by John Locke
“Then what is it?”
“I can’t just take you out of town with me.”
“Why not?”
“I mean, I don’t even know if we’re compatible yet.”
“Our kiss didn’t tell you that?”
“Sex would say it better.”
She frowns. “Are you playin’ me?”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“What type of girl would I be if I dropped my drawers for the first guy who offered to drive me out of town?”
“Based on what you said, I might be the seventh guy.”
“You’re makin’ way too many assumptions about my last six attempts to escape this shit hole. For your information, I only ran off with one man. The other times were on my own.”
“What happened to him?”
“Who?”
“The guy you ran off with?”
“It didn’t take.”
“Which is my point exactly.”
“Again, you’re makin’ way too many assumptions. The reason it didn’t take is because he died.”
“Excuse me?”
“He had a heart attack.”
“Where?”
“Starbucks.”
“The town?”
“The motel at Starbucks. I don’t like to talk about it.”
“He died during sex?”
“Just before.”
“How old was he?”
“Old.”
“Like what, sixty?”
“Older.”
“Eighty?”
“Let’s talk about somethin’ else, okay? ’Cause you’re really killin’ the mood here.”
I don’t want to talk about something else. I want to ask how long she’d known this octogenarian before he agreed to run off with her. I want to ask if she met him at the restaurant, same as me. I want to know if she made him steal the handcuffs while Scooter was taking a shit. I want to ask if he cuffed her to the fence. I want to know how far he got with her before his heart gave out.
But what I say is, “Tell me where you live, and I’ll take you home.”
“Call my cell phone first.”
“Why?”
“So I’ll have your number.”
She gives me her number and I call her cell phone.
“This is Trudy,” she says. “Who’s this?”
“Funny. Where do you live?”
“I’ll tell you after you check into the Dew Drop Inn.”
“Let me guess. That’s your only hotel?”
“Motel. And yes.”
“Sounds like a dump.”
“A dump would be a step up.”
“That’s probably not going to work out for me.”
“If I come by later, you won’t even notice the room.”
“Are you planning to come by?”
“I’d like to, but I need to think about it.”
“What’s there to think about?”
“You ever go to auctions?”
“Sometimes.”
“Would you spend every nickel you had on a painting that might be a fake?”
“What’s your point?”
“All I’ve got is my body. If I give it to you tonight, I’ll have nothin’ left to bargain with. You already proved you’re the type of man who expects sex before you’ll give me a chance to show what a great girlfriend I can be. I have to decide if you’re also the kind of man who’d walk away after gettin’ what he wants.”
“Nice speech.”
“Thanks. It ought to be. I’ve had a lot of practice givin’ it.”
“You managed to make it seem normal that I should let you move in with me based on a hot meal and a hanging.”
“And a hand job.”
“Excuse me?”
“Unzip your pants.”
“Uh…shouldn’t we call for an ambulance first? For your father?”
She reaches over and starts rubbing me.
“I’ll leave that decision up to you, Doctor.”
I’m still in pain from the crotch-kicking I received a few minutes ago, but then I remember that sometimes rubbing a sore spot can help the pain go away.
“Scooter should be fine for a while,” I say.
12.
Trudy Lake.
THERE’S AN ART to givin’ a good hand job.
Most girls concentrate on the shaft, and feel they need to expend a great deal of energy.
They’re wrong.
In my experience, the sweet spots are the head of the penis, and the balls. It’s probably eighty percent head, twenty percent balls. You’d be amazed how fast I can get a guy off by rhythmically ticklin’ his balls and massagin’ just the head of his penis.
Dr. Box is no exception.
I didn’t put a clock to it, but let’s just say I was shocked to have him explode in less than a minute. And when I say explode…
“This has never happened to me before,” he gasps. “I bet you could water an acre of land in ten seconds using nothing more than your hand and a garden hose!”
This, from a guy who got kicked in the nuts twenty minutes ago. Not once, but twice.
“How’d you do that?” Dr. Box gasped.
“Was it really all that special?”
“Are you kidding?” He turns on the overhead light and says, “Look at the car’s interior. If terrorists blew up a dairy they couldn’t do this much damage!”
He’s not lying. If sperm were shrapnel, we’d be dead. Skilled as I am with my hands, I’m a bit taken back by the extent of the coverage. I mean, what type of circus freak has this type of orgasm?
Should I be afraid?
He says, “Honestly. You’re so young. How could you possibly be that good?”
I’d rather not tell him I’ve had three years of practice jackin’ off my brother.
I decide to say, “I think it happened like that because we fit so well together.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Why is that, do you suppose?”
“Do you want me to spend time thinkin’ on it now, or do you have somethin’ I can clean this up with?”
“I only brought the one beach towel. And Scooter’s using it.”
“I think we’d need two beach towels for this job,” I say. Then add, “Oh, shit!”
“What’s wrong?”
I point at the monster truck barreling down the road, headed right for us.
“What the hell is that?” he says.
“Darrell.”
13.
Dr. Gideon Box.
I’D NEVER SEEN a monster truck before, except when flipping through channels on TV. And even then I had no concept of the actual size until Darrell roared up in a cloud of dust.
“What the hell?” I say for the second time.
“You’re lookin’ at what happens when a redneck inherits a quarter million dollars,” Trudy says.
“How tall is that thing?”
“Eleven feet. The tires alone are sixty-six inches.”
A tall, thin, angry man jumps down from the platform and races to the passenger side of my rental car. He pulls the door open, takes in the scene. Sees my unzipped pants, and what’s left of my mighty sword. Sees Trudy’s hands dripping with evidence.
“You whore!” he shouts.
She slaps his face with a wet, sloppy, smack and yells, “Drive away, Gideon!”
“Gideon?” he says. “What kind of pansy ass name is that?”
He tries to grab her. “Get out, Trudy!” he yells. “Now!”
“Drive on!” she yells, trying to push him away.
“Oww!” she yelps as he grabs her hair.
I fire up the engine and try to figure out how to maneuver around the giant truck. I settle for backing up two feet, and sharply cutting the wheel. But before I can throw the car into drive, Darrell punches Trudy’s face, and rears back to hit her again.
“Come here, asshole!” I yell.
He stops in mid swing.
“What did you say?”
“I said, come here, you ugly piece of shit.”
“You tell him, Gideon!” Trudy says.
“You’ll want to stay out of this, Gideon!” he says, making fun of my name. “And don’t worry, I’ll come over there, soon as I finish dealin’ with my woman. Then I’m gonna fuck you up country style. Get out of the car, Trudy.”
“No! Fuck you, Darrell! Drive on, Gideon.”
“Yeah,” Darrell says, “Drive on, Gideon, if you think you can outrun Big Edna.”
“You named your truck?”
Trudy screams bloody murder as Darrell pulls her out of the car by her pony tail and throws her to the ground.
“Help me!” Trudy yells.
“Help me, Gideon!” Darrell says, mocking her.
Instead of jumping out of the car to defend my lady, I put the car in gear and spin out. I fish-tail around Darrell and Trudy, and start to speed away. Darrell runs five or six yards behind me, screaming at me, calling me a coward, and so forth, but is shocked when I suddenly throw the car in reverse, floor the accelerator, and plow into him before he has time to react.
I jump out of the car and help Trudy to her feet.
“Are you okay?”
“I thought you ran out on me.”
“I had a plan.”
“You sure? Or did you improvise after-the-fact?”
“I’m sure.”
“Thanks, Gideon. I always had a good feelin’ about you.”
I decide not to remind her we’ve known each other exactly two-and-a-half hours.
We follow the monster truck’s headlights with our eyes until we see Darrell’s body. He’s lying in a heap, like a rag doll dropped from a great height. I note the distance from the car bumper to Darrell is a full fifteen feet. I was probably going thirty miles an hour when I struck him.
It suddenly dawns on Trudy he’s not moving.
“Oh God, Gideon! Oh, my God! I think you’ve killed him!”
We hurry over to him. I take a knee and check his vitals.
“He’ll live,” I say.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Why isn’t he moving?”
“He’s moving in slow motion.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s suffered significant trauma. It’ll take a few more seconds for his brain to catch up. He’ll vocalize his feelings soon enough.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You’ll hear him.”
“When?”
“Any second.”
She does. He starts screaming, crying, rolling around in pain.
“He’s hurt bad,” Trudy says.
“I won’t deny it.”
He rolls around some more, but he’s fussing about it less. His strength is failing. His energy winding down.
“It’s like watchin’ cheese slide off a cracker,” Trudy says. Then asks, “You sure he’ll live?”
“Yes. But it won’t be pretty.”
“He weren’t pretty to start with.”
“I’ll get the morphine.”
14.
AFTER SEDATING DARRELL, I say, “That was weird, how he called you his woman.”
“He’s always been protective,” she says. “Of course, he’s a meth head, so that carries some blame for his disposition.”
“It also helps explain his delayed reaction to the pain.”
“He earned it,” she says. “He’s a first-class jerk.”
I look at her. “What now?” I say.
“Walk with me.”
She leads me fifty feet away from her noisy brother, and uses his truck to block any possible view he might have of us. The monster truck’s tail lights are casting a red glow on our faces and bodies.
“How bad is he, really?” she says. “Be honest.”
“It was pretty dark, he’s clothed, no way to make an accurate diagnosis.”
“Best guess.”
“Broken ribs, ruptured spleen, internal bleeding, probable multiple fractures in both femurs, assorted bruises, cuts, possible concussion. We should call for an ambulance now.”
“No way. Not yet.”
“Why?”
“There’s a lot to be done.”
“Like what?”
“First, zip up your pants.”
“Okay.”
I zip them and say, “Check. Now what?”
“Now we’re gonna get Darrell’s work gloves out of his truck.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re gonna put them on after you do the next thing.”
“Which is what?”
“You’re gonna give me a shot of morphine.”
“Why?”
“So it won’t hurt so much when you do the next thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Beat me up.”
“What?”
“You need to beat the shit out of me.”
“What?”
“It’s the only way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You saw him hit me, pull my hair.”
“So?”
“You’ve hurt him really bad. He’ll probably have permanent injuries.”
“I think he had it coming.”
“Me too, but he’s still gonna have you arrested.”
“What?”
“We’re rednecks, Gideon. He’ll press charges, hire an attorney, and sue you.”
“On what grounds?”
“He’ll say you ran him over for no reason. And Daddy’ll say you tried to molest me.”
“Daddy’s not going to say shit, because Daddy tried to hang me.”
“It’s your word against his.”
“And yours.”
“Yes, of course. But he’s the deputy sheriff.”
“I like our chances,” I say. “We can prove the rope brought the roof down. And I can feel the rope burns on my neck.”
“And I can see them, even in this light,” she says. “So you’re right, we’re probably okay with Daddy. But that won’t stop Darrell from pressing charges and suing you.”
“I get that. What I don’t understand is why you want me to beat you up.”
“We’ll have to say you ran over Darrell to save my life.”
“That’s the truth.”
“You know it and I know it. But sometimes the truth needs to be helped along.”
“What do you mean?”
“When the sheriff looks at Darrell, and then looks at this little swollen place on my cheek, he’s not gonna be convinced you had to run him over.”
“What you’re saying—”
“You’ve got two choices. Either beat the shit out of me and I’ll tell the sheriff Darrell did it, or we kill Darrell and haul ass out of town.”
I sigh. Then, for the third time in a half hour, trudge back to the car to fetch the morphine.
15.
Trudy Lake.
“I’VE GOT SOME good news and bad,” Dr. Box says, after preparing the syringe.
“Bad news first,” I say.
“It takes a full thirty minutes for the morphine to take effect.”
“Shit.”
“I thought you should know.”
“We can’t wait thirty minutes to do this,” I say. “Please. Try not to hurt me too much, or ruin my face.”
He says, “I’m uniquely qualified to rough you up.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m a surgeon. I understand how to cause the most bruising with the least possible tissue damage. You’ll want some heavy bruising, maximum swelling, profuse bleeding in areas that can be easily stitched by a qualified plastic surgeon.”
“Try not to sound so enthusiastic, okay?”
“Okay. But you’ve got to admit, doing this in the dark is an exhilarating challenge!”
When Dr. Box talks like that it creeps me out worse than the way he ejaculates.
“What’s the good news?” I ask.
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“Good news is, by injecting you now, we’ll stay ahead of the pain. When the sheriff and EMS get here I can honestly say you received the injection the same time Darrell did.”
“Keep an eye out for Cletus and Renfo.”
“Who are they?”
“Darrell’s crackhead meth partner twins. If Darrell’s here, Cletus and Renfro can’t be far behind. Unless they’re stoned.”
“Is that likely?”
“It’s almost a certainty. But just in case.”
“Okay. Will do.”
She says, “Let’s do it. Give me the morphine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. Turn around, bend over, pull your pants down.”
“What?”
“That’s how it’s done.”
“Bullshit!”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t inject Daddy or Darrell in the butt.”
“It’s the fastest, most direct way to administer morphine into the drug stream.”
“You’re lying through your teeth.”
“No. Seriously.”
“If you want this relationship to work, you’re gonna have to tell the truth.”
“I am?”
“Yes, of course. And not just once-in-a-while. Always.”
He pauses a minute, then says, “Okay, I’m lying. But how did you know?”
“I was a candy striper for two summers at county. No one got morphine shots in the ass.”
“True, because they used a drip.”
“Yes. In the arm. Because as any heroin addict knows, the crook of the arm is the most direct route to the pain centers.”
“That’s never been proven,” he says.
“Yes it has.”
“Not definitively.”
“Arm,” I say. “Not ass.”
He sighs, gives me the shot. In the crook of my arm. Then he kisses me on the lips.
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he says.
He puts on Darrell’s work gloves, takes a step back, and starts punching my face. After a few hits I beg him to stop, but he tells me what I already know, that we’ve got to really sell it. It bothers me that he’s able to keep hitting me when I’m sobbing like this, but I guess it’s easier for him because he’s a doctor. I’m putting my trust in him not to fuck me up too badly.
But I can’t help but wonder if he’s enjoying it a little too much.
Finally he stops. Then he grabs me by the neck and throws me down. He helps me up, then carefully hits me in what he calls strategic places to cause bruising and swelling on my torso without breaking my ribs.
