Bad Attitude

by Tiffany White

“Mitch? What … what’s happened?” The sensual dream was still clouding her mind.

  “He’s just driven off with some of the crew and a few of the locals.”

  “He’s left? Why? Where were they going?”

  “To a place called the Rats.”

  “The Flats?”

  Angie nodded. “They’re going to race. One of the locals challenged Mitch.” The agitation in her voice was clear. “Because of Heather. She was flirting with all the men. One of the locals got jealous. Unfortunately he made some crack about Mitch’s hotshot racing brother, Matthew.”

  “Oh, no!”

  Molly closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she waited a moment, then opened her eyes again. “Angie, can you take me to this place … the Flats?”

  “Yeah, I think I can find it from what they were talking about. It didn’t sound to be too far away from here.”

  Seconds later they were heading out. Angie wasn’t following the local speed limit as she swung the car around a curve, fishtailing it.

  “Be careful!” Molly yelled over the roar of the engine.

  “I don’t think there’s time to be careful,” Angie said. “In the Midwest they call the kind of race Mitch has gotten himself into playing chicken—you know, as in James Dean’s Rebel Without a Cause.”

  “Oh, my God—step on it!”

  4

  MOLLY WATCHED the rolling hills of the Meramec Valley speed past in a dark blur, her mind busy with images of impending disaster. She’d been foolish to believe Mitch’s promise that he wouldn’t try anything dangerous. He’d only told her what she wanted to hear, as he’d no doubt been doing with women since his very first back-seat romance.

  She tried to remember how the movie Rebel Without a Cause had ended. All she could recall was how James Dean had ended up in real life—dead in the wreckage of his speeding car.

  The atmosphere inside their car was thick with worry. Neither she nor Angie spoke about their fears while they continually scanned the roadsides for some sign of the racers or the Flats.

  There was no sign of either.

  It was Molly who finally gave voice to her fears. “Oh, Angie, what if we don’t find them in time? What if we can’t find the Flats?”

  “We’ll find them,” Angie vowed. “Remember those six older brothers I told you I had? Well, they were always trying to elude their pesky younger sister when I was growing up, but I always managed to track them down.”

  A few miles farther down the highway Angie slammed on the brakes and brought the car to an abrupt halt, tires squealing. She motioned to Molly.

  “Look over there.”

  “Where?” A clump of trees obscured Molly’s view.

  Angie pulled the car off the highway, onto a dirt road, and headed for a clearing, where a small group of cars and people were gathered.

  She had barely brought the car to a stop again, when Molly flung open her car door and began running toward two cars sitting side by side with their engines racing. A kid with a white handkerchief stood nearby. He raised his arm and yelled, “Ready, set, go!”

  The kid dropped the white handkerchief and both cars raced past her. Molly’s desperate, “Stop!” was drowned by the roaring engines.

  Molly watched in dismay as the cars careened toward the cliff. Her heart pounded when Mitch began inching ahead.

  “Why doesn’t someone stop them?” she demanded, looking accusingly at the crowd. Mitch was just like her brother, who’d shown off by swimming bank to bank in a river with dangerous currents. Tears formed in her eyes. She couldn’t watch someone die stupidly again.

  She couldn’t.

  “Don’t worry, Molly. I’ve seen Mitch race with his brother Matthew before for fun. He has tremendous, innate skill, just as Matthew did. He’ll be all right,” Angie reassured her, clutching her by the arm.

  Molly shook her head, not believing Angie’s hopeful words for a moment.

  There was no way this could come to a good end. As she watched the driver in the souped-up model with a red paint job and a design of yellow flames across its hood edge closer to Mitch’s car, she had to fight not to close her eyes. Both cars continued their game of cat and mouse. Their driving was reckless, and the distance between the cars could be measured in inches. The two drivers appeared to be calling out taunts to each other as they raced ever closer to the cliff’s edge.

  “Where does the race end?” Molly asked, glaring at Heather, who looked excited. At least the key grip from the movie company looked a little on the white side of pale.

  “It will end one way or another in a few minutes,” one of the locals informed her, his manner one of bored nonchalance.

  “What—what does he mean, one way or the other?” Molly stammered, looking at Angie.

  The local’s grin was obscene. “Either one of them turns chicken and stops or … ”

  “Or … ?” Molly stared at him, eyes wide, hearing her voice sink to a whisper.

  The local shrugged. “There’s bluffs at the end of the Flats, an’ after that the Meramec River. And after that, well, it don’t matter none.”

  “You’ve got to stop them!” she pleaded. “This is insane!”

  “Too late,” the local man said, shaking his head. “You can’t stop them now.”

  “I can try.”

  Before anyone could move, Molly grabbed the keys from Angie’s hand and headed for their car at a dead run.

  “No!” Angie cried, but Molly paid no heed.

  Molly didn’t know what she was going to do, but she had to try to stop the race. Flooring the gas pedal, she began traveling across the flats toward the racers.

  Now she had a better view of the two cars, both of which were quickly running out of ground. She prayed silently and breathed a sigh of blessed relief when one of the cars turned to one side, quitting the race at the last second.

  It was the challenger—not Mitch—who’d come to his senses and quit.

  Molly decreased her speed. It was going to be okay. Now Mitch could stop, too. He’d proven he wasn’t chicken and he’d upheld his twin brother’s reputation.

  But he didn’t stop.

  Molly saw the car become airborne. A scream froze in her throat as the car sailed off the cliff, seeming to hang in the air for a moment before it began to drop, flipping end over end until it was out of sight.

  “Oh God, no!” she exclaimed, stopping her car and getting out to race to the edge of the bluff.

  “It’s not my fault,” the other driver shouted as she passed him. “He’s crazy!”

  In the distance Molly could hear the sound of engines; the crowd must be coming to see what had happened.

  Trembling, she reached the edge of the bluff, not wanting to see what she knew lay below. She wiped at the tears and looked down at the flaming wreck. Mitch had finally succeeded in joining his brother.

  “Hey Red, why are you crying? I won.”

  Molly squinted against the smoke rising from the burning wreckage. She choked back tears and wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell fouling the air. Hope flickered as she searched the steep embankment of the dark bluff for a sign of life.

  Had she really heard Mitch’s voice? Or was she only hallucinating, unwilling to accept the fact that she had failed?

  “Hey, Red, over here!”

  A brief scurry of pebbles slid down the bluff and she followed the sound.

  “Mitch!” she cried, sighting the small outcropping, where he’d gained a tenuous hold on a branch of scrub pine.

  He was alive!

  He was scratched up, covered in dust from head to toe, and his handsome face was streaked with dirt, but he was alive.

  And she was going to kill him. “You—you selfish bastard. What were you thinking? Didn’t you realize you could have been killed?”

  “No loss, Red. No loss.”

  The bleakness of his voice overpowered her anger. He was only trying to escap
e … outrun … outrace the pain and guilt he felt over his brother’s death.

  “Are you badly hurt?” she asked, sympathy replacing her initial fury.

  He shot her a lopsided grin and winced as he tried to gain a more secure toehold. “I’m a bit banged up, as you may have noticed. And I imagine I’ll be sore as hell come tomorrow. But all that’s small potatoes. What really hurts badly is your harsh opinion of me, Red.”

  “I told you to quit calling me that.”

  “Deal. You quit calling me Jerkface, and I won’t call you Red. So, now that we have that out of the way, do you think you might give me a hand here? I’m beginning to lose my grip, and though I’m truly enjoying our little chat, I don’t much care for the idea of becoming a packet of Crispy Critters if I fall into that mess below.”

  Tires squealed and car doors slammed; the others came running to see the wreck. Finding Mitch alive, they eagerly pulled him to safety.

  Once he was on his feet again, Heather rushed to his side, all jiggle and giggle in her tight jeans and T-shirt. Jumping up and down, she hugged him, exclaiming, “You won, Mitch! You won! You’re so … so …”

  “I believe dumb is the word,” Molly grumbled. Walking toward Angie, she moaned, “How am I ever going to keep this stunt out of the tabloids, with all these witnesses?”

  Angie shook her head. “There must be some way, but I admit I don’t have a clue what it is.”

  Molly glanced at the small crowd. The local she’d been talking to earlier walked over.

  “You with him?” he asked, indicating Mitch.

  “Him?” Molly asked, puzzled. With all the fuss Heather was making over Mitch, how could this man believe Molly was involved with him?

  The bearded man nodded. “Yeah. You with the movie company that’s filmin’ that Western at the caverns about Jesse James?”

  Molly nodded, finally understanding. “Yes, yes, I am. I’m his agent, sort of.”

  “Then you’re who I want to talk to.”

  “Me–why?”

  “You know that old gray car Mitch Marlow was driving, the one that’s a goner? Well, I loaned it to him. It belonged to me.”

  “And you want to be compensated for it. How much were you wanting? If we can settle on a reasonable sum, I’ll get you a check drawn up.”

  “It’s not money I’m after.”

  “You want us to replace the car? I don’t know. It looked pretty, ah …”

  “Yeah, it was pretty beat up. You don’t think I’d lend out my best car, do you?” A crafty look settled on his face; he must be getting to what he really wants, Molly thought. “I was thinking I wouldn’t mind being in that picture you’re making.”

  That was it. The answer to her dilemma. Molly wouldn’t have to lose her job, after all.

  “I’ll talk to the director. I’m sure we can arrange a small, walk-on part for you,” she assured the man, ignoring the fact that she had no authority whatsoever to do so.

  Acting on impulse, she called for the crowd’s attention. “How would you all like to be extras in the movie Mitch Marlow is making?” Molly asked, waiting anxiously for their response.

  It wasn’t long in coming. Their looks of surprise were quickly followed by cheers of agreement. She only hoped she could convince the director it was a great idea.

  “Okay, then it’s agreed. But here’s the deal. We’ll hire the lot of you as extras for one day of filming on Jesse, but if any of you talk to the press about this little incident, we have this thing called a cutting-room floor. If any one of you talks, the lot of you will be edited out, understand?”

  The crowd nodded in tacit agreement.

  “Okay, then,” Molly said. “I’d like to thank you all for your cooperation. Angie here will take down your names and give you the details when everything is set up.”

  As the small group crowded around Angie, who’d hastily pulled a notebook and pen from her purse, Mitch joined Molly.

  “That’s some promise you made,” he said, studying her. “You really think you can pull it off? Temperamental directors have this thing about being in control.”

  “I wouldn’t have made the promise if I didn’t plan on keeping it,” Molly answered pointedly, directing her anger toward him. “You could have been killed tonight, and so could the other driver. At the very least, this could have ended up in the news, effectively putting the finishing touch on both our careers. I thought we had an agreement.”

  “I didn’t go looking for trouble, it found me,” Mitch countered, apparently shrugging off responsibility.

  Molly just looked at him, not buying his excuse. “Do me a favor, will you?”

  “Sure, what?”

  “Quit pretending not to care. Stop denying you’re in pain. Just stop—stop pretending.”

  Mitch stood there for a moment, looking pale and solemn. His voice was no more than a whisper when he said, “Pretending is what I do. It’s the only thing I’m good at … it’s who I am.”

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON Molly was in the costume trailer with Angie. Angie was gamely filling in for the wardrobe mistress, who’d had to leave the set due to an illness in her family. Now her dark eyes were intent on the seam of the period gown she was taking in to fit Heather.

  “Mitch’s been pretty quiet today,” Angie said, finishing off the seam. “Do you think nearly killing his fool self last night had some effect on him? Or could it be he’s plotting his next harebrained escapade for the cover of the International Intruder?”

  “I’m surprised those bloodsuckers weren’t around to capture last night’s fiasco on film,” Molly said pensively. “Perhaps Mitch is withdrawn because he’s readying himself for a scene. I’ve noticed he always gets quiet before shooting. I think it’s some sort of mental preparation, a kind of ritual he goes through. When he’s finally ready to do the scene, you can actually notice the transformation—he literally becomes the character he’s playing. It’s eerie. Then once he relaxes into the part he’s playing, all the action takes place in his eyes.”

  “Yeah, those eyes. Couldn’t you just drown in them?” The look on Angie’s face was positively sinful.

  “Angie?”

  Angie laughed, a sexy, bawdy laugh that bounced off the walls of the trailer. “Well, Mitch is one great looker. It’s lucky for you my taste runs to the more cerebral type. There’s something about a man in a pair of glasses that makes me want to fog them up, you know? But don’t worry, Molly, your secret is safe with me.”

  “My secret?” Molly asked, handing Angie the pair of scissors she’d motioned for.

  “You know,” Angie said, looking up and grinning at her after she’d snipped a thread, “you don’t have to be coy with me. I’m not going to spill the beans about you being warm for Mitch Marlow’s form.”

  Molly felt herself blushing even as she uttered her denial. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t said anything that would lead you to believe I have even the slightest interest in Mitch Marlow. For me, this is a job. Nothing more.”

  “A job?” Angie hooted. “You’re trying to tell me baby-sitting Hollywood’s hottest heartthrob is nothing more than a job to you? I suppose you haven’t noticed his cowboy swagger, or that when he smiles, infrequent though that may be, you don’t feel like crossing your legs … real tight. You’d better have your pulse checked to make sure you’re alive, if Mitch Marlow doesn’t stir up feelings of lust when he—”

  “Well, lust, sure,” Molly admitted. “But it’s just chemistry, Angie. I would never allow myself to become involved with a movie star. I’m not the one who’s suicidal, remember?”

  “I don’t understand. Most women would leap at the opportunity to be Mitch Marlow’s main squeeze.”

  Molly just looked at Angie. “Think about it. He’s starred in my fantasies since his first movie—mine and every other woman’s. And he knows it. He’s not going to settle for just one woman, and I couldn’t bear being ju
st one more in a long list of women whose hearts he’s broken.”

  “Aren’t you being a little cynical?” Angie said.

  “Am I? It isn’t necessary to use more than one hand to count on your fingers the number of happy Hollywood marriages.”

  Angie nodded. “I have to admit you’re right about that.” Finishing Heather’s dress, she shook out the wrinkles and held it up to see the result of her handiwork.

  Gazing at the size two gown, Molly sighed.

  “What?” Angie asked, hanging it up with Heather’s other costumes.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel intimidated by a world that has just one measure of female perfection. Can you believe that decades of women have been brainwashed into insecurity by a seemingly innocent toy they were given to play with as children?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Barbie. Because of her we all believe subconsciously that the perfect female is a blonde with diamond-shaped spaces between her legs at ankle, knee and thigh top. Space between the ears is undoubtedly an added bonus. Why is beauty equated with having legs that go all the way to one’s armpits?”

  “You aren’t serious. You can’t really believe that junk, Molly.”

  “Not intellectually, maybe. But it is emotional baggage. All it takes some days is one Heather Simms to make me feel as if I’m a float in the Rose Bowl Parade. Having these wild, orange curls doesn’t help. It’s like having a neon sign on your head.”

  “You’re being dumb.”

  “I know. I know. I’ve accepted the fact that I will never be a Barbie doll and I like who I am now. Well, I could deal with losing ten pounds permanently, instead of every bathing-suit season. Haven’t you ever felt you didn’t measure up?”

  “Are you kidding? I had even more impossible standards to measure up to than Barbie. I had six brothers, remember. G.I. Joe was my role model. Mostly I was judged by how well I could shoot a basket or slide into second base.”

  “When I was growing up, I was never allowed to sweat. My parents were overprotective and encouraged me to do quiet, safe activities.” Molly smiled ruefully. “Speaking of G.I. Joe, though, it’s funny, but in a way he has become the new role model for female perfection in the nineties.”