by Marata Eros
I can tell by her expression, it would have been better if I forgave her the rough set up she calls a home for our foster children. But there’s nothing I can do about that. The state vets the family, and we deal with whatever “quality” they deem is adequate.
Without another word she turns, slapping open a screen door that shrieks balefully at the operation.
I grab the frame before it whacks me in the nose.
Sunlight floods my face as I step out, instant relief pouring through me to exit that place.
My eyes rove the yard until they hit on a lone little girl swinging by herself, shoulders slumped, gaze glued to the ground. A broken swing sways in the gentle breeze, and she occupies the other.
This is what Tabby has. No mom. No abuser.
An “adequate” environment.
Somehow, the scene still makes my heart hurt. With a deep breath I move past BobbyJo and thread my way between discarded and half-broken toys to a weathered paintless big toy.
“Hey Tabby,” I say.
Her little head jerks up, and with a squeal, she bounds out of the swing and rushes me.
I barely have time to prepare myself before she jumps into my arms, wrapping her little legs around my waist.
Her face is lit like a lamp of happiness. “You came, Miss Temp.”
“Yes,” I say, though I know what’ll come next, and I’m not disappointed.
“Have you come to take me to my mama?”
It’s universal. No matter how bad the mom is, the kid wants to return to her.
Slowly I shake my head. Using my free hand, I press down her golden riot of curls, which remind me of my mom, but for color. “Not for a little while. You can stay with BobbyJo and Dale for a little longer, right?”
And there’s that look. When a kid knows that they have one advocate, even at five, they don’t want to have zero, so she puts on a brave face. “Sure,” Tabby agrees reluctantly, lower lip quivering.
I nod. “I came by to see how you’re doing.”
Her eyes move around me, and I know without looking that BobbyJo is giving a silent message.
I whirl, and she’s in mid-mime. BobbyJo is definitely doing something behind my back.
Cogs whirring, I quickly decide I’ll blow my weekly social worker budget on McDonald’s.
“Hey, Tabby, do you want to go to McDonald’s?”
Excitedly, she nods. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“I don’t know...” BobbyJo says.
I turn to her, giving her the full force of my stare. “Tabitha Netter is my charge, and I want to substantiate her well-being. As you’re aware, she’s recently suffered a trauma, and the kind she experienced in particular is destabilizing.”
The slow blink happens again.
I restate my intent with simpler language. “I want to spend some time with the kid and see how she’s really doing.”
“Okay,” BobbyJo says.
I don’t like her reluctance.
Telling her or behaving as though I’m asking permission is a courtesy. I have authority to remove a child from a foster family. True.
But I need a damn good reason, because the state’s resources are small, and that means we would have to just place Tabby somewhere else. Then our overburdened system would have to deal.
The facts are, seven out of ten homes are just like BobbyJo’s.
That reality makes my heart hurt too. It’s an imperfect system, and I just hope my part makes it better than it would otherwise be.
Taking Tabby’s hand, I escort her past BobbyJo and the silent Dale, seeing myself out the door.
“When’s she coming back? Because I don’t want no cranky kid to deal with tomorrow for all-day kindergarten.” BobbyJo shoots me a sullen look.
Ignoring that too, I reply, “By eight o’clock.”
Leaning against the doorframe, she pops a new cigarette in her mouth and lights it in a single practiced motion.
She inhales deeply then releases the smoke. “Fine.”
Her eyes follow us the entire way to the car.
Tabby’s a distraction from thinking about how Puck hasn’t gotten ahold of me since our one-nighter.
Sweeping a golden and perfectly crisp fry through the load of ketchup on her cheeseburger wrapper, Tabby asks through a mouthful of food, “Is my mom okay?”
I nod. Chenille is currently going through withdrawals at the local detox center. She’ll live, so technically Chenille is “okay.”
Still feels like a lie.
What I don’t like is that the withdrawals she’s having are from a date rape drug very similar to roofies.
I’m a careful woman. When I go out, I don’t leave my drink unattended. But Chenille didn’t leave a drink unattended. She’s a prostitute.
Now we’re wondering if she’s a willing prostitute.
Of course, I don’t tell any of this to Tabby. It’s too much. Too awful.
And I can’t give her back to a user.
My eyes travel over her skinny form. It’s clear she doesn’t get enough to eat consistently.
A little prayer leaves my mind, traveling to the higher power that might be listening.
Please help me to help her.
“Do you like BobbyJo and Dale?” I ask.
Her legs swing underneath the table, and she takes a sip of shake, cheeks hollowing out with the effort. “They’re okay. Dale don’t hit me.”
My eyes burn with tears. That’s her barometer—that a grown man doesn’t hit her. So we’re golden.
Wow. Some days, my job is so bad.
Her eyes, so lovely like her mom’s, traces every tiny nuance my face makes, and she asks slowly, “Is my mama really okay?”
Somehow, I just can’t guard my expressions well enough. Honesty, Temp. “She’s okay, but a little sick. We’re getting her better, and then you guys can have visits.”
Her eyes drop. Tabby knows when there’s a particular con being played.
Those light-brown eyes rise to mine, such a striking contrast to the spiral curls of her golden hair. She asks softly, “Where’s Lionel?”
“Hey,” I say, grabbing her tiny hand. “You’re safe from Lionel.”
She nods, taking another gulp of shake with her free hand. Her silence says she believes me. Her eyes hold fear and another emotion I see a lot from kids on my job.
Resignation.
Chapter 15
Ritchie
“What in the fuck is going on?” I clench my cell against my ear, using my goddamned left hand because it doesn’t have a broken finger.
“I told ya, Chenille’s in a tank.”
Holy shit. “She’s coming off the roof,” I confirm in a flat voice.
“Yeah, boss. That’s the word. The thing you had with that Charlotte bitch got the bleeding hearts paying attention to the house because of her spawn. Now they’re asking all kinds of questions, and Chenille will answer because she ain’t using no more.”
Idiot. “No shit. Because her supply’s run dry.” I think fast. I’m a right-hand man. And the guy I stand by will not take this news well.
We need every whore we have, and we need them compliant. Willing.
Roofies help with that. When the bitches wake up from that drug, they start worrying about shit that distracts them from lying on their backs taking dick.
Like their stupid kids.
My good hand clenches so hard, the cell protests with a squeak. I release the pressure, my memory conjuring Chenille’s little bitch.
Tabby.
If I dug young pussy, that would’ve been sweet. Her living under the same roof and all. But even though there ain’t much, there’s some things I draw the line on.
All the little bitch is to me is annoying. Mommy, I want this. Mommy, I want that.
Plus, she has to be fed.
I just wanted to bang pussy and make Chenille bang everyone else for cash.
Alexander tasked me with all that.
Now I’m responsible for losing a t
wat during a random fucking check by a chink social worker.
Un-fucking-believable.
“Boss?”
Seems like Derek has said my name a few times.
“What?” I bark.
“What do I do now? You’re out.”
Got to take the heat off Chenille, or she’ll squeal to the cops like a pig. The sooner I can get her back into the ring of docile females, the better.
I swallow hard. I do not want to deal with Alexander. Ever.
My cell vibrates during the pause in our conversation, and I turn it to face me, checking out the screen.
An image of a crown flashes on my burner cell, and I die a little inside. Too late.
“I’ll call ya back,” I say to Derek, swiping End as I press the green receiver symbol on the cell.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Ritchie.”
My stomach does a slow flop. “Yeah.”
“I’ve heard about some disturbing trends.”
Palm dampening around the cheap plastic, I decide to come clean. I know what happens to people who don’t fess up to Alexander—they get gone.
“Lost a bitch. Temporarily.”
After a moment of silence, he says, “It seems as though we’ve caught the notice of a local government entity.”
“Yeah, some social worker bitch came by Chenille’s place to check on the brat and ran into me.”
“From what I understand, it was you who ran into her.”
My manhood is pricked, and I speak before I think. “Broke her face.”
“And that injury has put my operation in a precarious place. It has come to my attention she is dating a Road Kill MC man.”
“Pfft. So fucking what?”
“Rectify your tone, Mr. Ritchie, or I will have attitude adjusters do it in my stead.”
My face heats, and my fingers tingle with my instant panic.
Fucking cleaners.
“Sorry,” I mumble, opening my mouth to say something else.
“Apology accepted.”
I hate this guy. I also need him.
Taking a sharp inhale, I think through my next statement. “Yeah. We know who the biker is. Ex-cop. Retired. Rides with that bag of dicks.”
“That ʻbag of dicks,ʼ as you call them, are a cunning group—some who happen to be ex-Navy SEAL men. Who do not wish for competition. They’ve systematically culled all the legitimate crime operations from infiltration. They must be taken seriously, Mr. Ritchie.”
Bullshit. “It’s one dude, and my boy Derek put a second hurt on the bitch. Scared the chink shit right outta her.”
I can feel Alexander’s silent disdain across the cell lines.
“Be that as it may,” he finally says, “her level of fear is secondary to the fact that if one of these bikers feels as though their ʻpropertyʼ is threatened, the entire club neutralizes the threat. Does that make sense, Mr. Ritchie?”
My heart thunders, and I rub a slow circle over my chest. After a handful of seconds, I answer, “Yes.”
“We need to eliminate the threat. And we cannot have Miss Temperance killed. That is entirely too conspicuous, too suspicious. We must tarnish her then disappear her. Cast doubt on her character now, so the next step will be believed. Charlotte Temperance is far too aware, and there are too many females in the operation who have similar ties to social workers who actually fulfill their role through our usual means.”
Drugs, coercion, and threats.
Now this, I can handle.
“I’m your man,” I answer instantly. I want to fuck her up. Because that bitch made me look bad. And nobody does that to Lionel Ritchie.
“Don’t let grass grow beneath your feet, Mr. Ritchie. Implement this plan right away, before she deepens whatever tenuous connection she has begun with this ex-cop, now biker. Remove Temperance and insert her in the operation. As I see it, we would not lose any females.”
I wait a beat, then say, “She’s old, Mr. Alexander.”
“Names.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Discard this phone the instant we end the call.”
“I will.”
“You have your marching orders. Her age is not relevant. The females have a shelf life of perhaps five years before they age out. Does she appear young?”
The little bitch does nothing for me personally. Too exotic for my kink.
But I could fuck her. My mind sorts the fifty-two card mental deck, and the image of her is there. Black hair, nice body, different eye color, white skin. If it weren’t for that Asian thing, she wouldn’t be half bad. And she could pass for mid-twenties.
“Young enough,” I finally answer.
“Excellent. Plug her into the operation posthaste, Mr. Ritchie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man.”
That’s a phrase I’ve never been told until just that minute. Because I’m not one. I’m only a good man to Alexander because I’ll do his dirty work.
Hastily, I end the call. Tearing apart the burner, I separate and toss the pieces in different locations.
I extract an old shoebox from beneath my sagging mattress then jerk the lid off. I take out the new burner and plug in Derek’s number.
“Yeah?” he answers on the first ring.
“It’s the snake,” I say.
“And I’m the rattler,” he replies automatically.
“We’ve got a plan.”
I tell him.
And as usual, the money allows for a lot less moral hesitation.
“When?” Derek asks.
“Give me a day.”
He hangs up, and I begin planning. If I don’t get this next part exactly right, I won’t be Alexander’s right hand anymore.
I won’t have a hand. And maybe not a head, either.
Puck
I hit Send and wait.
And wait.
Need to keep reminding myself that Temp is okay. Got to let her get back to working.
I tap my cell in an impatient drumbeat against my thigh.
Got to see her again.
Need to know what the shadow was in her eyes when I held her so tight beneath me, when I was buried in the tight wetness of her body. That haunts me.
I try to bring myself back to the present.
With Noose.
“So ya see, there’s more to Temp than meets the eye.”
“Uh-huh.”
He snaps his fingers in front of my face.
“Sorry, man. I’m zoning.” I drag a hand over my face and cross my feet at the ankle. Tired to the bone.
Noose’s eyebrows cock. He clamps his lips on the butt of his smoke, spreading photos out in front of him. “Can’t get every detail, but it looks like this isn’t the first time Temp’s gotten the beat down on the job. She’s a spitfire and wouldn’t take a squatting piss on you if you were on fire.”
I bark out a laugh. “I don’t know... She seems tamer than that.”
Noose points at me, his words coming out warped because of the cig. “To you maybe—or me—or anyone else who’s running a clean show—but to a kid in danger, Temp can bring out the inner beastie. That can of whoop ass is at the ready.”
“Like with this turd that hurt her.”
Noose nods, mashing the cig in the Road Kill MC ashtray—one of a hundred and two that litter the club—and picks up another file. With a finger, he pushes it across the church table then taps it.
“What I could find is all there.”
I move to take the brownish-orange folder.
Noose flattens his palm on the top. “It’s rough, Puck.”
Our eyes meet, , and dread fills me like rain in a well. “Okay.”
Lifting his palms, Noose stands and taps the ceiling with both hands while that cig smolders between his lips. Noose drops to his heels, lifting a fist.
“Ya need to talk, I’ll be around.”
I bump his fist with mine, and after Noose has left and I have latched the door, I open the fi
le.
Later, much later, I wish I hadn’t.
Puck
Temp of the past
I’m thumbing through an old police report from about eight years ago, composed by a cop who had a flare for writing.
That makes the story worse.
Closing my eyes, I put the jagged pieces of facts together into a makeshift puzzle.
Temp whistles tunelessly as she strolls toward her first job assignment.
She’s so excited that she barely slept the night before.
Last month, Temp moved out of her parentsʼ house. Finally. Lots of exciting stuff going on. Independence, the dream job, finally moving in the direction she wants.
The client’s house isn’t that far from where she lives right now. Her very first check-in on her first client.
Approaching the sidewalk of the flat-roofed, 1950s ranch walk-out, Temp’s instantly impressed with the tightly manicured yard, visible from all sides of the large corner lot.
Temp slows, frowning. Seems odd that this would be a house with a child in need within. Looking through her folder, she confirms the address.
Very weird.
Temp approaches the brilliant-blue front door, which borders on periwinkle, a perfect drop of color in an otherwise-bright-white exterior.
Ringing the doorbell, Temp waits. Still whistling and shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she gazes at her surroundings.
Birds fill the air with their song, and the day is shining with reluctant Pacific Northwest sunshine.
Beautiful, Temp thinks before the door opens.
As she fixes a smile on her face, her lips part in preemptive greeting.
Instead of the planned salutation, she instinctively retreats a step.
A huge man, clean cut to the point of squeaky, snarls a hello.
Startled out of her easy mood she moves to mental alarm. Temp lets training take charge and immediately asks where her charge is. She’s there to remove a ten-year-old female from this house.
The man comes nearer, his entire frame sucking the voids from the open doorway.
Temp’s heart races with the perception of danger, and she grabs for the cell from her back pocket, flipping it open as her finger hovers above the number 9.
She punches in a 9 then 1.
