Dirty Deeds

by Lauren Landish

  She blushes, seeming pleased, but laughs lightly. “I don’t think for a second that you were watching me sling beer when there are nearly-naked women swinging on poles right in front of your face.”

  I laugh and glance over. “Day one—a pink backpack with a daisy hanging on it. You wore your hair down, curled, and had too much makeup. We shook hands, and I remember that you had hands that were baby smooth.”

  “You notice and remember a lot,” Maggie says quietly. “What else?”

  I smile, remembering. “You wobbled on your high heels, and the first night you were nervous, never looking at the stage once but doing a surprisingly decent job waiting tables. By the end of the first weekend, you learned to pull your hair up. It shows off your neck and makes me want to bite it, but I’m guessing it’s more to do with how hard you work. You lightened up on the makeup, playing up your big eyes and assuming a young bubblegum airhead persona that is complete bullshit. The customers didn’t know, but we all knew you were a smart girl. Innocent, sure, but smart as a fucking whip. And you learned how to strut in your heels perfectly, your ass swishing this way and that. Yeah, I’ve been watching you every damn day, Angel.”

  “Oh.” Her voice is softly high-pitched, surprise written clearly on her face as her eyebrows raise high on her forehead. “I had no idea. I mean, I noticed you too, hard not to with your whole . . . you going on,” she says as she moves her hands about, encompassing my whole body, “But I knew the rules and figured if you were going to break them, it wouldn’t be for someone like me.”

  I reach across the console, grabbing a handful of her thigh and squeeze gently. “If I’m gonna break the rules, it’s only gonna be for someone like you.”

  She bites her lip, like she’s not sure what to do with that answer, the glimpse of white making me want her teeth on me, marking my chest and neck. “So, what’s your story?” she finally asks, trying to get her balance back. “You usually go around playing hero? I know you don’t have any tights on underneath those jeans, and there’s no S on your chest.”

  There’s interest in her lightly playful tone, but also a bit of worry, and I know she’s thinking about our situation. Happy to distract her, I try to give her an edited version of my life, one that won’t cause us more problems.

  “Well, I guess I do have some hero tendencies, but not usually to this extreme, admittedly. My dad was a real hero. He went to Vietnam right before the US pulled out, and when he got back, he became a cop in the small town I was born in.”

  “Vietnam?” Maggie asks. “What, are you the youngest of the kids or something?”

  “No, it took him awhile after he got back to feel he was ready to have kids. He was older than Mom too. He was almost forty and she was only twenty-six when they got married. Still, he was a good role model, taught me right from wrong, and I grew up always wanting to make him proud.”

  She lays her hand on mine where it rests on her thigh, holding it tenderly. “I’m sure he would be. You’re definitely my hero. Maybe after all this is over, you can tell him how you saved me from a mob hit and the resulting war?” She says it jokingly, like she’s trying to make the monster less scary by laughing at how ridiculous it sounds, but the underlying fear is obvious. “I’m sure he would love this story, on the run but not sure yet exactly who we’re running from.”

  I sigh wistfully, shaking my head. “He died about five years ago. He would have liked the story, and I know he would have liked you. I tell myself he’s my guardian angel now.”

  Without thinking, I salute the way I always do, lifting my hand from her leg to bring two fingers to my lips and then raising them toward the sky. “Thanks, Pop.”

  My hand goes right back to Maggie’s thigh and hers goes right back on top of mine. It’s comfortable, and I ponder just how strange it feels that a gesture that’s only been in my life for about three or four minutes feels like I couldn’t go the rest of my life without it.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she says softly, with genuine regret that she won’t get to meet him. “He sounds like a great dad. What about your mom?”

  I smile, keeping my eyes on the road. “She’s great too. After Pop died, she didn’t let it get her down. They talked about that, and they agreed that she should do what makes her happy. So she sold the house and bought a little condo in a nice building. She works as a secretary at an elementary school. She says the kids keep her young, even though she’s not all that old, really. I’m one of the lucky ones.” Feeling like the storyline of my history might be getting into dangerous territory, like how the son of a war vet police officer ended up working door security in a mob-owned strip club, I turn the questions back to Maggie. “What about you? What’s your family like?”

  Maggie’s lips screw up a bit, and she hums quietly before answering. “Well, not as picturesque as yours, but they’re good. My parents divorced when I was little, so I bounced back and forth between their houses, but it was an amicable divorce at least, not some made-for-TV drama deal. I see them both regularly, talk to my mom almost every Sunday on the phone.”

  “How’d you end up waitressing at Petals?”

  I can feel her retreat, like a physical removal of her warmth even though she hasn’t moved. “Oh, I’ve done a lot of moving around, this job and that. Waitressing is something I did when I was younger, so it seemed like a good way to make some money.”

  She’s lying. I can tell this time, but I can’t put my finger on how I know. Her tone doesn’t change, her face is neutral, her body relaxed. And that worries me. This girl, innocent as she may seem, is lying, and she’s good at it. Really fucking good at it.

  Wanting to tease out what she’s lying about, I pick at her answer, keeping it casual and teasing her a little. “This and that? Tell me, what has an Angel like you done before becoming a strip club waitress?”

  She smiles, but it’s her fake one, too much teeth and not enough eyes. It’s a dazzling smile still, but I guess when you’ve made a woman come and then made her deep-throat you, you get to see a lot of what her eyes can reveal. “Well, I’ve been a barista, a secretary, a copy girl, a waitress, a nanny, and a personal assistant. It’s not quite the Village People, but finding a construction job is really difficult at my size.”

  Her list sounds real and honest, and I wonder where the lie was in her previous response, thinking maybe it was something else she was lying about. Maybe it was the moving? Or the money? A lie of omission, maybe?

  Before I can ask more follow-ups, she redirects us to the current problem at hand. “What do you think is going on back at the club?”

  I know pressing her more isn’t going to get any results, so I decide to go with the flow. “I don’t know. I’ve got a guy looking into it for us. I’ll check in with him in the morning, see what he’s heard.”

  “You’ve ‘got a guy’?” Maggie asks, lifting an eyebrow. “Seriously? That even sounds like we’ve jumped into the middle of a mob movie. How in the heck did we end up here? I mean, how’d you get in touch with this guy?”

  “Burner phone in my bag,” I admit. “The phone’s off for now, just in case. But I’ll check in, and we’ll see what he’s hearing back home.”

  She looks at me with calculating eyes, and I’m reminded once again just how smart she is and how careful I need to be with her. “So, on a moment’s notice, you snatched me up, switched vehicles to a nondescript sedan that you knew would be waiting in that lot, have a duffle bag packed with at least one day’s worth of clothes, cash, and a burner phone, took us to a no-tell motel, and now we’re headed to another safe location, and you ‘have a guy’? That about sum it up?”

  Fuck. She’s putting a bunch of shit together pretty damn fast, and it does sound like a fucking action movie script. Scrambling, I try to stay calm and put her on the defensive, a tactic that usually works on most folks. I laugh heartily, not taking my eyes off the road as if I’m not concerned. “Well, when you put it all together like that . . . you’re welcome, Angel. You p
lanning to say thank you on your knees too? Because that was a damn fine apology this morning.”

  She doesn’t take the bait, sidestepping the crude, and honestly rude, comment. “Who are you, Shane? You said you’re not one of Dominick’s guys, not in the mob. But it sounds like . . . are you tied up in all of this?”

  I grit my teeth, growling as I clench the steering wheel a little tighter and hoping it’ll scare her into backing the fuck off. “All you need to know is that you’re safe.”

  As we’ve talked, her curled knees had fallen loosely to her left, toward me, but at my harsh words, she pulls away. Her knees are once again clenched tight to her chest in a protective posture. She half turns away, her back mostly to me as she faces the window, her eyes unfocused as the scenery flies by.

  It hurts, honestly. I was enjoying talking to her, but I need to keep her from probing in areas that she shouldn’t. I realize I likely hurt her feelings, and that despite her brains and sass, she’s got a vulnerable side too. Unable to reach her thigh, I rest my hand on the back of her neck, squeezing lightly, comforting and not threatening, I hope. “Maggie, you’re safe, and I promise to keep you that way. That’s all you need to know right now.”

  She doesn’t answer, doesn’t even acknowledge that I’ve spoken. I turn my attention back to the road, knowing I should give her space. Hell, I should give myself some space to figure out how to handle this, handle her. Fuck, that doesn’t even sound right. Maggie’s a grown ass woman with her own mind. She shouldn’t be ‘handled’. She should be respected, but the situation makes my caveman instincts come out and all I want to do is protect her.

  As my thoughts swirl, I leave my hand where it is, drawing small lines up and down her neck with my thumb, soothing her anger, her fear, even if some of it is my fault.

  If I’m honest with myself, having her satin skin under my palm calms me too, and that’s a fucking problem.

  Chapter 15

  Maggie

  We drive for hours, only stopping for a bathroom break at a truck stop with a burger joint attached to it. We take the burgers and fries to go, along with some snacks and an odd assortment of cheap undies, a pack of socks, and some souvenir T-shirts so that I can have clothes, and keep driving. It’s quiet for a long time, neither of us willing to give in to the stalemate.

  He hurt me, and he knows it. I can feel his remorse, but I’m not ready to forgive and he hasn’t apologized. Eventually, Shane turns on the radio and music fills the car. It’s nothing much, just the regular late-night stuff you get on Top 40 stations, some slow songs mixed in with oldies and a few tunes for the young lovers who might want some mood music. After a bit, I hear him humming along with an old Green Day song, even singing softly under his breath. It’s nice. I can tell he has a good voice, deep and mellow with a raw emotion to it that tells me he actually knows this song.

  As the chorus begins, he gets louder, and I look over at him, enjoying the mindless way he’s getting into it. It feels like a peek into the real him somehow. Without saying anything, I join in, singing along with the radio and Shane, a trio of voices filling the car.

  “I’ve never heard anyone out-sing the original,” I say as the guitar music fades and I wonder if September ever really is going to end for us. “You’re pretty good.” It’s an olive branch, making the first move to break the silence between us and I’m curious if he’ll take it or shut me out again.”

  Shane looks over at me, a small smile tilting the corners of his lips. “Dad loved this song. He always thought that even though it wasn’t written about the 9/11 bombings or the Iraq war, that it spoke to him. He never was into what we did there.”

  “But he was a cop.”

  Shane nods, shrugging. “Dad was more Andy Griffith than Criminal Minds. He was the cop people came to for advice, the cop who’d walk into a domestic disturbance without his gun and get everyone calmed down. He always told me that he saw too much of the evil men could do to each other in Vietnam and he didn’t want to add to it. So the first time he heard that song, it stuck with him.”

  It’s not a truce. There are too many questions unanswered for that. But it’s a pause on the inquisition, a recognition that whatever is going on and whoever he is, we can sing along as we run. And that there’s something between us, something building. It doesn’t have to be adversarial. Goodness knows, we’ve all got secrets, and maybe I shouldn’t judge him too harshly considering the one I’m still holding close to my heart.

  By dawn, we pull over to check into another sketchy motel. Shane apologizes for the seedy accommodations as we pull in, explaining why. “Folks around here aren’t as likely to remember us and definitely aren’t as likely to talk. They don’t want anyone or anything putting attention on their own lives.”

  “Whatever. I just need a clean bed, not a five-star fancy place,” I reply, trying to put a positive spin on things. “So, I guess no free continental breakfast?”

  Shane laughs. “We’ll be in bed during breakfast hours anyway.”

  My thoughts flash back to this morning in bed and how Shane and I had sex . . . kind of. Wow, was that just this morning? It seems so long ago, time both speeding by like a rocket and dragging like my ass after an all-nighter.

  Once we’re in the room, Shane pulls the curtains closed and then plops on the bed, lying back and closing his eyes as he stretches out. “You can take a shower first. I gotta work this tightness out of my back before I do anything.”

  He looks yummy as a bowl of peanut butter fudge, and I long to lick the sliver of his abdomen that shows where his shirt rides up. But I haven’t forgotten his earlier words, even if we have ridden in relative civility for the last few hours. “Call your guy.”

  He opens one eye, giving me a semi-amused, semi-angry look. “No.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, giving him all the glare that I can muster. Which, considering the difference in our sizes, probably isn’t much, but by gosh, I’m gonna try. “Call. Your. Guy. Find out what’s happening back home.”

  I can see that he’s trying to think of an argument to get out of this, some way to reason with me, but he settles on being an ass.

  “No. Take a shower. I’ll call, and we’ll see what he says.”

  Knowing that sometimes, retreat is the finest form of strategy, I acquiesce. “Fine.”

  Grabbing the micro-sliver of cheap soap off the vanity and missing even the luxury of tiny bottles of cheap shampoo and conditioner, I stomp into the bathroom, closing and locking the door before turning on the water. Instead of stripping off my clothes, though, I put my skills and my strategy to use, listening intently at the door.

  I hear Shane dig around in his bag, and then an unmistakable start-up song as he turns the burner phone on. I can only hear his side of the conversation, but it’s enough for now. “Hey, Chucky. What do you got for me?”

  There’s silence for a moment, and I assume Chucky must be giving Shane some type of update. “So, he’s a ghost? Probably wishful thinking to hope he left town straight from the job. What about us? Heard anything about my girl, Ma–Meghan?”

  A zing goes to my heart when he calls me that. His girl. I like that, even if I know there’s more to him than meets the eye. He’s hiding something, but at his core, he’s a good guy. I’m sure of it.

  His girl. It makes me smile.

  My sweet musings are abruptly stopped when I hear Shane start cursing. “Fuck. What the hell should we do then? She’s got people who are gonna fucking notice if she goes missing.”

  Missing? I think back to our conversation in the car and wonder again if Shane is a mob guy. I try to think it through. Is he lying about being Dominick’s guy?

  If so, why would he run with me? Or maybe he’s not running with me? Maybe he’s kidnapped me for Dominick and is making it seem like I need to run so that I’m a cooperative and stupid victim?

  But to what end? If Dominick wanted me dead, Shane could’ve done that multiple times already. We’ve been driving on some l
onely stretches of highway, and he could’ve dumped my body along any of them and I likely wouldn’t have even been found.

  Or he could be Sal’s guy? Protecting his boss, or heck, maybe taking me to his boss?

  But Shane has been protective. I at least know that and truly believe that’s real. He wants to keep me safe, not turn me over to a mob boss to be handled like a witness in some B-grade movie. He’s even bordered on the near-obsessive sometimes, not allowing me to go into the convenience stores at gas stops without him escorting me, even if it’s just to pee.

  No, I don’t think Shane’s a gangster, even if he’s worked for gangsters. There’s more going on, and I’m going to have to stay on my toes since Shane is hiding what that is, but I trust him. Lord help me, I’m listening to my gut and heart more than my brain, but that’s what I’m going with.

  I hear him wrap up the call with Chucky and quickly hop in the shower, wetting my hair and scrubbing my body as fast as possible. Luckily, the soap is barely better than rubbing sand all over my skin and I’ve got plenty of reasons to hurry it up. As I emerge from the steamy bathroom, Shane walks past me, his face hard, jaw clenched.

  I open my mouth to say something, not even sure what, but he simply shuts the door in my face and I hear the water start back up again for his shower. I pull on the same tank from last night and clean panties and sit down on the bed, fighting the urge to lie back on the scratchy sheets. “Not this time,” I promise myself softly. “I have to stay awake. We have to talk. There are too many questions that need to be answered.”

  It takes Shane awhile, though, and I’m lying down by the time the bathroom door opens. Shane is quiet, tip-toeing to put his clothes over the chair before carefully sliding into bed behind me. Still, he can sense the tension in my body as he lies down, and he props himself up to whisper, “You awake?”

  I turn to face him, curling up on my side as he lies on his back. “Yes. What did Chucky say?”