Saving Charlie (Stories of Serendipity Book 9)

by Anne Conley

  Anybody with information on who The Liberator may be is encouraged to call The Refuge of Light’s corporate offices.

  It was almost midnight by the time Charlie made it to the rest stop on the New Mexico side of the state line. She pulled over her truck and dug around in the backseat for her pillow and blanket.

  “Here. You can use this if you want.” She offered the pillow to Les.

  “No, I’ll just use my duffel bag.”

  Well, now she was feeling bad about pitching her fit for spending the night in the truck. He was going to be so uncomfortable. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. No biggie.” She could tell he was lying, but as he got out and rearranged everything, standing his guitar case on the floorboard and resting his duffel back across the seat against it, she saw he was trying to make the best of things. He looked around the parking lot briefly before stripping down to his boxers and getting into the front seat. Trying not to look at Les in his underwear, Charlie got into the back, fumbling under her covers to change into pajama shorts. The truck rocked with their motions of settling, and she snickered to herself, visualizing what it would look like to an outsider.

  Eventually, they both settled and the truck got quiet of grunts, Charlie listening for sounds of anyone approaching. She’d traveled this way before, a lot, and she never really slept well, but she hated motel rooms and couldn’t afford to stay someplace nice. That would eat all of her profits and make travelling for pieces a moot issue.

  Regret settled in her gut as she listened to Les in the front seat. He wasn’t relaxing into sleep at all, and she felt a little bad about that. She also felt bad about him being on this trip with her. His occasional grunts filled the cab, and as his body finally settled, she thought she heard a fart or two. She had to smile to herself. He wasn’t faking who he was. Les was genuine.

  She liked Les. Really liked him. He was funny, cute, easy to work with, smart, and now she knew he had a fantastic singing voice. She had seen the interest in his eyes before, and knew all it would take was one word of encouragement from her and he would be eating out of her hand. But she didn’t want that from him. He was better than that. He was the type of guy who would do anything for his girl; he would love her, commit to her, and walk through fire for her.

  And she wasn’t that type of girl.

  The Man had ruined Charlie for normal relationships. He had taught her at an early age that men wanted one thing from her, and taught her how to be good at giving it. He’d molded her into the perfect sex toy, buying her body from her parents for three eight-balls of coke.

  Her parents’ abandonment of her, and their selfishness, had insured that she would never be normal again. Adam was proof of that. She couldn’t even tell anyone why she couldn’t do relationships, or basic friendships would be out of the question as well. Adam was the only one who truly knew her past, and that was only because he was such a huge part of it.

  She had tried to live a normal life, but it hadn’t worked. Nope, she was suited to her solitary lifestyle. Charlie only had a high school equivalency certificate, and enough college to discover she had an aptitude for numbers. When she’d turned thirty-one, she’d finally received a settlement from the civil court cases against her parents and The Man that wasn’t much, but enabled her to buy her house and property and a truck, and set up her business. It had been running in the black for three years now, and she had enough extra to make donations to the Refuge of Light, a local organization that helped girls who had been sold for sex.

  Like her.

  Les rolled over in the front of the truck with a heavy sigh, reminding her yet again of her own selfishness. He wasn’t sleeping up there any more than she was sleeping back here. She could kick herself for not letting him pay for a motel room.

  Except the smell of them always gave her nightmares.

  That was one of the ways her parents had gotten money for their drugs. As soon as they’d figured she was old enough, eleven, they’d get a motel room and line up some men who’d pay for her services. Sometimes her mom would do it too, which didn’t make any of it any better. It didn’t take long at all for The Man to discover their little operation, and he just bought her outright—took ownership of her. The motel room business had continued, in addition to truck stops and their little residential brothel. It was really all she ever knew, and Charlie never truly understood the shame of it all until she’d been forced out of the lifestyle.

  By the time Adam had found her, she was a pro at it. She was so enamored with The Man that she thought herself in love with him—desperate to do anything to please him, strung out on any drug he’d let her have that she was a total mess, and loved every minute of it.

  She was so fucked up.

  Chapter 7

  From My Mistake, by Anne Conley

  “I owe you, Les. I wish you guys didn’t feel the need to do this, but I do appreciate it.” He had stripped to his boxers in front of her, oblivious to decorum in her living room. But he probably didn’t want to be there anymore than she wanted him there. They were both doing this for Brent. She looked at his strong physique and marveled at his fitness, but felt nothing like the chemistry she felt with Brent. Les was like a brother to her, and there were absolutely no sparks.

  “It’s nothing. My bed’s too big anyways.” He said it softly, and Casey heard the wistful tone in his voice, wondering briefly who he was thinking he wanted to share it with.

  “Well, she’s a fool if she doesn’t see the awesome guy you are. And if she never does, I promise you there’s someone out there with your name written all over her.”

  He snorted at her, pulling his guitar to his lap. “Y’all sure y’all don’t mind if I play a little? It helps me compose myself for sleep.”

  She shrugged. “Knock yourself out. Just don’t plug in an amp, and we’ll be fine.”

  Casey took herself off to bed with the soft strumming of Les’s guitar in the background of her conscious.

  Les woke up in a ridiculously good mood. Charlie hadn’t slept much at all, squeezed into the close confines of her truck with his smell and her thoughts. He really didn’t know exactly how much he’d slept, only that his body was much more relaxed than hers, as evidenced by the sounds emanating from him. Grunts, groans, and toots that people normally didn’t let go of until they knew each other better. Listening to him sleep was more intimate than sex, and she wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. She’d slept a little, but found herself awake more than asleep.

  “Good morning, Sweetness.” His mocha eyes peeked over the seat in front of her, his unruly brown curls sitting on top of his head like a living thing ready to take flight. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he flashed her a breathtaking smile, showing off even teeth, before he actually hopped out of the front seat with his jeans in his hand to go to the restroom. Who hops this early in the morning?

  “Ugh…” She should have known he was a morning person. If she’d realized, she might not have let him ride with her. Charlie managed to pull herself into a sitting position before grabbing her jeans from the day before and slipping them over her shorts and rubbing her eyes.

  Looking over his things in the front seat of her truck, Charlie tried to remember another time she’d found herself in this position. She couldn’t remember waking up with a man in the morning—not since Adam. It just wasn’t something she’d ever done. Even though she’d made this new resolution to herself to be more normal—to have normal relationships—she wasn’t sure she was going about it the right way. Her experience with Justin certainly wasn’t normal, and if that was indicative of her experiences, she might need to rethink things, no matter how different Les seemed to be.

  She clamped down on the urge to bury her face in his duffle bag and inhale his scent, or to open the guitar case and try to glean more clues to his personality.

  Before she could make up her mind to snoop, Les was sauntering back from the building, shirtless, hair wet, and grinning like a loon. “So, do you do the
se auction things without showering for days? I imagine the smell alone gets you a good price. They’re willing to let you have whatever you want as long as you get out?”

  “Ha. Ha. Whore’s baths work pretty well.” She dug around in her bag and found her toiletry kit before heading to the restroom herself, ignoring Les’s gaping mouth.

  She hurried, eager to get further down the road. After combing her hair, brushing her teeth and applying deodorant, she changed clothes and headed outside.

  Les was standing outside her truck, stretching. “It’s going to be a gorgeous day, don’t you think?”

  She grunted at him before walking around to the driver’s side.

  “You don’t want me to drive a little bit today? I can spell you, give you a break.” His offer was genuine, and she was tempted to take it. But the idea of her truck and trailer by the side of the road, mangled beyond repair, was too much. This truck was hers, part of her livelihood, and the first new vehicle she’d ever owned. She wasn’t about to risk it becoming an unrecognizable heap of metal.

  “No. I got it. Let’s drive through and get some coffee.”

  “Sure thing, Sweetness.”

  Caffeinated, Charlie felt measurably better. She was able to sort of smile through her lack of sleep at Les’s renderings of current popular music. He had a great voice, even when he was clowning.

  “What’s your anthem?” he asked her after a particularly grueling version of Relax by Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

  “My anthem?”

  “Yeah, if you could pick any song to describe you, what would it be?”

  “I don’t know; I’d have to think about it. What’s yours?”

  “Fool for Love. Always have been. I think I’ve fallen in love more times than Casanova. Only, he had better luck.”

  She chewed her lip while she thought about it. “Um…I guess it would be Blue Monday, by Orgy.”

  “Okay, but you know they’re not the original artists, right?” She looked at him from the corner of her eye to see him smirking at her. It made his pretty eyes crinkle around the edges.

  “Yeah, I know, but my brain isn’t filled with useless trivia about music, so I just can’t remember right now.”

  “Useless? Ouch!” He pantomimed being stabbed in the heart, and Charlie giggled.

  “Why Fool for Love? And why do you put yourself down so much?”

  “Because I’ve always been the one to declare my intentions too soon. I just see a woman I want to be with and I go for it. But I never get the girl.”

  “And that’s important to you?”

  “It is now.” He sighed and ran a hand through his curly locks. “All of my friends are married and have babies. I grew up with these guys, and have seen them live life, and it just seems like now their lives are complete with their relationships and the rigors of parenthood, you know?” He looked at her earnestly, and she redirected her attention to the road.

  This wasn’t a conversation Charlie ever had, unless she was visiting a therapist. Les wasn’t a therapist, but he was completely guileless. For some reason, she trusted him, and she barely knew him. She opened her mouth to quip, “Been there, done that, got the tee shirt,” but didn’t.

  Instead, she asked, “What was it like growing up for you?” How does the other half live?

  He settled back in his seat, crossing one ankle over his leg awkwardly, in an attempt to get comfortable.

  “Well, I’m an only child, and still pretty close to my folks. They’ve been married for forty-five years. They’re sort of hippies, so I was eating all natural foods before the word organic became marketable. Dad makes guitars to sell online, and mom runs a health food store. Her specialty is a whey smoothie she makes from goats’ milk. They’re pretty tasty, but I kill them with my current eating habits.”

  A pang of longing hit her hard with the picture he was painting, but instead of changing the subject, she punished herself by asking more. “So, your dad’s a guitar builder? That’s where your name came from?”

  “Yeah, it’s been a fun life with a name like that, but I’ve tried to live up to it. Just need to find my Mary Ford.”

  She didn’t get the reference and chose to ignore it, but he explained anyway. “They sang together in the forties and fifties. She’s like Johnny’s June. You get that?”

  “Yes, I get Johnny and June.” His childhood sounded nice. Funky, eclectic parents who loved him. He seemed to sense her desire to listen to him instead of talk herself, so he continued regaling her with stories of his childhood.

  Unfortunately, his stories served to remind her of how crappy her own childhood had been. His tale of being potty trained in the yard, widdling on anything that would sit still for him to widdle on, only made Charlie think of her grandma telling her she’d been potty trained in a similar fashion. Only her parents did it so they could use her diaper money for beer.

  One thing was for sure, though. Just because she came from trash didn’t mean she had to return to it. She was proud of her life now, her recent choices. Sure, she’d made mistakes, and still had reminders of them, but she wasn’t about to continue the vicious cycle she’d come from.

  “What about you? Where did you come from?” She knew he would turn the conversation to her. And oddly enough, she didn’t mind telling him a little.

  “My parents weren’t nearly as loving as yours were. They were abusive addicts and alcoholics who made poor choices in the parenting arena and ended up in prison for it.” And that was more than she’d told anybody in recent years. “Sorry, that’s all you’re getting. I don’t really like to talk about it.”

  He was quiet for a second, then, “Understood.”

  “But I like your stories. You can keep talking, if you want.” Honestly, his voice was soothing her jangled nerves. After yesterday—the fight with Justin, the accident, and everything else—today seemed like a laid-back respite. Her phone hadn’t buzzed at her once yet this morning, and she found that a welcome reprieve.

  That day’s driving was easy-going and they made good time, making it over the California border well before night-fall. They had a leisurely dinner at a mom and pop diner in Yuma, and headed closer to their destination.

  “I’m paying for a motel tonight. I’ll get double beds if that’s what you’re worried about, but I cannot sleep in this truck again.”

  “Okay.” He seemed surprised by her acquiescence, but she’d already decided she couldn’t make him sleep in here again.

  “Well, that was easy.”

  “I’m not totally heartless. I have my moments of sanity. I’m sorry for making you sleep like that last night. I know how little rest you got.”

  “That’s awful nice of you, Sweetness,” he drawled quietly.

  Charlie had a hard time stifling the need clawing through her at his tone of voice. And it didn’t seem to stop the rest of the drive. It was a force inside her, clamoring to get out and latch onto the man in the seat next to her—the one with the unruly brown hair, mocha eyes, and voice as smooth as honey. At the motel, she let him go check in while she stayed in her truck and gave herself a talking to.

  “He’s out of your league, girl. He’s a nice guy, not a roll in the hay. You’ll hurt him, and that’s not who you are anymore. He’ll want more than you want to give. Period.”

  She had just about calmed herself down when he came sauntering out of the main office, twirling a key on his index finger.

  “Got one. And it’s close, too.” He leaned in her window to point across the parking lot, “Right there, ground floor.” His arm was on the door, and his face was inches from hers as he pointed across the cab of the truck. She couldn’t look at him, instead choosing to shift her gaze down his strong hand as it pointed to a nondescript hotel room.

  She nodded and put the truck in gear, ignoring the smell of him as it washed over her body. What was wrong with her? It was like a switch had been turned on and she was suddenly a bundle of raw hormones.

  Les was waiting at the
door to their room, so she knew exactly where to go. He’d opened it, and stood there, using an ice bucket to prop the door open.

  “That bed is calling my name,” he sang out.

  “Which one do you want?” It was a cheap motel room, like all others: pastel colors, faded with over-washing, dark shadows in corners and under beds, vinyl chairs, plastic ice bucket.

  “Doesn’t matter to me. You pick. I’ll take leftovers.”

  She dropped her bags on the bed closest to the door, an instinctual move, since she’d always been stuck in the one furthest away from the door. Unfortunately, she forgot her compartmentalization ritual, the one that kept her from losing it.

  As soon as the door slammed shut the smell of the room took over her conscience, and she had to stare at Les to keep herself in the present. The musty smell of the carpet, the detergent used on the sheets, underlying all that, the ever present odor of mildew brought it all back to her. Charlie knew if she blinked her eyes, she would be transported to a nightmarish time of her life, and she couldn’t have that.

  So she stared at Les.

  He looked at her quizzically, one eyebrow quirked up. When she didn’t respond to him, he took a step forward.

  Charlie was fighting memories she never wanted to live again, and her only defense was the present.

  “I hate motel rooms,” she whispered. Understatement of the century, but it was all she could manage to croak out.

  He closed the two steps between them, and reached for her. She leaned into his touch, an anchor to reality. His fingers grazed her shoulder and she whimpered. She couldn’t explain what was going on inside her head, only that the smell was forcing memories of too many nights spent in rooms exactly like this—tied to a bed, or being held down by strangers—while men did things to her.

  And that was an experience given to her by her parents. Later, The Man had taken her, and his methods were different: tender in a manner only the truly cruel can be. She’d learned a lot in motel rooms exactly like this one, being fed drugs to guarantee submission to The Man and whoever he’d rented her to for the evening, or the hour.