by Rachel Rust
Though my boobs weren’t anything compared to the monstrosities of the three women in the room. Two blondes sat together on a green loveseat, wearing even less than I was, their skimpy tops at least two sizes too small for their large busts. A portly guy was fast asleep on a brown recliner with the third girl on his lap. She was brunette, hair similar to mine, except stringier and her makeup was at least two days old, smudged under her eyes, lipstick half off. She glared at me.
I avoided her gaze, all the while wondering if she was being paid to be there. Or maybe she was being forced to be there…like me. My muscles tensed to the point of shaking.
The bandana guy on the couch let out a laugh when Victor entered the house behind me. “Yo, wassup, man? Haven’t seen you around lately.”
Victor nodded to him. “Hey, Leon. Little Bobby around?”
“Yeah, man.” He glanced at a hallway. “He’s in the back.”
“Who’s your girl?” the lip licker asked.
Victor ignored him and nodded for me to follow him into the next room—the kitchen. Its yellow linoleum was highlighted by yellow countertops and a yellowish-colored stove and fridge. Overhead, fluorescent lighting glared down, one tube flickering behind the frosted glass of the fixture.
In the middle of the room, three guys played cards at a table, each with a bottle of something brown in front of them. Cigar smoke hung thick in the air, causing me to blink repeatedly. My dad smoked an occasional cigar. I always liked the smell, but it was better in small doses.
All card-playing movement stopped as soon as Victor and I were spotted.
“What do you want?” one of the guys asked. He took a swig of his brown liquid, then wiped his moustache with his forearm. In contrast to his pale skin, his black hair, black moustache, and thick black eyebrows made him look like a cartoon character.
“Where’s Little Bobby?” Victor asked.
“LB’s not here.”
“He is and I need to talk to him.”
The black-haired guy laughed and stood up. “Greer, kid, you’re an idiot.” He stepped in front of Victor, several inches shorter, but he definitely weighed more. “Or maybe you’re not. You want back in? Finally coming to settle things the right way instead of trying to walk away like a coward?” His eyes veered to me. Then to my chest. “Who ya got with ya?”
“No one,” Victor said. “Let me talk to Bobby.”
“No one, huh? Well, well, that’s no way to treat a lady.” He stuck out his hand toward me. “Name’s Ramon. And yours?”
I froze. I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone, but what if they talked to me first? I could give my real first name. Or a made up one. Every urge inside me said to look at Victor and plead for help. But, instead, I straightened my spine and remembered what my drama teacher said back in the eleventh grade—“If you believe what you say and do, so will your audience.”
I forced myself to shake Ramon’s hand. “I’m Delilah.”
His eyebrows raised. “Delilah, such a beautiful name for such a beautiful girl.”
I nearly laughed, hearing him repeat her name out loud. Served the woman right for walking out on my dad and breaking his heart. Ramon lifted the back of my hand to his mouth. It was all I could do not to tremble with revulsion as his lips and prickly mustache pressed against my skin. I hoped Victor had hand sanitizer in his car.
Ramon spoke to Victor, but kept his eyes on me. “I’ll let Bobby know you’re here.” Before turning away, he lightly slapped Victor twice on the cheek in an atta-boy fashion. He disappeared down a hallway, slipping into another room.
Victor leaned back on the wall, arms crossed. Cool and composed. I wondered if his heart was beating as hard as mine, if his palms were growing sweaty like mine. Another guy at the table raised a bottle of something to me in a want some? kind of way. I shook my head quickly.
Despite the cool spring temperatures outside, the house was stuffy. With the windows closed, there was no air movement of any kind. A thick blanket of smoke hung all around us. Sweat clung to my hairline and my strapless bra needed adjusting. I shifted my stance and moved my arms in an attempt to discreetly adjust it. It didn’t work.
Victor gave me a side-eye glare.
I stopped fidgeting.
Ramon stepped back into the hallway and motioned with his arm for us to move. Victor and I both turned and Ramon immediately shook his head. “Just you, Victor.”
Victor glanced back at me, then walked down the hallway, leaving me in the company of the card players. Ramon joined them once again. “Have a seat, Miss Delilah,” he said, kicking a chair out with his foot.
I didn’t move.
“Come on,” he insisted with a grin. “We don’t bite.”
The other two laughed as Ramon patted the chair and nodded with his head for me to sit. I sat, hands in lap, legs firmly together, back straight as a board. Ramon poured a brown liquid into a small glass and placed it in front of me.
“Best stuff on the market,” he said. “Take a swig.”
It looked like gasoline. Or apple juice. But I was pretty sure it would taste more like gasoline. And I was pretty sure I didn’t want to put my lips on a glass that had been in that house for any amount of time.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“No, thank you?” Ramon said with a laugh. “Such manners. Where the hell you from?” He looked over at the other two guys and said in a mocking fashion, “No, thank you, my good sirs.”
They all laughed and my cheeks flamed. I glanced down the hallway. It was empty. There was no noise. No sign of Victor, which meant no sign of our imminent departure. The clock next to the window said it was nearly nine. I hoped it was wrong, because it sure as hell felt later. The night had lasted a week already.
Ramon nudged the glass closer to me. “Drink. Don’t deny my hospitality.”
“No thanks,” I said, trying to sound a bit less formal.
He sat back in his chair, a half-grin on his face, cigar in his fingers. “How you know Victor?”
“We live in the same neighborhood,” I lied. So far, the no-talking plan was going swell.
Ramon’s eyebrows raised. “And which one is that?” He was testing me.
“Over by the mall,” I said. “Around the Plum Road area.”
He placed his cigar in the ashtray and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What’s Victor been telling you?”
“About what?”
“About what.” He shook his head with a laugh. “You ain’t so bright, is ya, girl?”
My lips pursed in indignation, but with a glance at my surroundings, I couldn’t totally disagree with his assertion. Smart people avoided drug houses. I had walked in on my own two wobbly feet. A Columbia University acceptance did not a genius make.
Somewhere my dad was rubbing elbows with other doctors at a hotel convention center, and Josh was—well, I didn’t want to think about what Josh might have been doing in that moment, but regardless, they were both somewhere having no idea where I was. No idea I was seated at a table with Ramon and his brown liquid and creepy smile.
Homesickness crept in. The guy across the table shuffled the cards, startling me.
“Tell me something, Miss Delilah,” Ramon said. “How old are you?”
My stomach twisted, almost as twisty as the grin that curled up on Ramon’s face. It was a trick question. If I admitted to being eighteen, it could be the green light for them to pounce on me. Most likely. But if I lied and said I was underage, that could be their thing. A ribbon of fear trailed down the length of my spine.
My eyes glimpsed down the hall again. The walls and doors didn’t look very thick. If I screamed, Victor would surely hear. That is, if he was still back there of his own free will. They might have tied him up or put a gun to his head. Or worse.
I hedged my bet and told the truth. “I’m eighteen.”
“Eighteen, huh?” Ramon leaned forward. His non-cigar-holding hand disappeared under the table. He grabbed my knee and squeezed.
I jumped up from my seat and my hip bumped the table, causing brown liquid to slosh around the glasses. Clutching my purse tight, I left the kitchen and headed back to the living room, leaving the repulsive laughter of the card-playing guys behind.
I leaned against the wall near the front door where I could see the TV as well as the doorway to the kitchen in case Ramon came back for more. The TV was turned to some hunting channel with camouflage and people shooting at paper targets. There was no décor in the house, unless the baggies and beer cans on the coffee table counted, and perhaps the fist-sized hole in the wall near the loveseat.
The brunette was still seated on the sleeping guy’s lap. She scanned me from head to toe with her smeared eyes, then took a drink from a tall aluminum can. It wasn’t any beer brand I recognized. Unless it wasn’t beer. My alcohol knowledge was nil. At parties I just drank flat beer from plastic cups. I never asked what kind of beer it was because I wouldn’t have known the difference anyway. I had never drunk any liquor before, and didn’t even understand the different types.
“What’s your name?” Leon asked from his stagnant spot on the floral sofa.
“Delilah.” Despite it being rude, I stared at the large cross tattoo on his neck. It must’ve hurt like hell.
“How long you been with Victor?” he asked.
About three hours. “A few weeks.”
Leon nodded, adjusting his black bandana. “He’s a good kid.”
I nearly laughed at the notion.
The brunette nodded to my purse. “Got anythin’ to share?” When I didn’t answer—unsure of what her question even meant, she moved off the big guy’s lap and wobbled her way to me. She was barefoot, so the unsteady steps couldn’t be blamed on bad shoes. Despite my sober grip on my purse, she yanked it away from me.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“What do you mean, what am I doin’?” she asked. “I’m lookin’ for somethin’ good. A pick me up.” She fumbled with the clasp for a bit, then grabbed my keys and phone. There was nothing else inside. She shoved the keys back into the bag, then tapped my phone a few times. It was password protected. With a sigh, she threw it back in the bag and shoved it against my chest. “She got nothin’,” she said to the blondes.
“Hey, Miss Delilah!”
In my peripheral view, a form blocked the light from the kitchen doorway. My skin crawled, recognizing the voice—Ramon.
“Little Bobby wants to meet ya,” he said.
Crap.
With quick, shallow breaths, knowing there was no other real option, I followed Ramon down the hallway, careful not to get too close to his grabby hands. At the end of the hall, he opened a door. It was a small bedroom set up as a TV room. Victor stood just inside the door, his grubby hair a welcomed sight. I stepped into the room and placed myself right alongside him. So close that my arm brushed against his.
Across from the door sat a man with shaved black hair, taking up nearly half the sofa he was seated on. Victor introduced him as Little Bobby.
Little Bobby’s face was round, with small eyes that squinted from the chubby cheeks underneath them. On an end table in the corner of the room was a black handgun. Josh had something similar, except his was a BB gun. When we were in fifth grade, he accidently shot himself in the leg. My dad had to dig out the BB with a tweezers, which was both hilarious and disgusting all at once. Something told me the gun in the corner wasn’t a BB gun. Nor were the two rifles leaned up against the wall.
Little Bobby had a woman on each side of him. Although, girl may have been a more accurate word, as they both appeared younger than me. Each had brown hair streaked with blond and wore matching leopard-print leggings with a black halter top. Black outlined their eyes and their lips were bright red. Their faces were not identical, but everything else about them was the same. Manufactured twins.
Little Bobby had a specific type.
His eyes canvassed my hair, then my shoulders and chest. They moved down to my stomach and waist, then stared at my legs for a while. Perhaps picturing them in leopard-print pants.
I shuffled even closer to Victor. His fingers closed around my hand and gave me a quick, reassuring squeeze.
Little Bobby peeled his eyes from my legs and looked back at Victor. “Remember our deal.”
“Seventy percent, twice a week,” Victor said.
Little Bobby grinned. “Good. All things considered, I think we can use you again.”
And that’s when it hit me—I was standing in the middle of a drug dealing job interview. It was hard to imagine the negotiation tactics were very fair when the job was illegal. “Do this or I’ll blow your brains out,” or something along those lines. I wondered if people still used cement shoes for a good old fashioned offing. Maybe there were bodies at the bottom of Lake Pactola—people who had said no to Little Bobby.
“Welcome back to the fam,” Little Bobby said to Victor.
“What about Mason?” Victor asked.
Little Bobby shrugged. “Don’t know what the hell to tell ya there. Who knows where they took that kid? But what I can do is put in a good word for you with the barber and that should smooth things over.”
The barber? What did any of it have to do with haircuts? Victor looked like he hadn’t seen a barber in years.
“When?” Victor asked. “I need to know Mason is okay.”
“Jesus, kid, patience.” Little Bobby glanced from girl to girl. “A man like me is busy. But don’t worry, I’ll get to it. Soon.”
The muscles in Victor’s arm tensed up.
Little Bobby waved his hand as though swatting a fly. “Go on, get outta here. Take the girl with you”—he smiled at me—“for now.”
For now? What the hell did that mean? My mouth opened, but Victor removed his hand from mine, hooked his arm tight around my waist, and hurried me out of the room before I could speak.
He led me back into the hallway, where he dropped his arm and walked ahead of me. He glanced over his shoulder. “Keep up.”
And like that, asshole Victor was back.
“See ya around, Victor,” Ramon called out from the kitchen as we walked past. “And I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again soon, Miss Delilah.”
I hurried my steps to get closer to Victor, and farther from Ramon. In the living room, the brunette was now seated on the floor, cross-legged, apparently not caring that she wore a short skirt. “Hey, Vic,” she slurred. She grabbed at his ankle as he walked by, falling short by several inches. “Next time you visit, don’t bring a girl.” She giggled up at him. “I’ll be your girl any time, baby.”
In my head, I screamed at her not to touch him. Sure, he may have been an ass, but he was mine. At least for that night. Of course, out loud I said nothing. I wasn’t afraid of a little confrontation, but I didn’t want to provoke someone half-strung out on Godknowswhat, in a house with guns and scary guys.
Victor ignored the brunette and walked to the door.
“Catch ya later, man!” Leon shouted from the sofa, scratching at his cross tattoo.
Victor raised a hand. “Take care of yourself, Leon.”
The lip licker guy gave me a little grin just before I walked outside.
The cool night air enveloped my skin and I hated Delilah’s little dress even more. I stumbled back down the rubble steps and marched to Victor’s car. Walking in the heels was getting easier with every step, but my ankles and feet hurt like hell. As soon as I sat down in the Trans Am, my shoes came off. Red lines marked up the top of my toes.
Victor got in, started up the car, and then pulled away from the curb. By the time we had driven a block, he had a lit cigarette in his hand.
At the first red stoplight, he turned to me with a raised eyebrow. “Delilah?”
I chuckled. “It’s my ex-stepmom’s name. I’m wearing her dress and her shoes.”
Victor’s eyes dropped to my chest for a split second before he focused back out on the road. “Well I understand why your dad married her.”
“Shut up and tell me who the barber is and why a barber would know anything about Mason.”
“Not a barber,” Victor said. “The Barber. That’s what he’s called.”
The Barber? What kind of Sweeney Todd shit was that?
“Is he the boss guy you told me about? He must be like a supplier or something?”
Victor nodded. “And not just in Rapid, but the whole region. I’m not actually sure how far his reach goes. Never had the chance, or the balls, to ask.”
“He’s the one who took Mason and sent you that text?” I asked.
Another nod.
“Why don’t you go talk directly to him?”
“I’ve never met The Barber. Few people have and Little Bobby’s one of the only direct connections I have to him. I don’t even know his real name.”
“How old do you think The Barber is?”
Victor shrugged. “No idea. Why?
“Maybe he was alive in the 80s and you could interview him for our assignment.”
Victor shot me an unpleasant look. I made a face back. My phone buzzed in my purse before I could give him any more grief about the assignment. It was a text from Sophia.
Where r u? Brody just showed up at Kyle’s house and asked about you!!! Get your butt over here!
Kyle’s parents were both botanists who worked for the National Forest Service. They traveled all the time, which meant they were never home. Which meant everyone always ended up at his house most nights of the week, including my brother Josh and, apparently, Brody.
I reread Sophia’s text. Down into the pit of my core, I ached to be next to Brody, to be a normal eighteen-year-old, flirting with a boy. Messing with his sexy hair. Letting myself get a little tipsy and letting him get a little handsy.
I texted back.
Still working on the assignment. I’ll get there sometime tonight.
My promise seemed doubtful at best, but then a thought sprang to mind—Kyle’s house would be safe. Even if Little Bobby’s—or The Barber’s—people came looking for me, they’d never find me at Kyle’s.
“Can you drop me off at my car now?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Victor said.
“What do you mean not yet? I thought you cleared things with Little Bobby. No one’s following us anymore, right? I met him like they had requested, and now I’m free to go.”
