright red and a brand-new tint job on the windows, truck balls swinging from the chrome trailer hitch. “Funny he’s staying in this dump if your company pays for a Best Western.”

  “Yeah. Funny.” Jack was frowning so hard he thought his face might kink. The doors on this place looked flimsy, and he didn’t see any other cars in the parking lot. What if it was just Mari and Ricky in here? All night, every night? It wasn’t his business, but he couldn’t help asking. “He give you any trouble?”

  “No. Not . . . really.” She smiled, but there was an odd line to it. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  The steering wheel creaked under Jack’s tightening grip. He needed to get a decent crane operator in so he could fire that a
sshole. There had to be a non-asshole crane operator somewhere in the union without a job. Well, maybe.

  “Thanks again for the ride,” she said, pulling open the handle.

  “What are you gonna do about tomorrow? You coming to work?” It put a little drop in his stomach to ask, like everything was about to change. But she was just a bio, and there were others. Probably that bearded hippie would show up. With his clipboard.

  Jack hated the clipboard.

  “Sure I am. Now that I have cell service, I’m sure I can call and get a ride into the site tomorrow with one of the other bios.” A shadow crossed her face, and he wondered if she hated to ask for help as much as he would have. “No idea when I’ll get a tire, though. Guess I’ll have to take a day off work to get to the shop when they’re still open.” She winced a little at the thought. “Wonder if Marcus would give me a half day?”

  She couldn’t afford it. He knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t just the scratched truck with its sun-rotted tires, or this dump with its garbage-strewn parking lot. It was her face, the way she didn’t say she couldn’t afford it. Only people who had money complained about how they didn’t.

  Everybody else kept their mouths shut so their pride didn’t fall out.

  He nodded. “Give me a call if you ain’t going to make it.”

  She gave him a funny look. “You don’t have to stress—Marcus will make sure your crew is covered so you can work. And I don’t have your number, anyway.” She hesitated, her fingers curling around the edge of his door.

  He didn’t want to leave her here. Not in this place. Not with Ricky.

  Before he could decide if he should give her his number, or really any good excuse for why he’d do that, she smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I’m sure the other bios will help me out.”

  Of course they would. Most of them were scruffy twentysomething hippies who would probably give their last chia seed to get their hands on a woman like her. But who knew if any of them could even change a tire without checking YouTube?

  Mari closed his truck door—quietly, like somebody who took care of their stuff—and it was too late to say anything, even if he’d known what to say. He watched her walk up to the motel, and wondered if she wanted him to drive away. She probably didn’t want a guy like him knowing what room she was in. But he was also totally fucking incapable of leaving her before she had at least a locked flimsy door between herself and this seedy parking lot.

  He didn’t put it in reverse until she unlocked her room and gave him a half-awkward, half-cheery wave before shutting the door behind herself.

  He hoped she’d turned the dead bolt.

  He wished he’d given her his number.

  * * *

  —

  The banging sound interrupted the night in a way she hadn’t heard in years. Mari jerked awake, bracing against pain. Brad. It must be Brad. Awake, angry, breaking something. What had she done? What had she forgotten to do?

  When the sound came again, she recognized it. Knuckles against a door: a knock. Her fingers sagged in the tangled sheets. She didn’t have to escape all over again; she was already gone. But there really was someone at the door.

  She groped on the nightstand for her phone but there were no messages on the screen to hint at what emergency might send somebody to her motel in the middle of the night. She didn’t have any family left. She didn’t know anybody except bios, and tortoises weren’t nocturnal, so that couldn’t be the emergency.

  She dragged herself out of bed and staggered across the room. Maybe it was just somebody looking for their drug dealer. It had happened in this motel before.

  Mari pulled open the door the three inches allowed by the chain, even though the fixture was only held on by a single crooked screw and a layer of sloppy paint. She blinked, wondering if it was the flickering light bulb outside or her sanity that was failing her.

  “Jack?”

  He jerked an irritated nod, his work boots mumbling against the gritty concrete when he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “What are you doing here?” She wasn’t awake enough to be more tactful than that. Throwing a glance at the alarm clock beside her bed, the numbers 4:12 gaped back at her, as if even they were incredulous at this turn of events.

  Belatedly, Mari thought to tug down the hem of her oversized T-shirt. She really hoped she hadn’t just flashed her panties.

  “Got you a tire,” Jack said. “Figured we’d better put it on before work, so you’d have your truck today.” He paused. “So you could get stuff out of it. Drive places. You know. Don’t want you stranded.” His face twitched and he looked away, like he was already regretting the last statement.

  “You . . . got me a tire?” Her brain cranked over as slowly as a cold engine. “And you’re going to drive me out there to put it on? Right now?”

  “Not thinking you could walk,” he snapped. “It’s forty-odd miles.”

  “Right. Give me a minute to get dressed.” She closed the door, throwing another wide-eyed look at the clock. Four fourteen.

  She hit the button on her tiny coffeemaker, already primed the night before, and threw on a pair of cargo pants and a thrift-store cotton button-down to protect her from the sun. She snatched up her backpack and poured the coffee before it was all the way done brewing, the stray drips hissing as they fell on the burner.

  She yanked open the door and it hit the end of the security chain, probably jarring its single screw even further loose. Closing the door with a blush and wince—Brad hated it when she did thoughtless stuff like that—she unhooked the chain and tried again.

  “Sorry, I’m ready.”

  Jack turned around from the spot he’d taken up next to her door, frowning. It seemed to be the only expression his face could form, in varying degrees. Frown, scowl, glower, and oh my Christ how dumb are you?

  “Why are you apologizing? I didn’t tell you I was coming, so how the hell could you know to be ready?”

  She hesitated for a second, her now-practiced Jack brain sorting out his tone from his words and registering that he was embarrassed to have roused her and a little defensive about being there at all. So instead of getting offended, she just changed the subject.

  “Want some coffee?” She held up her cup. “I’ve got enough for two, assuming we’re both child-sized and got a solid eight hours of sleep.”

  “Which we ain’t.”

  “And we didn’t,” she finished for him, leading the way to his softly rumbling truck. “So maybe we should hit a gas station for a refill on the way out?”

  “Got coffee,” he said shortly. “We can stop, though. You need more?”

  “Nah,” she lied, wishing like hell he didn’t already have coffee. The maker in her room was teensy and the ready-packaged filter pods they left seemed recycled out of tires and ashes. And caffeine. She hoped. There had to be at least a little caffeine in tires and ashes, right?

  “You make that motel shit?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, staring at her cup with a level of regret that she hadn’t felt since her wedding night. She’d spent too much money she didn’t have on making fair-trade coffee for all the bios on Monday mornings, so when it was just her, she had to skimp.

  But at least drinking free motel coffee saved her a dollar toward her hospital bills, and now that Brad was gone, there would be a lot more of the former and no more of the latter. There was a silver lining in everything, even motel coffee and divorce.

  Jack nodded toward her door. “Pour it out. I’ve got a thermos.” He stretched out an arm. For a breath-held second, she thought he would touch her, but instead he reached behind the seat.

  And she was definitely not disappointed. Because that would be crazy.

  Especially not after he brought out an old Stanley thermos roughly as wide as her leg.

  “God bless you,” she breathed,
and dumped her motel coffee onto the pavement without a second thought.

  He refilled her cup, then started driving. She sat curled with one foot tucked up underneath herself in his giant, warm truck, breathing in the steam off the delicious coffee he’d given her. And then she finally remembered.

  “How did you get a tire? They were closed when we got off work last night and I know they don’t open at four in the morning.”

  “Knew a guy.”

  “You don’t even live here. How do you know a guy at the tire store?” She eyed him. “I’ve seen the ancient tires on your work trucks.”

  He let out a pained grunt. “Used to work in a tire shop, back in high school. Know the type. Guys would do anything for an extra buck.”

  “So . . . you bribed them?” She slanted him a curious look. “How much do I owe you, anyway?”

  He named a price.

  It was her turn to snort, turning to look out the side window at the night and nothingness beyond. “Uh-huh. Cheapest tire I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Saw your motel. Figured you wouldn’t want premium brands. They couldn’t patch the old tire, but since I had to buy a new one, I got them to throw in a new spare, too. Well, it ain’t new. It’s used, but it’s got good tread left and it ain’t one of those bullshit doughnuts that’ll only get you twenty more miles.”

  She considered how to handle this new debt she owed him. Weirdly, she got the idea that he’d be more uncomfortable if she tried to pay him back. Most guys couldn’t wait to get you to owe them something, however imaginary, so they could cash in. She’d probably end up leaving an envelope full of cash in his truck, but she wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it right now.

  She sipped her coffee. Delicious. “Where are you from?” she asked instead. “You’ve got kind of a drawl going, at least on certain words.”