Where One Goes

by B. N. Toler

  Anna cuts him a look that says many things at once; You’re being naughty, but I like it, but you should stop. “You do realize this is the only place you could ever work where the females would tolerate your behavior, don’t you?” She purses her lips.

  “I have been bad,” Sniper answers and grins. “I need to be spanked. Think you could help me out?”

  “All right,” George interjects loudly. “Time for you to return to the kitchen where I can hide you from the world.”

  Sniper pouts his bottom lip. “It was fun dancing with you, little lady.” He bows like a gentleman to River and she blushes, much like her mother.

  “You, too,” River giggles.

  Sniper makes his way into the kitchen and Anna takes River’s hand. “Time to go, bird.”

  “I want to dance to Elvis some more!”

  “Not today.”

  “Next time,” I promise. “I’ll play you another Elvis song. Okay?”

  “Okay,” River huffs.

  “See you tomorrow, guys,” Anna calls as River drags her out the door.

  George holds his hand out to me. “What?” I ask; confused. Is he asking me to dance? My heart beats rapidly at the thought. Should I say yes? No, probably not. But I kind of want to say yes. Why do I want to say yes?

  “My sunglasses.” He clears his throat.

  Oh.

  Now I feel stupid. A heat comparable to volcanic lava blankets my face. Why would he want to dance with you, Charlotte? He hates you. Slipping the glasses off, I hand them to him, refusing to meet his gaze.

  “Sorry. I needed them for proper effect.”

  “I need some help stocking liquor.” He turns and walks back into the kitchen.

  “Okaayyy . . .” I say, cutting a glance to Ike.

  “He’s got a stick stuck up his ass.” Ike laughs. “Always Mr. Business.”

  I head to the back exit where George has the door held open with a trash can. A small, black truck is backed up to the door and he’s pulling boxes to the tailgate. Stepping down, I grab the first box I reach. It’s opened, with eight bottles of various liquors divided by cardboard set inside.

  “These boxes are heavy,” George notes.

  “I think I can handle it,” I say, snidely. What does he think? That I’m a wuss? He takes his box and heads in and I follow behind. The box is actually pretty heavy, but I’ll never admit it. When I enter the doorway to the kitchen, I forget about the last step I took when I exited, and trip. A more graceful person might have caught themselves on their knees, but this is me we’re talking about. As I tumble down, I pull the box against me and twist, attempting to land on my back and save the bottles, but mid-twist I realize my effort has been in vain. I flail my arms, trying to catch my footing . . . which I don’t. In the end, I’m on the floor, soaked in liquor, lying on broken glass.

  “Holy shit! Are you okay?” Ike asks as he kneels down beside me. His brown eyes look panicked. I can tell it’s killing him not to be able to help me.

  “What the fuck?” Sniper had run from behind the line when he heard the bottles crash to the ground. “Jesus, love. Are you okay?”

  Am I? I take a quick inventory. My hands seem fine. Sniper offers me a hand and pulls me up. I brush the broken shards of glass from my legs and turn my back to Sniper.

  “Did I get it all?”

  “What the hell happened?” George gripes as he approaches. “This is like four hundred dollars’ worth of liquor.” I cringe. Of course it was. Damn my clumsiness and lack of coordination.

  “I tripped. I’m so sorry,” I apologize sincerely.

  “What a dick. He talks about money before asking if you’re all right.” Ike shakes his head in disappointment.

  “Uh, love.” Sniper taps my shoulder. “You’ve got a nasty cut on your arse here.”

  “What?” I ask, twisting my neck, trying to see my ass. Blood trickles down my leg and at the sight of it, I feel the cut. Rubbing across my butt cheek, I find the spot where the fabric of my shorts are ripped and feel the warm fluid. “Shit!” I grumble.

  “Want me to take a look at it?” Sniper rubs his palms together, a mischievous grin on his face.

  “I’ll go to the motel and take care of it,” I say.

  “It’s bleeding pretty badly, Charlotte. You need to seal it up. It might need stitches,” Ike says, as he stares at my ass.

  “I’ll take you to the doctor and workmen’s comp will pay for it,” George bitches. He’s pissed. First, I destroy eight bottles of liquor, and now his workmen’s comp premium will go up.

  “No. I’ll take care of it.” I shake my head. “Can you get me a broom, Sniper?” I ask as I survey my path of destruction.

  “I’ll clean it up,” Sniper insists. “You’re bleeding all over the bloody place.”

  “Either one of us is cleaning that cut and sealing it with something before you leave, or I’m taking you to the hospital. The last thing I need is for that shit to get infected,” George adds.

  “I’m soaked in liquor,” I point out. “I don’t think infection will be an issue.”

  “You’re bleeding all over my floor. Sniper or me. Make a choice.”

  I look down and see the back of my leg covered in red, my white sock soaked in blood.

  Shit!

  George and Charlotte enter his office and he shuts the door behind them. Charlotte cuts me a look that says: You are not watching this!

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” I laugh. “If he gets to see your ass, then so do I.”

  She glares.

  I laugh more.

  “Okay, tell me to leave. Say it out loud. Say, Ike, I want you to leave this room.” She narrows her eyes in frustration. She can’t say it because of George. “No? Nothing? You want me to stay, huh? Okay. You’ve convinced me. I’m staying.”

  George plops down in the office chair and pulls out the first-aid kit from the file cabinet, fumbling through it for a minute. He pivots the chair so that he’s facing the desk. “You wanna lean over the desk?” he asks, avoiding eye contact with Charlotte who is bright red. It’s adorable.

  She quietly makes her way to the desk and turns her back to him, her ass level with his face. He stares at it a moment . . . a moment too long and Charlotte says, “It won’t bite, George.”

  He clears his throat and rolls his eyes. As if she’ll shatter at his touch, his fingers feather across the material of her shorts where it’s ripped, delicately pulling back the material so he can view the cut better. “How the hell did you cut your ass, but not your hands or knees?”

  “I’m talented in the arts of clumsiness. I’m a sensei, really,” she retorts and he chuckles.

  “I think you’re going to have to pull these down, Charlotte.”

  “No fucking way!” she almost shrieks as she straightens to a stand. “I’m not putting my bare ass in your face, George.”

  “I can’t see the full cut.” George leans back, fighting the grin that wants to break out across his face. “You’re going to have to pull them down.”

  “Yes! Yes! There is a God! Thank you!” I exclaim. Charlotte purses her lips, but I’m not sure if it’s at George, or me, or both of us.

  “Seriously?”

  “We’re both adults here,” George assures her. “I’ve seen a woman’s ass before.”

  “You better not tell anyone about this!” she grits out as she undoes the button of her shorts.

  “I don’t think anyone would believe me,” George laughs as he runs a wide palm down his face. I know he’s acting like he’s just doing this to mend her cut, but he’s going to enjoy this as much as me. Charlotte has an ass that makes a man want to slap it. Even a dead man. George’s knee shakes and it dawns on me how fucked up this situation is. My brother and I are both getting a chub by watching a girl pull her shorts down.

  Charlotte wiggles her shorts down, hissing as the waist slides over her cut, until they’re just past the curve of her cheeks before bending over the desk, arching her
back so her rear sticks up slightly. The room is dead silent. Even though she’s facing away from us, I know she did this on purpose by the way her lips are curved. She’s trying to torture us. It’s working. George’s lack of breathing is definitely noticeable. Her right cheek has a rather large gash on it, but even so, her ass looks amazing. And . . . she’s wearing a G-string.

  George scoots up in his chair, attempting to adjust his hard-on without being obvious. This situation is all kinds of fucked up. I should probably leave because Charlotte might be uncomfortable, but . . . no. That’s not happening.

  “Is it bad?” Charlotte places her forehead to the desk; embarrassed.

  George takes out some antiseptic wipes and says, “This is going to sting a little.” With that, he begins to rub around the area before dabbing the cut itself. As soon as the wipe makes contact with her wound, she hisses and lurches forward; her body tensing. George just stares at her ass. Jesus Christ, we’re some sick fucks. Why was that so fucking hot? I know he’s thinking it, too. He’s my twin. I can read him like an open book.

  “It fucking stings!” Charlotte bites out as she pushes her ass back out, almost daring the pain to return.

  “Sorry,” George finally manages, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  In hopes of easing her discomfort, at least mentally, I decide to torture her back by joking with her. “I’m really enjoying this, by the way, Charlotte,” I note and she tenses, clenching her fist. I love seeing her become all fire and feisty.

  “Okay. Let me try something,” George says. When he applies the wipe again, he blows gently on her flesh. Her skin immediately pebbles with goose bumps.

  “Will it leave a scar?” Charlotte murmurs with her eyes clenched closed.

  “Why? You got a lot of people looking at your bare ass?” I ask.

  “I think I can use some butterfly bandages to close it, and just place gauze over it. We’ll need to check it and clean it once a day,” George mumbles. “Maybe with some Neosporin the scar will be minimal.”

  “We?” Charlotte snorts. “I don’t think so.” Just then, George pokes her cut, making her yelp.

  “Sorry,” he says, lacking sincerity. He did it on purpose. George makes quick work of cleaning the wound, applying ointment to it, and then he butterflies it and tapes the gauze on top. “There you go. I’d remove the gauze when you shower.” He slides his chair back and fumbles in the first-aid box, but I see him watching her as she slides her shorts back up. Dirty, rotten bastard. I shake my head and chuckle silently to myself. He’s just like me.

  “Well, despite how incredibly awkward that was, I appreciate your help.” Charlotte turns and smiles faintly.

  “You’re welcome.” George nods and stands, tossing the first-aid kit on the desk.

  “Guess I need to go and change. Do you mind if I wear a jean skirt? These were my only black shorts.”

  “No, that’s fine. You can take the rest of the day off, if you want,” George offers.

  “No. I need the money,” Charlotte quickly adds. “I’ll be back in twenty.”

  “Thanks for staying to add to that completely mortifying moment, Ike,” I moan as we drive to the motel.

  “Charlotte,” Ike says, simply. “I’m dead. I have so little true happiness. Don’t feel embarrassed. Feel good you’ve given a dead man a small glimpse of heaven.”

  I narrow my eyes and glance sideways at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

  After I get to the motel, I wash off quickly, slipping on my jean skirt, and making it back to the restaurant in twenty minutes. The afternoon is slow and George seems to be hiding away in his office. I’m not sure if he’s hiding from me, or maybe he’s back there snorting drugs or getting drunk.

  The uneventful afternoon tapers into the evening and Misty appears looking refreshed.

  “She’s high,” Ike notes when he sees her.

  She doesn’t speak to me as she busies herself preparing the bar for the night shift. Fine by me. Like I care. Sniper introduces me to two of the other cooks, Greg and Winston. Greg is a tall, black man with a stellar white smile and Winston is a thin, pasty-faced man with cornrows. They both greet me and we share the typical pleasantries of introduction. Two other servers show up around five, Peyton and Libby—the charming pair are brother and sister.

  “So you’re the new girl?” Peyton grins as his eyes run up and down my body.

  “That’s me¸” I reply awkwardly as my face heats from his very obvious perusal.

  “Please ignore my brother,” Libby says, as she rolls her eyes at Peyton. “He’s twenty-one and still hasn’t finished puberty.” When I laugh out loud, I immediately turn away from them and try to stop when I see Peyton glare at his sister.

  “Apparently every man in town is going to have the hots for you,” Ike notes gruffly as he stares at Peyton.

  When my gaze darts to him briefly, he’s standing with his signature McDermott stance—arms crossed—and his mouth is in a tight line. Is he jealous?

  Ignoring Ike’s statement, I make small talk with the siblings until the dinner crowd begins to trickle in. The night is pretty busy, and I keep making a point to check on George, wondering if my plan was a bad idea. I’ve been expecting some sort of event tonight, but so far there’s been nothing. After we close down, George tells me I’m scheduled for the lunch shift tomorrow and sends me on my way. As I head out to my car, Misty is leaning against my hood, one leg crossed over the other, smoking a cigarette as if she hasn’t a care in the world.

  “Did you need something, Misty?” I ask with an I-don’t-give-a-shit tone.

  “This is your truck?” she asks, glancing back at it.

  “It is,” I admit as I cross my arms and cock my head. What the hell does she want? Momentarily, I wish Ike were here, but I wonder if maybe she knows what I’ve done, and I don’t want Ike to know about that just yet.

  Exhaling her last drag, she flicks her cigarette onto the parking lot and stands to her full height. She’s an attractive woman, but you can tell life’s had its way with her. She looks way older than she is, and just plain mean. There’s no softness to her, not from what I can see, and I wonder why George would even give her the time of day. Maybe he thinks he doesn’t deserve better. That thought makes me incredibly sad. For the most part, George has been a major dick to me, but I know there’s good in him. I’ve seen it.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot,” she begins, and it takes all of my strength not to roll my eyes at her.

  “Is that so?” I ask.

  “Maybe we won’t be friends, but I’d like us to be amicable to one another.” I want to exhale a huge breath of relief, realizing she apparently doesn’t know about the letter. I’m not sure what to say to her. I know she hates me every bit as much as I hate her, but I decide to just roll with it. Maybe it’ll make working together somewhat tolerable.

  “Sounds good to me.” I nod and head to the driver’s side door of my 4Runner, but I stop, noticing Misty standing in front of my vehicle, eyeing my license plate.

  “Oklahoma, eh?”

  “Yep,” I answer, quickly becoming increasingly suspicious of her. She’s memorizing my license plate. Does she know someone that could look it up? It doesn’t matter, I’m no criminal. She can look all she wants. “Would you like a pen to write it down, Misty?” I ask sweetly, and her eyes jerk to mine as she glares, but she quickly composes herself and smiles.

  “Your tags are expired,” she notes.

  “Yeah, thanks for that,” I say, sardonically. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Just then, a huge truck pulls up and my eyes just about pop out of their sockets. It’s Roger’s truck. When I left my letter on his windshield under a wiper, I had no doubt it was his. After all, the license plate did say ‘ROGERZ’ on it. “That your boyfriend?” Did he get the letter I left him? Shit. Is he here for George?

  “Roger’s out of town, bowhunting. Won’t be back for a few days,” she answers as she walks toward the truck.
“That’s his brother. His truck broke down so he’s using Roger’s, and my car has a flat.”

  Without another word to me, she climbs in the truck and they pull out of the parking lot. Shit! Did the brother get the letter? Will he tell Roger or Misty about it? As I climb into my truck, Ike appears in the passenger seat.

  “You okay?” he asks, taking in the sight of me. The truth: Hell no. I had a plan and now it’s all gone to shit and I have no idea what to expect. Dear God, I silently pray, please don’t let George get hurt. I was only trying to help. Amen.

  “Yeah.” I swallow hard and start the truck. “I’m fine.” For now, anyway.

  Ginger tells me not to worry about starting on cleaning the rooms until my first day off, stating she doesn’t want to overwhelm me and I’m already paid up, thanks to the Mercers, through the end of the week.

  After I work my lunch shift, I head back to the motel and almost orgasm at the thought of taking a shower and crawling in bed. And I do just that. The restaurant closes early on Sundays so everyone is off tonight.

  “Lie down with me, Ike,” I order him.

  “Careful, baby girl. You might get so used to it you won’t be able to sleep without me,” he jokes as he morphs to lie beside me. He’s on his back, his hands behind his head as I turn toward him. He has a perfect profile, strong jaw, and straight nose.

  “Can I ask you something?” I inquire.

  He smiles and turns his head toward me. “Do you want me to take a look at that cut on your ass? Make sure it’s not infected?”

  I roll my eyes, fighting the urge to smile. “Never mind,” I reply in a huff as I flop back, feigning annoyance.

  “No. Ask away,” Ike insists, and I roll back toward him.

  “Were you with . . . ?” God, why in the hell am I asking him this?

  “Was I with . . . ?”

  “I mean . . . were you with a lot of women when you were alive?”

  His eyes dart back to the ceiling and he sighs. “I wouldn’t say a lot, but there were girls. Why do you ask?”

  “Were you ever in love?”

  Ike snorts. “Define love.”