TAUT

by JA Huss

  A few miles past Copper cars start to appear on the side of the road, but it’s clear they are not just stopping to put on chains like the trucks on the eastern side. They are stuck. Or broken down.

  I shift down as the grade levels, then give it some gas to pick up enough speed to get back into fourth gear. It complies, but not without protest. Blowing by Copper might be a mistake I come to regret because there are no more towns between here and Vail. But I’m almost there and the drive evens out over Vail Pass.

  The snow grows heavier, falling in a thick blanket of white, just like I wanted. Only it does nothing for my mind, which is still hopelessly wrapped around Rook and the last memory I now have of her.

  Not the picture my mind took of her flashing blue eyes and cardboard crown back in Antoine’s office.

  No. Her face, screwed up in anger and hurt, as she called me a Runner.

  And she’s right, isn’t she? I’m running. I’m running so fast I’m in the middle of a snowstorm—blizzard, Ford, the internal monologue corrects me—up in the mountains, driving a truck that is almost thirty years old and is working on three gears. It whines and I downshift. Two gears, I’m corrected again.

  I can see the first lights of the Village off in the distance. It’s a miracle I can see anything in this weather, so that means it must be very close. I squint out the front window, trying to get my bearings. Our house is on the east side of the village, thank God for small favors, so I’m gonna make it.

  I believe this even as I coast down the off-ramp in first gear, the engine protesting each time I step on the gas. Because no matter how hard I wish it, the tranny is shot.

  I pull off to the side of the road as far as I can get without actually plowing through a snowdrift, and then the Bronco just stops.

  Fuck.

  After all that, I’m stuck in a blizzard on the fucking off-ramp, two miles from my family’s mountain home. If I had a coat, I could probably walk there. But I’m in a tuxedo and that’s it.

  I laugh a little and pick up my phone from the seat next to me.

  No fucking service. Awesome.

  I rest my head on the steering wheel and then jerk up when a horn honks at me from outside. Squinting through the snow I can see a truck, so I roll the window down and some guy is yelling at me.

  It’s hard to hear him over the wind, and at first I figure he’s pissed because I’m still kind of in the middle of the road. But then the wind dies and his words are more clear.

  “—a tow?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “I said…” He jerks his thumb behind him and I look at what he’s pointing at. A car on a flatbed truck. “You need a tow?”

  I look back at the man and this is when I notice there’s another person in the cab with him. A girl who is doing her best to shield herself from the wind and snow. “Yeah,” I reply back. “But—”

  “OK, look. Let me drop her off at Jason’s, then I’ll come back for you. It’s just right there.” He points up ahead on the frontage road where there’s a small strip mall-type building. Or as close to a strip mall as you can get in Vail. I know the place well. Hell, I even know Jason—we took skateboarding lessons in the same fucking summer camp one year.

  Real asshole. He bullied me a little, thinking I was weak just because I was quiet and smart and no one was allowed to touch me. But then I electrified the urinal flusher in the boys’ bathroom at camp, watched him go inside, and then proceeded to laugh my ass off when the ambulance came.

  I never officially got caught, but everyone knew I did it. And my dad was not happy about that. Not one bit. He made me clear a fifty-foot radius of brush and pine needles around our house that summer. Forest fire precaution duty, he said. But it was really no-electrocuting-kids-at-camp duty.

  The garage’s a family-owned place, Jason is really Jason Junior, and there’s a Travel Saver Motel next door with a blinking vacancy light that they own as well.

  Wonderful.

  Before I can answer the tow truck is gone, so I have two choices. Get out and walk the two miles up to my house in a raging blizzard, or wait for the driver to come back and tow me over to Jason’s and see if he’ll swing me across the freeway to the bottom of my driveway after he drops the Bronco.

  It doesn’t take a genius. And the wait is not that bad, since I can practically see him dropping the car he had on the back of the truck. It must belong to the girl who was in the front seat with him.

  I get out, painfully aware of how underdressed I am for the mountains in January, and then catch the exasperated look from the driver that he probably reserves for stupid tourists from the Tropics.

  “Nice coat,” he says as he grabs his chains from the flatbed and lowers himself down onto the snow to hook up the Bronco. “You can wait inside the truck if you want. I don’t need help, ya know.”

  He’s an asshole. And he looks familiar so I study his face when he comes back up from the ground and goes over to the controls on the truck. Dakota. Dillon. Dickhead.

  “Dallas,” he says like he’s reading my mind. “I’m surprised you don’t remember me. Jason’s cousin. I fingered you right away. Of course, who can forget this hunk of shit.” He points to my dilapidated truck. The drive train whines as the chain tightens and starts to pull the Bronco onto the bed. Snow is coming down so hard now, it might be piling up on my head.

  “Right. Dallas. I think I almost blew you up on the golf course with an exploding golf ball.” I laugh.

  He doesn’t.

  “Sorry about that,” I continue. “My antisocial and psychotic tendencies have mellowed over the years.”

  He glares at me.

  There is no way this guy is taking me any further than the fucking garage five hundred yards away, so I resign myself to getting a room at the Travel Saver. I’m not walking into the Village and I highly doubt a cab is available. This is Vail, not Denver. There are no public safe driver programs to keep the drunks off the road on New Year’s. Besides, almost everywhere you need to go is within walking distance here.

  Of course, there’s that little detail about the blizzard. But that’s why hotels have ballrooms. So partygoers can stay the night at the party. I doubt there are any rooms available in the Village anyway.

  This whole thought exercise is pointless. I have a fucking house two miles away that I can’t get to. Why the hell would I walk the opposite direction to get a room?

  I jump in the cab and scare the shit out of myself when I sit on something that squeaks. I brush the seat off and a little yellow duck toy goes flying onto the floor.

  “Oh, shit,” Dallas says as he gets into the cab with me. “I bet that belongs to that chick’s baby. Pick it up, will ya?” He pulls out onto the road as I pick up the toy. It’s all muddy from my wet shoes now, so I stick it in my pocket. We drive down the frontage road, pass the hotel, and then turn into the parking lot. The girl is still in her car, the interior light on as she fumbles around with something. I see the baby now, tucked inside a seat, bundled up with blankets. Dallas backs up the truck and positions it so he can drop the Bronco off in a snow-covered space not quite next to, but near, the girl’s brown Honda.

  I jump out and walk over to Dallas as he works the truck’s bed controls. “How much?”

  “Two-fifty,” he says with a straight face.

  I shrug it off and grab three hundred-dollar bills from my wallet. Who cares. He saved my ass. He deserves it. “Here you are. And Dallas?” I wait for his eyes to find mine. “Thank you. I appreciate it. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow when Jason opens and we can grab a beer or something.”

  This is my new thing, since I met Rook. I’m trying to make amends for any and all weird past behavior. I figure trying to blow him up on the golf course counts as something that requires an effort.

  “Jason’s probably not gonna show up tomorrow. And he’s always closed on the weekends, so Monday, huh? If you’re still around.” He takes the money and goes back to his business so I take that as my cue to
leave.

  I stuff my hands in my pockets and make for the motel office, my head ducking into the wind and snow.

  Chapter Four

  The bell on the door jingles as I enter the hotel, the faint sound of a TV coming from the back room. An older woman appears and sighs heavily when she sees me, like I’m interrupting her Jeopardy game show and walking up front to wait on a customer is the last straw.

  “Help you?” she asks curtly as she punches some keys on her computer.

  I put on my I’m not a psycho smile and remind myself that this place was once my home, but she doesn’t look at me, so it makes no difference. I try for directness instead. “Room?”

  “One left,” she mumbles. “But you gotta be out by ten, because there’s a tourist bus coming in tomorrow and all our rooms are booked for the weekend.”

  “I can manage that. How much?”

  “Two-fifty plus tax.”

  “Hmmm, everything tonight seems to cost two-fifty.”

  “It’s New Year’s Eve. Prime season for us. You want the room or not?”

  “Yes,” I say through my smile. “Thank you.” She passes me a form to fill out and give her all my details. When I hand it back she stares at it for a moment, then looks up at me with the same squinting eyes that Dallas perfected back at the tow truck.

  “Rutherford Aston.”

  “Mrs. Pearson,” I deadpan back at her. “How’s the library treating you?”

  “Retired. We manage this place now. Can’t complain.”

  And that’s it. That’s all she has to say to me, even though if you add up all the time I spent at the library when I lived here as a kid, it would total in the years.

  It’s my turn to sigh heavily and I turn away as she finishes the job of checking me in. She doesn’t inquire why I’m staying here at the crappiest hotel in Vail when I live down the street. She doesn’t inquire why I left the make and model of my car blank on the registration form. She doesn’t say here you go, have a nice night when she slides the key across the counter. The only other thing she says is, “Room 24, last door.”

  I nod and smile once more, but it’s futile. She’s already got her back to me, heading into the room where her game show awaits.

  I push through the door, the bell jingling my exit, and the snow assaults me as I make my way under the covered breezeway that at least attempts to block out the raging elements. I walk all the way to the end of the building, slip my key into the door and glance over at my Bronco.

  It’s not my truck that I’m looking at though. Dallas and the flatbed are gone. Probably more cars to rescue from the storm. It’s the car next to the Bronco that catches my attention. I can still see the girl inside, still fussing around under the dome light.

  I twist the key, open the door, find the lights on the wall and flip them on before closing the door behind me.

  It’s fucking freezing in here. Like they have no heat at all. I hit up the unit under the window that acts as a heater and air conditioner and turn it to full-blast hot.

  Now what?

  There’s two queen-sized beds, a table and chairs, a long low dresser with a mirror, and a TV mounted on the wall. I grab the remote and switch it on. The time flashes on the screen for a moment. One-thirty AM. Shit, time has flown by. Last I looked it was eleven-thirty.

  Well, happy New Year, Ford. Yet another one spent alone.

  I watch a repeat of the ball dropping in Times Square, and then realize the room is not much warmer. I fuck with the controls on the under-window unit for a few minutes, trying to see if the dials are just lined up wrong and another setting will deliver the heat I’m badly craving. But it’s no use. I take out my phone and check the thermometer app. Twelve degrees outside. I calculate the probable temperature in this room and come up with fifty-three.

  Fifty-fucking-three degrees. For two hundred and fifty dollars a night.

  I can go complain to Mrs. Pearson. Or I can suck it up, go sift through my winter survival bag from the back of the Bronco, and grab the self-heating blizzard blankets.

  I opt for the blizzard blankets because Mrs. Pearson is just… no.

  The snow is still coming down hard, maybe even harder than before. I can barely make out the garage parking lot and it’s only about a hundred yards away. I jog over and open the back of the Bronco, yanking the tub of gear towards me. The blankets are down at the bottom, so I just dump all the shit out on the bed of the truck and take out the flat packages. I slam the door and a baby’s cry almost gives me a heart attack.

  I look carefully at the girl’s car and realize it’s steamed up from breath. They’re still inside.

  I knock on the back seat window and see some blurry movement inside, but no one answers. “Hey,” I call. “Do you have a ride coming?”

  The baby answers with a small complaint, then some gurgled noises. And nothing.

  Even though I’m freezing my ass off now, I try again. A softer knock this time. “Hello? It’s too cold to be in a parked car with no heat.”

  Nothing.

  I get the hint and walk away. Hey, if she wants to stay in the car, it’s none of my business. I get all the way back to my room door before I realize I could at least give her a blanket. I look at the door. Then the car. Then the door.

  And walk back over to the car. I’m fully wet now, so I stop by the Bronco again and pull out my gym bag that at least has a pair of running shorts and a dry shirt.

  I knock on the window again. “Hello—”

  “Go away!” the girl yells. Then the baby starts crying for real and she starts swearing inside. Like she’s reached the end of her coping capability and is about to lose it.

  I’m familiar with this feeling. I used to get it often.

  I scrub my hand down my face and decide to switch tactics. “If you do not answer me, I will call the police and report you for child abuse.”

  There’s a brief pause, then the window cranks down a single inch and the girl inside peers up at me from dark eyes. She is young. No older than twenty if I guess right. The snow swirls in the small opening, chilling the baby out of its temporary acquiescence. It straight-out bawls.

  “Report me? Are you serious? I have no money for a room, OK? I didn’t plan on getting stuck here in this blizzard, there’s nothing I can do about it. So go ahead, call whoever you want!” She rolls the window back up and I knock again. It rolls back down, a half an inch this time. “What?” she snaps.

  I look down at the blanket, then up at the snow illuminated in the street light. It’s so thick the light comes across as a dull gray. I am fully planning on just handing the blanket over and telling her that it will self-heat once she opens the package and exposes it to oxygen. But instead my mouth says, “I have two beds in the room. You could sleep there. It’s the last room they have or I’d just buy you your own.”

  “What?” she says, rolling the window down another half an inch.

  “I, ah… I’m offering you a place to sleep for the night.”

  She stares up at me, blinking.

  And then I can’t stand her attention anymore and I pivot and walk away.

  What the fuck am I thinking? Stupid. What the fuck?

  I push my key into the door and slam it closed behind me. I throw the gym bag on the bed and rip open one of the blanket packages. It takes about fifteen minutes to fully heat up once the bag is open, so I set it on the bed and go start the shower. The water gets hot immediately and this is the first stroke of luck I’ve had all night.

  Luck. We are not on speaking terms, luck and I. Because my name is not Ronin Flynn. Luck loves him. Shit, if Ronin was in this predicament, he’d have broken down across from the Four Seasons, they’d tell him they only had the penthouse available, and he could have it for half price since it was sitting empty anyway. They’d send up complimentary fruit baskets and give him free spa passes to ease his worried brow.

  I laugh. The sad thing is that it’s closer to the truth than I’d like to admit. Ronin is li
ke… walking magic when it comes to life. Everything he wants, he gets. People love him immediately. They don’t scowl at him because he conjures up memories of almost blowing people up on the golf course or electrocuting boys in the skate park bathroom, or for being the town freak who read every book in the library, even the dictionary and the encyclopedias.

  I have had my share of women, albeit on my own very strict no-touching terms. But Ronin has women throwing themselves at him everywhere he goes.

  It’s… it’s infuriating. He’s literally a professional liar, for fuck’s sake, and all they see is sweet perfection. But when they look at me they see freak.

  I’m a goddamned movie producer. I know famous people. I have a mountain home in Vail, a luxury condo in Denver, and a five-million-dollar monstrosity on Mulholland Drive in Bel Air. I take care of myself, I’m well educated, I’m not bad-looking. I’m sorta hot, actually. I know this, I have no trouble finding sex when I want it.

  And yet I get sluts. I swear. Sluts who don’t even blink when I tell them they can’t touch me.

  And Ronin? He gets Rook.

  She does not give one fancy fuck what Ronin’s part in our business is. Her exact words. Not one fancy fuck. She loves him, no matter what. Unconditionally. She rode a thousand miles on a motorcycle back to the place where the most horrific things happened to her, stole secret files, and almost got her legs burned off in a house fire to save his professionally lying ass.

  And I get no-name pets who want me to bend them over a couch and smack their pussy to make them come.

  It’s just… what the fuck? Why? It’s like I have a sign on my fucking head that says I like the weird ones.

  I might like to try a nice girl, or at the very least, a semi-nice one with a little freak to her.

  I admit, I’m not wholly dissatisfied with the naughty ones. But just once, just fucking once, I’d like the Sandy instead of the Rizzo.

  Holy fuck. I just used a Grease Rookism to illustrate my point.