A couple of Mexicans sit on the hood of a rusty El Camino. They recline as they eat. The one with a buzz cut unlaces mud-caked boots and slides them from his feet. The other stretches out and uses a bunched sweatshirt for a pillow.
The homes surrounding this park have see-through, black wrought iron fences. It gives the illusion of a communal yard. I can’t imagine living in a place so grassy, where I could step out of my clean back yard into such a wide-open, inviting place. Red and blue playground equipment is in the center of an area filled with bark and a little pool of dirty water waits at the bottom of the tallest tunnel slide. There are two baby swings and two regular ones; one of them calls to me. I loved the swing set at my school in Oklahoma. Back when all I had to worry about was staying out of my dad’s way if he was in a mood.
Hayden’s truck. I don’t have time to swing today.
My first thought is that he’s come for me. Then I wonder if he is just leaving the subdivision. I slide down next to my bag and stretch across the bench. If he sees me, he might be obligated to stop. Something about his religion makes him want to fix me, but the Joneses and that detective are right. What possible fellowship can we have? I’m cursed and there is nothing his church can do about that. I don’t want the detective to think of me as a hooker, but I won’t give up the one chance I have to provide for my own freedom. If I’m Kino and freedom is my pearl, then Hayden’s religion is the villagers.
The unmistakable motor settles to a smooth rumble as Hayden coasts through the parking lot. I’m afraid he’ll park and come look for me, afraid he won’t. The motors growls away. I sit high enough to watch the taillights, framed in purple, leave and turn left back into the subdivision.
The Band-Aid in my sneaker pokes out. Figures I would lose my blister barrier on the day I need to be able to walk. I press the unsticky Band-Aid back in place as two pre-teen girls sashay into the park, swaying their childish hips like flags in a gale. Their blush was applied like racing stripes on their cheeks, and silver earrings dangle near, accentuating the metal in their mouths. They look ridiculous in makeup, with their lips puffed out by braces. The girls scan the park…either looking or waiting.
One of the guys from the truck whistles. They giggle and I feel sorry for them. Their minds have not budded in time with their breasts and they think they know what they are doing—that they can handle matches in the dry brush.
The girls continue over to a cement picnic table near the El Camino. One sits on top and leans back in a suntan pose. The other stands over her and casts a shadow. The girls’ laughter works like chum, drawing attention from the sharks with thirty-year-old eyes. Without comment or gesture, the reclining El Camino guy sits up. He scratches stubble on a face that has seen another generation. They start to banter, but I can’t hear the exact words because Hayden drives by again. I pull my sweatshirt hood over my head and scrunch into the bench. His truck leaves the subdivision.
I had better not wait here all day. Thom is not the one to call. Likely, Lorna would answer and refuse to get him for me. The men start to approach the girls. Even though there is a risk that Hayden will drive back through and see me, I cinch both straps of my backpack and hoist Leah’s luggage. The men seem startled at my direct approach.
“Do you have a cell phone I can borrow?” I ask the girls.
“Uhh…”
“It’s a local call, you can dial.”
“Sure.” The leader’s lipstick is a hideous rust-red. They must have pilfered their grandma’s collection.
She flips open her phone and opens doe-like, hazel eyes to me. The distracting, electric-blue eyeliner hides her beauty.
“So what grade are you girls in?”
“Almost eighth.” The darker one, who hasn’t spoken yet, answers. At the same time, the one with the phone blurts, “Tenth.” The girls glare at each other.
Almost? It’s May. “So you’re in seventh this year?” I make a point of meeting the eyes of the men. They casually look around like they weren’t approaching the girls. At least now they won’t be able to say they didn’t know.
I give them Cori’s number. She doesn’t answer, so I set down the paisley bag and ask to try another. The girl nods. It seems the men have lost determination and they meander back toward their car.
The number to the TorchLight is easy to remember. The hard part is believing someone will be there mid-morning on a Sunday.
A man’s voice. “TorchLight Gentleman’s Club.”
“Uh, um, Brody?”
“Speaking.”
“It’s Baby.”
“Well, hello there. Calling to check your schedule?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
He rustles a few papers while I wait and then Brody tells me the days I work. “What are you doing for your day off?”
“Actually, I’m stranded. I could use a ride.” I have to just come out and ask, because the girls are looking a little antsy to get their phone back.
“Where are you?”
I confer back and forth a few times to get location and crossroads from the girls.
“You have your birth certificate and social security card with you?”
“The certificate.”
“I’ll be right there.” He’ll come. Just because I need a ride.
Chapter 17
It isn’t long before Brody’s red Dodge Ram pulls into the parking lot. He doesn’t get out of the truck, just waits for me to figure out how the extended cab door works and stick my suitcase inside. I place my backpack between my feet on the floor of the cab, with my fingers looped through a strap.
“You have a nice truck.” I leave out how ostentatious it feels. Seriously, what is he trying to prove?
“So where do you need to go?”
“I got kicked out of my house.”
“Bummer, girl.” I appreciate the softness in his eyes.
“I need to find an apartment.” And with it, freedom, independence.
“What part of town?” He answers as though it’s a common occurrence to pick up a homeless dancer from a random suburb park.
“Something close to work?” I hate how often I mean for something to come out as a statement, but I accidentally ask a question.
“I’ve got an idea.” He pulls out a manila envelope that feels like it has cardboard in it and hands it to me. “Want to see your pictures?”
“I only took them yesterday.”
“Digital media is fast. Rodrigo printed them on his computer and dropped them off this morning.”
A CD slides out first when I try to dump the contents. I drop it back in and lift several stiff sheets of photo paper. Every sensation, from the vanilla coffee smell to the hot lights, pulls me like a kite. If not for these pictures, I would have nowhere to sleep tonight; because of them, I have a thousand dollar check. They are ‘fab-u-lous.’ I slide them back in the envelope, wishing I could slide under an envelope as easily.
“I’m taking the disk to our designer today. Care if we stop on the way?”
“Sure. Whatever.” It isn’t like I have an option. In all my haste to not be at someone else’s mercy, I’ve done just that.
“Whatever?” He pats my knee and laughs.
I must be making a face because he clarifies. “Just kidding, Baby.”
So it’s the fun Brody I’m with today, the Brody who took me to a benefit for kids. Not the Business Brody, the one who “takes care of his girls” and watches Clint out of the corner of his eye.
“What does Clint do at the TorchLight?” I turn and watch Brody’s face to see if there is any change to indicate he is upset that I asked this. There isn’t anything.
“Who’s Clint?”
“I thought he was an employee, a partner or something.”
“Did he tell you that?” His chuckle is patronizing. “Baby, don’t believe a guy just because he tells you he’s a movie producer or a talent scout.”
I don’t like being the butt of his joke, but I don’t want to mention the
first night I met Clint, because when I think of it, I suddenly regret asking Brody to help me. If Clint hadn’t opened the door at the bottom of the stairs, I’d have been trapped. Who cares what their relationship is?
“Cori and I went out the other night, clubbing.” I wait, wondering if clubbing is the right word or just something Cori made up. “And we hooked up.”
Now Brody’s face shows emotion. Under arched brows, he’s exchanged his puppy dog eyes for the junkyard dog variety. “You did hook up?”
“Yeah, he showed up at the same bar as us.”
“So you went home with him or what?”
“No.” Is that what Clint told him?
“You do know that’s what ‘hooked up’ means?”
I just sit in silence, trying to replay our conversation. “Well, we didn’t hook up that way.” Duh, I have heard that expression before—in high school. I just used a book as blinders most of the time, instead of caring about who was hooking up.
Brody laughs and enjoys it a little too much.
“So you and Clint haven’t…” I know he uses a cuss word to describe the action, but all I hear is Hayden’s voice, “private, between two people.” And that other word he used: “holy.”
“Did you?”
“Um.” Private. “Clint and me?” Between two people. “No.” Holy.
I’m a little disoriented, but I force myself to look up and make eye contact. It isn’t exactly relief on his face, maybe satisfaction.
“I really appreciate the ride.” And I do. Who else would have come just because I needed a ride? I ignore the name shouted in my head. I can’t be responsible for Hayden losing everything. I cannot share this curse with him.
“Not a problem, Baby.” Brody turns on the radio and the song “Rude Boy” plays on the radio. “Do you like Rihanna?” I give him a non-committal shrug. He turns the dial and I’m sure the car next to us can hear the lyrics as well as me. Brody bobs his head with an arrogant grin, like the singer’s invitation is for him. His hand drops onto the headrest behind my neck. At the stoplight, I can tell he is fingering my hair. I pretend not to notice.
Maybe he didn’t come just because I needed a ride.
Brody tailgates every vehicle, cuts corners and runs through yellow lights until we pull into a strip mall, and he parks in front of a New York style deli. My mouth waters at the enlarged pictures of fresh bread and sandwich fixings.
“Want to come into Lucky Signs with me?” Brody points to the store to our left.
Anything would be better than sitting here staring at that food, afraid to spare a couple of dollars on it. I slide down from the seat and close the door. Brody walks away and holds his keyless entry over his shoulder; the truck beeps and he doesn’t even glance back.
I take a few quick steps to catch up and arrive at the door first. Brody steps back to let me stay in front of him. At one time, I might have thought that was nice—before I had every door held for me. I pull on the heavy door and have to shuffle my steps around Brody to get it open. He walks in first.
“You’ll be something of a celebrity in here.”
If I had known that, I might have waited in the car.
“Travis, right?” Brody has on his business face.
The guy behind the counter furiously clicks a mouse and stares at the computer monitor. He looks up. “Mr. Penn.” Travis wears a hooded sweatshirt with slashing letters I can’t read and a picture of a skateboard across the chest. His jeans look like tights. He doesn’t make eye contact with me; he only looks at Brody, so I look away and browse the racks of clothing.
I don’t even know what part of town I’m in. I’m still flitting around, carried by those who have a car, a phone, or a watch. Letting others direct me. I have to focus on the distinguishing characteristics of people and my surroundings.
I turn back and cross my arms. That feels insecure, like I’m hiding my chest—so I put my hands on my hips and stand up straight.
Travis is probably twenty-five years old. He has curly, white-blond hair tucked under a sky blue, backwards baseball cap. A faint scar meanders along his right eyebrow. His patchy, stubbly face makes me question if he can even grow a beard. He has an athletic build and chews his fingernails. If he stands, I’ll try to guess his weight and height compared to Brody’s.
“So you’re the model.”
It catches me off guard, but I quickly smile a stage smile. “That’s me.” Brody looks pleased.
“Let me get my brother.” Travis slides off the bar stool, and I guess his height to be just over Brody’s six feet. “John, get out here.”
I laugh that Travis didn’t go get his brother, just hollered for him. Two other men come in the room, one that shares an obvious resemblance to tall, skinny Travis and another older man who is so very short he looks up at me.
“The TorchLight billboard.” Travis explains. “She’s the model.” They all “ooo” and “ahh” and say how excited they are to have our business.
Travis holds up the disk like he paid the thousand dollars it’s worth. “I’m going to have a lot of fun on this project.” All the guys laugh and joke about how they would love to have me on their computers.
Brody hands each one of them a business card. “If you can get this up in the time frame we discussed, come on in and I’ll hook you up.” He grins at me during the words “hook you up,” like I should enjoy the private joke. “You can have her on more than your computer.”
Heat crawls up my shoulders with eight legs as Brody heads for the door. I follow. The only thing worse than having those men joke about my picture on their computers, not even caring to be introduced, is that I’m pretty sure Brody just promised them all private dances.
The apartment complex where Brody takes me is nicer than what I would have chosen. It isn’t gated, like Cori’s, but it does seem to have a pool and plenty of chic, desert-style landscaping. The entire complex has a beige stucco façade and rose tiles.
“I don’t know if I can afford this.” I hoist my backpack and drag Leah’s—my suitcase.
“Sure you can afford this. And if you want to get a car too, just pick up a couple extra shifts.”
“How far is it from the TorchLight?”
Brody points north. “Maybe a mile.” He lets me hold the door for him again, even though I carry both of my bags.
A woman sits at a light oak desk. Her stomach presses over the tray reaching the keyboard where she types. Blonde streaks start about two inches from her brownish roots.
Even though I’m as tired as she looks, my heart races. How will I be able to get an apartment? Nothing this good happens to me. Who are we kidding? Brody does most of the talking. I hear words like security deposit, co-signer, six-month minimum, prorated, and references. It doesn’t matter, it won’t happen.
She takes a photocopy of Brody’s license and grabs a loop of keys. “First, I’ll show you the one bedroom. Then I’ll show you the studio.”
I start to follow. “Honey, you can leave those bags in the office here.”
“Uh,” I look to Brody.
“She never goes anywhere without her backpack.” He scrunches up his nose like he’s trying not to laugh. If I didn’t know him, it would look flirtatious.
“Well, you don’t have to drag that suitcase around. You can set it over there.” She points to the area behind her desk. There’s a palm-like tree with skinny, twisty arms in a large pot.
“Thanks.”
She holds the door for both of us and then leads us down a walkway edged with pink rocks to a door with a gold 3A on it.
When she opens the door, a chemical aroma greets us. She points out the kitchen area as though I couldn’t see the fridge and sink. I smile at her, but I don’t listen. I know I could never have something like this. She points to the bathroom, but I step around her into the bedroom and glance out the window. Someone walks by the window with a small poodle on a leash.
“How does it look?” It’s just the overweight office ma
nager and me in the freshly painted, white-walled bedroom.
“I actually would prefer something upstairs.” I glance out the window again. I never felt this exposed in the trailer. The thought of sleeping alone in here makes me feel cold, naked. “And actually, I would rather see the studio.” I like the thought of seeing every corner of my apartment at once, instead of wondering if someone is waiting behind a door.
She smiles but I don’t believe it. “No problem.”
When we walk into the studio, I see my new home. At least I want it to be. My hands shake a little and I grasp my backpack straps. This is perfect. The carpet looks a little worn, but it’s the same dark brown as Thom and Lorna’s. There is only one door, which is ajar. From my vantage at the entry, I can see every corner. Linoleum separates the kitchenette area, and there is room for a little two-person table by the east-facing window.
“I could sit in the morning sun.”
The lady’s smile is genuine. “And the good thing about an east window is you won’t get the hot afternoon sun.”
Brody waits by the front door. He is so good to help me with this. “Will this work for ya?” He crosses his arms and stands feet planted apart like a guard.
Brody. My feelings for him swing like a child at the playground. One minute I’m high, only the sky above me—the next I’m falling back, with my heart in my throat. But really, I should thank him. He gave me a job, twice in fact. He’s helping me find a place to live. I should stop relying on sensations and look at what he has actually done for me. My freedom may have come through him, but it’s coming. I nod, giving him an expression that shows how badly I want it.
“Let’s sign papers.” He steps outside.
When I reenter the studio, it’s my apartment. Thankfully, Brody had to get back to work. After I lock the door, I inspect the bathroom to make sure I’m completely alone. Brody took back the check he’d given me yesterday, as well as six-hundred of my cash. Then he wrote a new check to the Manzanita Heights apartment complex. I owe him about a week’s wages which includes the thirty-five dollar credit check fee, but I have a key in my hand. A-key-in-my-hand, sparkling bright silver against my skin.
Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) Page 13
