A New Life Series - Starter Kit

by Samantha Jacobey

  He had begun to understand her quiet ways, and decided to leave her alone as they sat in the dark together, enjoying the smoke and the smell of the cooking flesh.

  After the snake finished baking, they pulled the tender bits off that ran along the backbone, and ate the tasty bites. “Anaconda is my favorite,” Tori blurted out unexpectedly.

  Michael’s lips broke into a wide grin at the thought of her catching and cooking giant snakes in the amazon. She seemed so much more relaxed, and he felt pleased to see her that way. She was talking a little more, but she still seemed very guarded. She don’t trust you, he warned himself, even if you are Henry’s brother.

  Having finished their meal, they spread their sleeping bags out on top of their blue foam rolls. Sliding off his boots and standing them up, he watched as she did the same, well aware of what might like to make a home in them.

  Inside their bags, the couple lay with their heads only a few inches apart. The highway lay a few hundred yards away, and only rarely did a car pass by as the hour had grown late. The darkness became peaceful around them.

  Peering up at the night sky, Michael considered how she lay down, and could not resist the temptation to ask, “How’s it you’re stretched out here, but when you sleep in a motel, you cower in the corner?” He waited patiently for her to percolate her response, becoming accustomed to her thoughtful pauses.

  “I guess it’s the walls,” she offered softly. “I don’t really like walls.”

  He had to admit, it sounded feasible. Out there, the sky expanded above them, and the clear blackness was strewn with stars. He had loved camping with his father when he was a kid, going to lakes and such, the few times his old man had had time for it. It surprised him that she wasn’t as averse to roughing it as he had thought she would be.

  Thinking back, he realized he hadn’t seen his father since his mother died, eight years ago. He had been in the service at the time, and only went home long enough to bury her. When he got out, he never bothered to go back, as he had never really been close to his father, or anyone else for that matter.

  Hell, the old man may not even be alive any more. The only person who had ever mattered was Henry, who was gone now. Michael released a deep sigh; guess I really am alone in the world.

  Thinking about what his brother had told him about the girl, Michael decided to see what her version would be. “So,” he tried to be casual, “How is it you ended up in the jungle with a group of street thugs? I mean, what about your parents?” He waited again, and after the pause became longer than most, he turned so he could see the top of her head, the breeze gently rustling her dark hair.

  “I don’t know my parents,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “I don’t know who I am. No one does. The Dragons raised me, and I killed them, and that’s all there is to the story.”

  Gazing back over at the fire pit, Michael doubted he had heard the entire tale, but this wasn’t really the time to push for more.

  Drifting off to sleep, the night passed without incident, and the two awoke with the sun. Packing up their gear, they made sure the fire was completely dead before walking away. Picking their way back through the sparse foliage to the road, they crossed back over the spine covered fence.

  Several times, Tori stopped to inspect a variety of the cactus they came across, and he finally asked what she was doing. Without looking up, she said calmly, “Observing them.” She pulled out her spiral bound notebook and made notes about the latest one.

  Internally, she had become excited at the prospect of studying plants adapted to live in a dry desert climate, also known as C-4 vegetation, as her previous life had been focused on the opposite, rainforest type C-3 greenery. They were designated as such by the type of photosynthesis they used to produce their food.

  Scowling at her current specimen, she knew her companion would not understand her fascination with learning about them. She was beginning to see he was nothing like the man who had cared for her when she was a child, even if they did share the same mother, eyes and hair.

  Michael wasn’t sure how to take her sometimes. Trying to remain calm, he asked why she was bothering to do that, and again she made him feel foolish when she replied, “Because it’s good to know your environment. We’re not far from potential locations for the shop, and I want to know what I can about the local habitat if I’m going to live here.”

  “And why would you care about that?” he asked in a less diplomatic tone.

  Standing, she averted her eyes as she walked past him, tossing over her shoulder, “Because Henry taught me to.”

  Continuing south, they made it to a small settlement shortly after noon. Tori took the opportunity to freshen up in the diner bathroom, and Michael pulled out their map to assess their progress. When she returned, they ate in silence, his unhappiness with her generally unimproved.

  On the road again shortly thereafter, they made it on down the highway in a slow procession of days, nights and small towns. If they found one big enough for a motel, they pulled in for the night for showers, and a good meal, but otherwise, they were pretty comfortable as they traveled at a slow, steady pace, eating off the land or what small provisions they carried.

  Michael began to wonder exactly how she planned on choosing the place they were looking for, as she did not seem to have one picked out by name. Whenever he would ask, she would simply say, “I’ll know it when I see it.”

  The third time he asked, she stopped to look him square in the face, “If you don’t like it, go away.”

  He didn’t like it, but he wasn’t leaving either, so he only wrinkled his nose in disgust and kept walking. My God, she’s infuriating. He wondered if she were wandering around like that in an attempt to run him off.

  He had noticed she did not refresh her makeup after the first motel in Abilene, and had washed it away completely in the first diner where they had eaten. Perhaps another attempt to scare me away. Good luck with that, crazy bitch.

  Two weeks later, he had become fully accustomed to looking at her scar, and hardly noticed it, especially when she smiled. He noted that she smiled more often when they were away from people, and questioned how much of it was due to that separation from everyone else, or if she were actually getting used to him.

  A few days later, they did find it. They had come upon yet another small town with a diner, and had sat down by the window to enjoy their meal, when she whispered quite loudly, “Oh, my God, there it is!”

  She pointed out of the large glass for him, and, by turning and looking over his shoulder, he could see an old gas station two short blocks away, on the opposite side of the main street. The pumps were gone, and all the glass was boarded up, but the walls were still standing, and that could be called a plus.

  Finishing their food, and with the girl obviously excited, the two of them scurried down the street to look the place over. Tori grinned from ear to ear as she walked around the building and inspected the back area, where a smaller building stood, the windows also boarded up. The garage’s structure had concrete running all the way across the front, and a large storage shed attached to the back side of it that needed paint. It was perfect.

  The small assembly behind clearly a housing unit of some kind, it stood long and narrow, running across the back edge of the property; at maybe twenty feet deep, and fifty foot wide along the front. Trying to peer in through the holes in the plywood that covered the windows, it appeared pitch black inside.

  Making another trip around, the roof appeared sound, and the weeds were kept down around the two structures, creating a small yard area about one-third of the lot in square footage. Tori was obviously pleased.

  Michael did not feel so enthusiastic, but he decided he wasn’t going to argue. It’s her money, and I’m tired of hiking with her anyways. Dropping his gear on the ground, he leaned against a tree and waited for her to make her inspection. Watching her as she flitted about, he found himself curious about her level of obvious excitement.

&nbs
p; As he surveyed the lot, he noticed there was no real estate sign posted, and grew concerned that they might not be able to acquire the property. Collecting her, he suggested they go back to the diner and start making their enquiries there to see if they could find out who owned it. Otherwise, they could go over to the courthouse and look at the tax records. Either way, it would be a place to start.

  Hidden Treasure

  Back at the diner, Michael saw a woman named Trish, by her nametag, working feverishly behind the counter cleaning glasses. Leaving Tori by the door, as she still stared down the road at her hidden treasure, he made his way over to the middle aged woman to inquire about the property. Being a small town, it seemed highly likely she would know who owned it.

  Breaking into a broad, friendly grin, she exclaimed in a thick southern drawl, “O’ course I do. It belongs t’ my father-in-law, bless his heart. He had a stroke a few years ago and had t’ retire. The place has been sittin’ there empty ever since.” She went on for several minutes before he cut in and inquired whether or not it was actually for sale.

  Michael nodded as the hefty woman continued on again, “So you two are inner’sted in buyin’ the ol’ place? I could give you his address; you can go right over an’ talk t’ him about it. They live in an ol’ house jus’ a couple o’ blocks over.” He quickly agreed, and she drew him a small map on a page from her ticket book. Tearing it out to hand it to him, she continued talking about the building.

  Walking to the door, he heard the woman call after him, “Ya’ll head on over an’ I’ll call right now an’ let him know you’re on your way. Jus’ ask fur George.” The glass door closed and he realized the woman was still going on, and for a moment he felt very appreciative of his much quieter companion, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.

  They made their way around the café to head in the opposite direction, crossing the street and walking a couple of blocks. Finding the old Victorian style dwelling easily, Michael skipped up the steps to knock on the peeling white paint of the screen door.

  Tori stood out in the grass, looking up at the sad old house, suddenly homesick for LA. Staring at the rickety swing on the porch, she thought of Max and the talks they had shared on a swing like it. With a deep sigh, she hoped he was doing well.

  When he rushed back to her excitedly, Michael could have sworn for a moment she had wiped away tears, but she smiled weakly, “What did they say?”

  Unexplainable butterflies filled his stomach, “We need to go inside so we can make the old man an offer.”

  Stepping up onto the porch, Tori snatched the Bitch cap from her head. A slightly round, older woman held the screen door open for them. She told them they could drop their bags outside if they wanted, but giving each other a quick look, they agreed they would rather not and carried them inside. They placed the packs on the bottom step of the stairs that stood about six foot in, and aligned with the front door.

  The interior of the house appeared as old and run down as the outside. Michael looked around, thinking there wasn’t anything less than twenty years old to be seen. There stood a large old television that probably still had tubes inside it against the wall formed by the stairs. All of the furniture looked to be from the 1970’s, and the fixtures appeared original to the house.

  On the far side of the room stood an archway that led into the dining room and further on into the kitchen, only he saw no table. Instead, there stood what appeared to be a hospital bed, probably the only modern item on the premises. Glancing over at Tori, he could see her taking it all in. In German, he warned her to let him do the talking, and she silently gave a small nod to agree.

  Tori took a seat on the outdated couch with little claw feet while she continued to peer around. Michael sat down next to her, so close their legs brushed briefly before he scooted away, giving her some space. An old man sat in the chair to her right, next to the upright piano that stood against the exterior wall, between two very large windows covered by brown lacy curtains or drapes that had once been white.

  Michael could see the oxygen tubes running from his nose to the small machine sitting on the floor, and inferred the bed in the dining room meant he probably could not climb the stairs. Swallowing hard, he tried not to stare, his eyes shifting around anxiously. Wow, he’s on his last leg, Michael deduced about the emaciated gentleman in plaid pajamas.

  The older woman sat down on the piano bench, which stood next to her husband’s chair, and Michael took the opportunity to introduce them, “I’m Michael… Anderson,” he stated warmly, “And this,” he indicated the girl next to him, “This is Tori. We’re here about your building. Trish told us you own it, and we’re hoping it might be for sale.”

  Marge smiled and introduced herself, while George looked back and forth between the two of them for a moment, his gaze dropping to inspect their hands. Then in a low raspy voice, which held the same thick southern accent his wife had used, “The station don’t make money like it used to.” It appeared he wanted to warn them that making a living in the small town selling gas and repairing cars would be extremely difficult.

  Tori sat quietly next to him, allowing Michael to continue the negotiation, who explained in a calm voice, “We don’t actually want to use it as a gas station; we want to turn it into a repair shop for rebuilding motorcycles.”

  Immediately, the woman shot up from her perch, protesting loudly, “You can’t put a shop like that in our town! There’d be hoodlums in and out o’ here at all hours o’ the day an’ night.”

  Michael was taken aback by her sharp words, and sat speechless for a moment, not sure how to respond to that argument.

  Quietly, Tori spoke up, adopting a soft southern drawl that matched the locals. “We don’ wanna fix ‘em fur other people. We wanna buy old uns and repair ‘em. Sell ‘em at shops in the big city. There won’ be nobody comin’ here for our shop. No one’ll ever even know it’s here.”

  Michael gaped at her sideways as she spoke. He would have been surprised, except hardly anything about her surprised him, she seemed so unlike other people.

  Staring at George, her eyes were pleading, crystal blue orbs of hope as her bottom lip protruded into a perfect pink pout. She could feel their chances of getting their building growing slim, and she made her desperate attempt to charm him into selling.

  George gazed at her for several minutes before stating, “We want fi’ty thousand, in cash.” He spoke with great effort, the oxygen still hissing in his nose.

  Michael nodded calmly, “We’ll have it for you by tomorrow. When can we meet to sign the papers?” They came to the agreement they would meet the next afternoon at 3:00 pm, down at the courthouse.

  Tori and Michael would bring the cash, and George and Marge would sign over the deed to the property, including the small house in the back. Marge did not look very happy about the arrangement, but Michael suspected she would feel better once they had the money in their hands, pretty sure the amount far more than the property was actually worth.

  Leaving the house, the pair tried to remain calm, but inside Tori felt ecstatic. Michael could see the spring in her step, and caught up in her elation, reached over to give her a quick squeeze. However, as he moved closer to her, she abruptly backed away, her happy expression replaced by something darker, not allowing him to touch her.

  “What,” he challenged with a playful laugh, “I can’t give you a hug?”

  Trying to regain her composure, she said simply, “I don’t like to be touched,” and turned to head back to the diner at a quickened pace.

  Michael followed her with almost angry short strides, watching the way her rear end swayed below the ends of her long dark waves. What the fuck? Don’t like to be touched… what is that all about? He grumbled bitterly to himself the entire way. Looking around the tiny seating area, he dropped into German to keep their conversation private.

  “So, what do you mean you don’t like to be touched?” he demanded as he reclaimed his seat across from her. “You used t
o have men touch you all the time, suddenly you don’t like it? Or is it just because I wanted to touch you?” He emphasized the word I for her by slapping his chest with his fist to make his meaning clearer.

  Tori stared down at her hands, which were trembling. Drawing a deep breath, she looked up into his creamy brown orbs, considering his words for a moment.

  “I never had a choice; I let them touch me because they hurt me less if I was submissive. If I tried to fight them, they still got what they wanted, and it hurt a lot more. I can say no now, and no, I don’t like to be touched.” The tear that had been building spilled over, and she caught it with her hand as it streaked down her cheek, swiping it away with a quick, irritated motion.

  Michael sat staring at her, blinking blankly as he considered what a strange combination she was, always pretending to be so tough, when on the inside so soft. He frowned slightly as he thought how he would have said she acted more like a man than a woman in so many ways. Of course, she had been around men her entire life; and surely that could be the cause. Sitting in the heavy silence, he felt a little guilty at always being so short with her.

  Looking around the café to avoid staring at her, he took note of its layout, and considered how it was a central part of the small community, as the locals came and went continually. It had a glass front from booth level to the ceiling, where the door stood in the middle, with five dark blue leather booths on each side. There were booths down the walls towards the back, another five deep. The two front corners held large round tables where groups of old men gathered in the early mornings and had done so for years.

  Coming in through the front doors, there lay a bright white counter that made a square to the left, with short stools around it. Trish spent most of her time in the bar area, as many of the community members chose to sit at one of the six blue upholstered seats that lined each of the three sides.