by Lindy Zart
The thought produces a smirk, but it soon leaves. I was an asshole to Graham when I first saw him a few months ago. The intention of going to Wisconsin was to bond with my half-brother before taking off for Australia, and instead, I tried to steal his unofficial girl—and I’m still in the United States. Go figure.
Part of me wanted Graham and me to get along, but then, a larger part blamed him for shit from our childhoods that wasn’t his fault. I was antagonistic. Possibly out of line. I smirk. Definitely out of line.
As a child, I wanted someone to protect me from our father, and Graham needed to protect himself. He was my big brother, my idol, and he disappeared. He got to leave; I never did. It was a hard truth to accept, but he was just a kid trying to survive bad circumstances, same as me. He didn’t deserve the way I treated him a few months ago, but I like to think I was the catalyst to future good things. Namely, he and Kennedy finally hooking up.
I toss my bag on the closest bed and something thumps to the floor. Frowning, I search the bed and the tan carpet, but don’t see anything amiss. The room has a small television on a dresser with a mirror, and the image that looks back from the reflective glass is haggard and bleak. It isn’t just lack of sleep that is screwing with me—it’s where I’m heading. Literally, maybe spiritually, who the hell knows? I’m driving to somewhere, but I really feel like I’m driving to nowhere. Story of my life.
I viciously rub my eyes and drop my hands, waiting for the woman to allow common sense to enter her thick head. I understand not wanting obligations to another—my motto is to keep my distance from all other human beings in order to stamp out responsibilities of any kind—but this is ridiculous. If she wants to endanger herself on her own time, fine, but it isn’t happening while she’s with me. Three minutes tick off the clock on the nightstand between the beds, and my patience leaves when it enters the fourth.
It seems I can’t wait all that long.
With blood simmering through my veins and eradicating all hints of a good-natured disposition, I stalk to the door and fling it open, not bothering to shut it as I prowl toward the Ford. I swear I can see the sun peeking up from some distant hill, laughing at me for attempting to get rest before it marks a new day. My brain pulses for nicotine, alcohol, anything, really, to dull the emotions. I hate feeling. I hate caring. I hate my addictions. Some days, I hate me. I hate that I crave anything I can never have if I want to have any semblance of control over my life.
Because it’s such a perfect one and I’d hate to mess it up.
I grip the door handle, it feeling like sharp ice against my skin, and swing open the truck door. She didn’t even lock the doors, a detail that kicks my body temperature up another ten degrees. Senseless, reckless, foolish—I stop there, deciding it is better to not list all her faults if I want to be able to look at her without exploding.
“You,” I rumble in a voice I don’t recognize, and then words fail me when I actually look at her. The anger slides away, and my chest releases some of its tautness. She looks like a kid. A helpless, vulnerable, lost kid.
She faces me, her hands tucked under her cheek as she sleeps. Lips slightly parted, the tiniest of creases line her wide forehead. Her diminutive form looks cramped, contracted into a sitting-up pose with her knees tucked to her chest. Even in sleep, she hugs her grimy pink backpack. Her eyelashes aren’t particularly long, but they’re thick and dark. Dainty fans across her sun-bronzed skin. She looks frail in the dark, the moon adding hollows beneath her cheekbones, and softness to her prominent chin.
Beautiful she is not, and yet, there is no denying the charm of her features.
Leaning into the truck, I scoop her and her bag into my arms. She tenses for an instant, and then, as if subconsciously knowing I mean her no harm, she settles against my chest, one arm instinctively moving to my neck as if to anchor herself to me. The other remains glued to her bag. Strands of her hair tickle my face as I partially turn to close the truck door with my elbow, and then I briskly walk. Her hair has a faint coconut smell to it, and in spite of myself, I like it.
“There’s a difference between stubbornness, and stupidity,” I mutter as I carry her to the motel, finding satisfaction in admonishing her, even if she is asleep during it.
I heft her up higher in my arms and her head rolls toward me, her forehead pressed to the side of my neck. She’s a little furnace, and I feel her shallow breaths against my collarbone. Her arm tightens, her fingertips digging into the back of my neck, and a small sigh leaves her. My throat closes and I swallow twice to loosen it. Lust, anger, protectiveness, empathy, insanity—I can’t put a name to what I feel right now. I just know I feel more than I should for someone I just met and don’t trust.
I close the door behind us and flip the lock, moving to the bed nearest the bathroom. I’m not particularly looking forward to checking out that room just yet. Using my free arm, I quickly tug down the blankets and lay her on the white sheets. I try to take away the bag and she squeezes her arms around it, a frown forming to her mouth. I let it go and pull up the covers to her chin.
I’m not shy about my body. If I wasn’t worried about her taking off with my wallet and truck keys sometime during my approaching comatose hours, my jeans would already be off. But I am worried. I’m not saying she is a thief, and I am not saying she isn’t. I’d rather not find out. My keys are safely in one front pocket; my wallet is in the other. If she’s desperate enough to rove around in my jeans while I sleep, I wish her all the best. A pulse in my groin acknowledges that I might even enjoy it.
I look down and gesture with my hands. “Really? Her?”
Sliding my arms from my jacket, I lay it across the part of the dresser not occupied by the TV. I take off my shirt and do the same with it. Boots and socks come off next. I flip the light switch and with my eyes closed fall onto my bed. Something rumbles and shudders beneath me, and then the top half of the bed slams to the floor.
My eyes fly open.
I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure it is not natural for my feet to be above my head. That explains the noise I earlier heard—the damn bed was falling apart.
The functioning bed beside me shifts and I feel her eyes on me. A choked laugh fills the silence, overtaking the sound of blood as it pounds through my head. I don’t move, a lone muscle jumping in my jaw. I force my eyes closed and my breathing to deepen, and I pretend that I am not about to sleep in a broken bed. I’m on a beach, with warm air and sunshine on my face, and I’m comfortably nestled in a hammock. Yep. That’s where I am.
I hear her settle back down, and then there’s nothing but quiet and black, and I let myself go.
I wake up to the sound of a revving chainsaw and sunshine on my face, feeling as if I only shut my eyes mere minutes ago. I open my eyes and blink at a misshapen water stain on the ceiling. My head pounds from my sleeping position and my ribcage feels like it’s about to meet my throat. The noise stops, then starts, and I slowly turn my head to the left. She’s lying on her back, coverless, legs bent, arms flung out wide on either side, and her head is tipped back with her mouth hanging open. She looks absurd, and I fight a grin.
I roll out of the bed and land on my hands and feet, my muscles tight and uncooperative from my sleeping position. The heaviness is there, wanting to take over. I take deep breaths and inwardly fight it. Not today. Today, I decree, is going to be outstanding. I’m not sure I believe that, but maybe I can fool myself.
Standing, I stretch my arms above my head, my joints popping and cracking. I run my fingers through my messy hair and over my face, needing coffee and about another twelve hours of sleep—preferably in a whole, properly functioning bed. A glance at the clock tells me it’s just after nine in the morning.
If I push it, I can make it to North Dakota by this afternoon or early evening. My stomach twists, and a tremor takes over my hands, showing how much I’m looking forward to it. I made myself a vow,
and if I don’t see it through, I’ll lose a chunk of what little self-respect I have. There is no getting out of this.
I notice the lack of sound at the same time I feel heat on my back. I look over my shoulder and my eyes collide with hers. She’s sitting up, her chin resting on the bag between her arms. Her hair is tousled about her head; her lips are swollen with sleep. Interest shines in the eyes that slowly move along my shoulders and back.
I pretend not to feel the current through my skin. If I’m attracted to her, and I’m not even sure I am, it doesn’t mean I can’t act as if I’m not.
“You snore,” I say in greeting.
Her face scrunches up. “And you break beds. Judge away.”
I avert my face, hiding the amusement I feel in the bend of my mouth. I grab my shirt from the dresser and shrug into it. I don’t have a lot of money, but selling my Harley a few weeks ago put more money in my checking account than there has ever previously been at one time. I miss my bike. I miss the wind, and the freedom I felt while riding it. The thrill of speed and nothing but air around me. What I don’t miss is worrying about money from one day to the next, as I’m sure she is. I have a nice cushion for now, but she seems to have next to nothing. I can afford to pay for her meals for another day.
“I’m going to find us food. You can shower or whatever while I’m gone.” I cock an eyebrow as I glance at her and say, “Please shower.”
She mutters obscenities as I walk out the door, and I catch a few choice phrases I can’t say I’ve ever heard before. The sun stings my eyes and heats my skin, and I allow my first real, full smile in days to take over my face as I stroll for the truck.
* * *
Opal
The bathroom has cobwebs, chipped green tiles, and the shower water is lukewarm and comes down in a split, thin stream, but it is the equivalent of heaven to my unclean skin and hair. I wash twice with the cheap motel beauty products that smell like Pine-Sol, shifting back and forth under the showerhead to dampen all of me. Shivering as I turn off the water, I grab a bath towel that is more the size of a hand towel and vigorously dry off.
I have four changes of clothes with me, and two need to be washed. I dress in red jeans and a plain black top, run a comb through my thick hair, and go about brushing and flossing my teeth.
Finding a compact blow dryer in a drawer, I attempt to dry my hand-washed undergarments, my thoughts annoyingly shifting to the man who obviously carried me from the truck into the motel room. Generally a light sleeper, it unnerves me to know that I didn’t wake up until the bed broke. At the memory, I look up and grin at my reflection in the cracked rectangular mirror, the smile disintegrating as a spark shoots from the front of the blow dryer. I quickly turn it off and unplug it, not wanting to burn down the place.
With my still damp blue bra and purple panties dangling from my hand, I leave the bathroom. I stumble to a stop, unaware until this instant that he was back. The man looks up from the floor where he examines the front part of the bed, his body turning to stone. Hair the color of black ink, thick and disobedient, partially obscures his eyes, but it does nothing to mute the intensity of them as they drift up and down the length of me. I feel their touch like his hands are on me. It’s maddening and erotic and makes my throat dry. He acts like it’s the first time he’s seen a female form. I feel like it’s the first time a man’s ever paid me the slightest amount of interest. My pulse races.
His attention goes to the underclothes in my hand, and my skin burns. I practically dive back into the bathroom, shoving my belongings along with the wet underwear into the bag. When I step into the room again he’s gone. I close my eyes and let out a sigh, thankful that he isn’t around to comment. I tug on my black boots and arrange my backpack on my shoulder. With a tremor of anticipation I scan the room to make sure I didn’t forget anything, and I leave.
The sun is out, quickly warming the top of my head, and the air smells like asphalt and exhaust, a scent that belongs with the nearby highway. There is a bounce to my steps as I think about this impulsive adventure I’m on, and wonder where it will end up taking me. Montana, for sure, but where else? Anywhere has to better from where I started, and as long as I keep moving, it doesn’t have to end. I don’t want it to end, not until I am exactly where I want to be. And hopefully no one I left behind is looking for me. My mouth starts to tip down and I form it to a straight line.
No one is looking for you. You’re safe.
A man about half the size and height of the dark-haired man stands beside his Ford, wildly waving around his hands as he talks to the owner of the truck. My footsteps slow, and the excitement of an unknown future fades. There is no way the older man’s appearance has anything to do with me, and yet I feel panic gather inside and cause my stomach to dip. The farther I get from Illinois, the better I’ll feel.
What little hair the man has is white and stringy, blowing in sporadic mayhem each time the wind picks up. His shirt is brown and rides up his protruding gut. He seems agitated.
“I understand,” the black-haired man says, his backside leaning against the driver’s side door of the truck, his arms crossed. Everything about him shows he is calm and relaxed, but his eyes are intense as they flicker to me and back to the man.
“I had no idea that the bed would break again,” the older man says in a loud, whiny tone.
I let out a slow, silent exhalation as I stand beside the pair. Once again, I was worried for nothing. And how many times has that bed broken? Something tells me I don’t want to know, or why.
“I understand,” he repeats, staring at me.
“We’re good then? The discount was enough?”
He changed his shirt. This one is charcoal gray and reads “Goonies.” I want to ask him if he is stuck in the eighties, but his toned, pale arms have captured my attention. How does one remain as white as he is? Does he never stand in the sun? That can’t be right, because he’s in the sun now, but it doesn’t appear to touch him. My eyes lift to his, and they pulse through me, warming me, confusing me.
“Sir? Mr. Malone?”
As I watch, the stranger’s face transforms into blankness as he levels his eyes on the man. The white-haired man looks uneasy, and he backs up, hands lifted. My pulse trips as I take in the change, fascinated by it, wondering where it came from. All the light is gone from him. He’s cloaked in nothingness.
“My dad is Mr. Malone,” he informs the man in a quiet voice. “I’m Blake.”
Blake. My shoulders loosen. I like that name. I silently go over the few details I have of him. His name is Blake Malone and he has issues with his dad. Then again, who doesn’t? Most of the people I’ve met over the years have had some kind of problem with their father. At least he knows his dad.
“Y-yes. Okay. Good. I can go, M—Blake?”
“Yes. The discount was enough.” He turns from the stammering man.
“Thank you. Thank you,” the guy says, for the first time realizing they aren’t alone. His head swivels to me, his mouth open as if to speak. His eyes widen and he backpedals so fast he falls to the ground. I wince at the sound of flesh sliding across gravel. Before I can say anything, he’s on his feet and sprinting for the motel, looking over his shoulder once. His hair waves behind him like a straggly flag.
“That was odd,” I comment as the office door of the motel slams. “He acted like he was scared of me.”
Blake gives me an innocent look that shouts his guilt. “Ready to go?”
My eyes narrow. He did something. I don’t know what, but he did. I widen my stance and shake my head. “Nope. Not until you tell me what you did or said to that guy to make him act like that around me.”
Shrugging, he hefts himself into the truck. “Have a nice life.”
He closes the door, and watching me the whole time, slowly raises a frosted donut to his mouth. Saliva forms inside my mouth in longing. A murmur of satis
faction leaves him as he chews. It’s like porn for food, and I am addicted. A curse word flies from my mouth as I stomp to my side of the truck. As soon as I’m inside, the engine sputters and rumbles before finding its unbalanced beat, and Blake navigates us to the highway.
I drop my backpack and grab the small white bag between us, take out two donuts, and with one in each hand, make love to them with my mouth. I should be embarrassed by the sounds that leave me, but I’m too busy enjoying the sugar and carbohydrates to worry about that. One has raspberry jam and cream cheese inside; the other has vanilla pudding with chocolate frosting on top. Have I ever tasted anything so delicious, so fresh? I can’t recall, but it doesn’t seem possible.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked to drink.” I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t acknowledge it, focusing on finishing off the donuts as fast as I can without choking. “There’s a bottle of orange juice and another of water in the plastic bag near your feet.”
I lick my fingers and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’ll take both,” I tell him, leaning over to procure them. My stomach is uncomfortably full, and bending at the waist makes it hurt. I quickly sit back with the drinks in hand and start on the orange juice. It tastes like liquid bursts of citrus euphoria.
“There are napkins.”
I stiffen, turning my voice into a lilt as I reply, “Why waste napkins when you can use your hands?”
He finds a classic rock station and Mötley Crüe fills the cab. Another surprise. His musical taste isn’t set to one genre. I want him to be simple. If he’s simple, I’m less inclined to be absorbed by all the nuances and ticks that make him up. Not that it matters—we’ll be parting ways later today and I’ll never see him again. My fingers curl, longing to draw him.
