be happy to wrap his hand around my ankle. Still, I look
over the growing crowd and feel my lip curl.
Yeah. I’d rather have cookies and some phone sex
tonight. What the hell do I want with muddy shoes and
sweaty balls?
I bid farewell to my new friends and approach the bar
to settle my tab. Eyes follow me. So many eyes. These
men are on the road tending to wells and lines for weeks
at a time, and they’re hungry. They want to play with me.
Eat me up. Some of them want me to enjoy it. And some
of them prefer that I don’t. I’ve had enough of them over
the years to detect the different kinds pretty easily.
For example, the handsome blue-eyed fellow who
smiles when I sidle up to the bar is trying for charming,
but I see the cruelty beneath, shining through like greasy
skin through matte makeup.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, as if I’d believe a gorgeous
twenty-something like him thinks I’m beautiful. He
doesn’t think I’m gorgeous. He thinks I’m plain, and
plain means desperate and easy for a boy with sparkling
blue eyes. He thinks I’m the type who’ll be so grateful
for his attention that I’ll let him use my mouth in a dirty bathroom stall. I’m not beautiful but I’m right here.
Silly boy doesn’t know I already got laid in a bathroom
this week, and my exquisite mouth is reserved for better
men than him.
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“Buy you a drink?” he purrs.
“No, thanks!” I chirp. “I’m heading back to my room.”
“Oh yeah? Want some company?”
I turn to him and giggle nervously at his wide, white
grin. “You’re funny.”
“Nah, I’m serious as a heart attack, darlin’. I haven’t
seen you here before, and I love making new friends.”
I shrug one shoulder and duck my head, pretending
to blush. “I’m just visiting.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to be lonely while you’re
visiting. Why don’t you sit down and keep me company?”
“Stop it! You’re so silly!”
“At least let me buy you one more drink. I’m James.”
“James,” I repeat, not offering my own name. He
doesn’t notice or care. “Okay, James. Sure. I’ll have an-
other drink. Thank you.”
When Maria brings over my tab, I sign off on it and
James tells her he’ll get me another of whatever I’m drink-
ing. Her friendly smile falls away and her gaze goes sharp
and ugly, first on him and then on me. “Great,” she says,
with none of her earlier enthusiasm.
Poor thing. She obviously fell for his false charm at
some point or another. He probably convinced her that
he was mad for her, wild for her big ass, and she believed
it. Plenty of men are, after all.
But not James. One look at him and I can see exactly
who he is: a big fish in a tiny pond. He wants the petite
blond rodeo queen on his arm while he screws his way
through the county. After that relationship falls apart, he’ll marry some rich daddy’s girl from Oklahoma City and
get a job with her old man, then screw his way through
that county while her daddy pays their mortgage and
keeps him employed.
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But Maria doesn’t see that. She probably crushed on
him for a while; maybe he was an older boy in school,
and then he finally turned those eyes on her and she fell
hard. But that’s not my fault, Maria. I don’t deserve the
icy stare that comes as she delivers my drink.
It’s definitely a little more watered-down than the
first ones. That’s fine. I’ll be drinking it quickly. I take two big gulps and watch James flash a sly smile at the
man next to him.
“Thanks again for the drink,” I say. “You’re sweet.”
“Sit down,” he suggests.
I hold up a hand and gulp the rest of the drink. His
cocky grin tips down into a cocky scowl.
“Sorry. I’d love to but I can’t. I have to call Mama
before she goes to bed or she’ll worry.”
“All right. Go make your call and come back. I’ll be
right here waiting for you.”
Who the hell does James think he is, telling me how
to make his night easier? I’m tired of playing with him,
and I have to pee, so I drop my faux shyness and set my
empty glass down. “Nah.”
“All right, then,” he says tightly. “Tell me your room
number and I’ll bring you another drink. We can talk
and get to know each other. Must be lonely being in a
strange town alone.”
“Room 205. Fifteen minutes?”
“Sure. I think I can do that.” Even his assent is a little
condescending, meant to make me thankful he’ll waste
a quarter hour waiting to use me.
I’m only ten feet away before James and his friend are
laughing, loud ugly chuckles at my expense. This dumb
bitch thinks I like her. What a pitiful little slut she’ll be for me.
There are so many small monsters in this world.
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Problem Child
After hurrying back to my room, I jump in the shower
and wash off the travel grime. Then I pull on sexy undies
and soft socks and my favorite ancient T-shirt to wait. The mattress is a little soft, but the room is warm and cozy and I settle in with a sigh. A few breathless minutes later his knock raps through the pool atrium, so I bounce up with
a laugh. He’s not patient, of course, so a second knock
follows close behind. “Open up, baby,” I hear him call.
I crack open my door to better hear him, and, right on
time, loud bootsteps echo through the ceiling above me.
The door swings open. “What the hell do you want?” a
man upstairs growls in a deep, phlegmy voice.
“What the shit?” yelps James.
I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle giggles. I’d
clearly heard the boots of two men above my head when I
dropped by earlier, and James is making the acquaintance
of at least one of them.
“Is … uh…” He’s realizing he never bothered getting
my name. “I was supposed to meet someone here?”
“Well, fuck off. Looks like you’ll be meeting Rosie
Palm tonight, you dickwad.” The man’s guffaw bounces
around the high metal ceiling of the atrium before be-
ing cut in half by his slamming door. I giggle harder, my
laughter trying to leak out and join in the fun.
James seems to stand silently for a long moment before
he lets out a string of curses beneath his breath.
“Better luck next time!” some asshole calls from farther
down the row of rooms, and I have to close my door to
hide my snorting.
“Fuck you straight to hell!” James snarls out before
I hear his boots stomping down the nearest set of stairs.
When I peek out the open curtains of my window. I see
him charging toward the front entry, a beer and a tumbler
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still clutched in his fists. If I stayed dressed, I could have followe
d him back to spy on his ignominious return to
the bar, but, oh well. I’ve chosen comfort over entertain-
ment this time.
Utterly pleased with myself, I retrieve my cookies and
grab my book before turning off the lights and climbing
into bed. The curtains are still parted. I love to watch
people going by, especially when they’re unaware. It’s like watching TV, their little lives playing out for me to see.
I like this place.
Send me that pic when you’re in bed, I text to
Luke. Then I tuck myself in for a great drunk evening
of dessert, reading, and masturbation. What more could
a girl ask for on a chilly autumn night?
80
CHAPTER SEVEN
My hometown is about ten minutes outside of the county
seat. It isn’t much. There are no government offices here.
No retail shops. It’s big enough for a pitifully small school, but not big enough for a McDonald’s. There’s no Dairy
Queen either. No Sonic. The only thing the population
can support is a knockoff drive-in called Taste ’n Freeze
that’s only open during the summer.
Taste ’n Freeze. What the fuck does that even mean?
But even the Taste ’n Freeze looks permanently boarded
up as I approach the edge of town. And I was wrong about
the retail. There’s a brand-new dollar store that cropped
up just inside the town limits.
Beyond the new store, there are other changes. The
one run-down motel in town has been converted into
a cheap studio apartment complex by the looks of the
hand-painted sign propped on the roof. Half the doors are
open to let out cigarette smoke and welcome in fresh air.
A ragged old coffee joint has been turned into a high-
interest loan company decked out in shiny yellows and
blues to make signing your meager earnings away seem
more fun. The used-car lot next door is now just empty
asphalt and destroyed light poles. Otherwise, things look
pretty much the same. I pass the street that leads to my
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parents’ home and drive toward the narrow steam cloud
that climbs into the sky like the grasping, greedy arm of
some lowly god.
The smoke is attached to the huge white tower that
looms above the power plant. I hate that damn plant with
a passion. I scowl as I drive by, because I know that pass-
ing it won’t leave it behind. It’ll be there in my rearview mirror for the next ten miles.
You can’t ever forget where you come from when the
land is so mercilessly flat. On a clear, cold day that steam follows you forever, calling you back.
“Assholes,” I say to no one in particular, then I focus
my eyes on the one windmill I can see peeking over the
road ahead.
No, not windmills. Wind turbines. I looked them up
last night. Wind turbines. I keep my eyes on my big robot
friend and drive on toward the next town over to dig
up dirt on Little Miss Kayla. I smile at the first sign that warns me not to pick up any hitchhikers because they
could be escaped convicts.
The town I’m heading to is mostly populated by
prison guards and their families. On the far side of the
town limits is a small Oklahoma state prison. Ricky
has never been housed there, because they try to keep
inmates out of their own stomping grounds for fear that
escape would be too tempting. Plus they don’t want your
troubled buddies gathering around the exterior fences to
wave and hoot at you during yard time.
Let’s be honest: I probably would have done that to
Ricky, given such easy opportunity. A little payback for
all those years of making fun of me every time I walked
anywhere near him in the house.
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Of course, the best revenge is living well, but really
the best best revenge is living well while mocking him to his face. Why not have it all?
The apartment complex I’m looking for is at the clos-
est edge of town, a big semicircle of two-story buildings
constructed sometime in the early nineties. Most of the
patios are empty but for rusting charcoal grills and a chair here and there. The one I park in front of is screened in,
and two cats sit on a couch looking out scornfully at me.
The sight of them makes me wonder what my own cat
is doing and whether she misses me.
She doesn’t. I dropped her off at Luke’s, and she’s far
too busy enjoying new, strange environs and getting into
all the high hiding places and fun shadows to be found
in his converted loft. She probably won’t even want to
come home with me, but that’s too bad for her, because
I’m not leaving her there.
Would she like a little house in the suburbs with a
white picket fence? Yeah. She would.
But then there’s me.
Maybe I should just try it. I can leave anytime I want.
Maybe I can even secretly keep my place in the city and
escape there when I need to get away from my loving,
supportive boyfriend.
Damn it. I hate him so much.
I get out of my car and head toward the building
number Ricky gave me. As I approach apartment B,
I’m surprised to see a tidy little patio overflowing with
potted plants, including a few that are still flowering,
the old buds neatly nipped off. Between the pots nestle
colorful ceramics of bejeweled fish and animals with
big eyes. Several bouncy balls and a plastic trike take
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up the rest of the cement space. Not what I was expect-
ing from a family that doesn’t care that a daughter has
gone missing.
The faint sounds of cartoons dance through the door
as I knock. Just a few seconds later the door opens to re-
veal a tall Native American woman I’m sure I’ve never
seen before. She has a brown-haired young boy on her
hip and a spatula in her hand, and she’s still wearing her
state prison guard uniform. “Yes?” she prompts.
“I’m looking for Kayla.”
“Kayla?”
I don’t really need her answer to know I have the
wrong place. The apartment behind her is clean and neat,
and I smell something delicious cooking in the kitchen.
“She’s a teenage girl who went missing a few weeks ago.
I was told her mother lives here.”
She shrugs her free shoulder as the boy lays his head
on the other. “Maybe try the next building?” She points
with the spatula. “I’ve seen cops over there once or twice.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
I walk around to apartment B of the building she in-
dicated, and I find a moldy old love seat on the porch, the cement beneath it strewn with dead leaves and dried-out
cigarette butts, and my Spidey senses tingle. This place
feels like home.
The patio door is cracked open, and the sound of a
raucous talk show spills loudly out, but the noise fades
to a dull roar as I approach the door and knock, giving
it an
extra hard rap so I sound official.
“What?” a woman yells from inside. I ignore the ques-
tion and knock again, which prompts muttered cursing
from the other side of the door. Finally it opens, revealing a painfully thin blonde in a tank top that’s so worn and
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loose, it’s nearly exposing one of her nipples. It’s Wanda
Stringer.
“I’m with the county,” I lie. “I’m looking for Kayla
Stringer.” I’m taking a chance that Wanda might recog-
nize me, but why would she? The last time I saw her I
was eighteen or so, and if I introduce myself as Ricky’s
sister, I’ll have to listen to a long tirade about what an
asshole my brother is. I could supply that tirade myself,
so I’m not interested.
Kayla’s mother shrugs. “I don’t know. She doesn’t
live here.”
“Your sixteen-year-old daughter doesn’t live here?”
Wanda rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that shit. She’s
been staying with her dad’s parents.” Oh, great. Of course.
Because my parents were so capable with kids the first
time around that they produced at least one sociopath
and probably two.
“But she is missing,” I prompt.
“She hasn’t come around asking for money or steal-
ing my shit in the past month, so if you want to call that
missing, then sure.”
“Ma’am”—I try on my most snippy tone, the one
I remember from so many school meetings as a girl—
“you’re telling me that you have lost track of your girl,
you haven’t seen her in a month, but you don’t know if
she’s missing. Is that correct?”
“Check in with her pimp; maybe he’s got that little
bitch on a tight leash.”
She swings the door closed, but I catch it with a slap
of my hand just in time. “Your teenage daughter is being
prostituted?”
“Kayla is a little truck-stop whore and she loves it.
Does that clear it up for you? Do you think you can still
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save her? She’s a lazy slut who didn’t want to get a real
job and decided to run wild in the streets instead. She’s
the one who wanted to go stay with her grandparents. If
they lost her, is that my fault?”
Well, technically I’d put responsibility for her child
right in her lap, but who am I to judge? “Who’s her
pimp?” I ask. “Does he live around here?”
Problem Child (ARC) Page 9
