Problem Child (ARC)

by Victoria Helen Stone

giving line.

  I just gave this guy the best work night of his gray,

  pitiful, endless life, and now he’s freezing me out?

  I turn down the music as he accelerates onto the high-

  way. He graciously spares me a narrow glance.

  “Derrick,” I say hesitantly. I reach out to briefly touch

  his leg.

  “Yeah?”

  “I was wondering,” I start, then I exaggerate holding

  my breath before blurting out the rest. “Do you think

  we should get married?”

  “What? ” The truck actually jerks a little to the side, and they don’t believe in shoulders in this part of the

  country. Whoa, buddy. “What?” he bleats again.

  “You know! After what we did! Back there! It was

  pretty naughty … really naughty … and I was thinking maybe we should get married to make it right.”

  “What we did?” he practically shouts. “I didn’t even touch you!”

  “I know, but … I mean, it was definitely a sin. You

  touched yourself, and I watched, and I even … you know

  … rubbed myself down there.” I widen my eyes. “And, Derrick … I liked it.”

  His forehead is practically collapsing in on itself, try-

  ing to eat his eyebrows alive. His mouth is a marvelous

  writhing oval surrounding a wet, dark hollow.

  I try to reach for his hand, and he jerks it away.

  “You crazy bitch. I’m married! Jesus Christ! What are

  you talking about?”

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  My gasp sucks the air from the truck like a reverse

  scream. Derrick, you dirty, cheating dog. How could

  you? “No!” I cry. “You’re not married! You can’t be! You

  don’t even have a ring!”

  “I can’t wear a ring because of safety issues!” He’s

  ramped up to shouting now, and sweat beads above a

  throbbing vein in his temple. “I have a wife and a baby,

  you psycho!”

  “Oh! Oh! ” My compromised soul wails the words in anguish. “Then why did you do that with me? Oh

  my God!” I drop my face into my hands and start to cry.

  “Derrick! Derrick! ”

  “I didn’t … I … This was a mistake. I made a mistake.

  That’s all.”

  “I’ve sinned. Oh, my sweet Lord, I’ve sinned and I’m

  going to hell. And so are you. You especially! Your poor,

  sweet wife. How will she ever get over this?”

  “She won’t know! I won’t tell her! Nobody will!”

  “You asked me to dinner. You said we’d hang out. I

  thought we were dating, Derrick! And you have a wife and

  a tiny perfect baby?” I keen with grief and betrayal, then

  increase the volume when he tries to speak. I keep it up

  for a while, but ever so slowly my sobs begin to subside.

  “I’m sorry,” he says desperately. “I’m sorry. I’ve never

  done anything like this. And I did like you. I swear. If

  I weren’t married … I just got carried away, that’s all.”

  I sniff as if I’m crying real tears, but I’m just no good

  at summoning them. I never have been. I pretend to wipe

  my face on my sleeve to compose myself. “You knew I’d

  assume you weren’t married. You knew that, Derrick.”

  “No, I didn’t think of it, I swear to God.”

  Another sin to add to the rest? Tsk-tsk. “The Lord is

  always watching. Why would you debase yourself like

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  that and betray your sacred vows? If I’d let you, we would

  have had sex!”

  “I just … I’m sorry. I swear I am. My wife’s always so

  tired. The baby’s only three months old. We haven’t …

  It’s been a long time. And you were just…”

  Right there?

  “Nice,” he finishes weakly.

  “I am nice!” I slump down, pouting. “Are you still

  going to call me?”

  “What?”

  “Will you call me so we can talk sometimes?”

  “I … Sure. Yeah. Just write down your number. I’ll

  call you.”

  I slide a clipboard off the dash and jot down some

  numbers. “You promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. Thank you. We’ll figure this out. We

  will.”

  He makes a muted noise like he’s swallowing his

  tongue. I just smile toward the twinkling lights of the

  town as we finally reach the outskirts.

  Derrick pulls into the big gravel lot and parks far away

  from the other trucks. He shuts off the engine and we

  sit in the ticking silence for a few seconds. This could

  be the moment he decides to strangle me to eliminate

  this problem I’ve created before it can fly away from his

  hold. He can try, anyway. I’ll go right for the eyes, and I have a good quarter inch of thumbnail. Then there’s the

  knife in my purse.

  “I’d better get back,” he says instead of lunging to-

  ward me.

  “Okay. Call me tonight?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I sure will.”

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  “Bye, Derrick!” I open my door and start to slide

  down to the ground. “Oh, hey,” I say at the last minute,

  my feet perched on the chrome step. “What’s the name

  of that new rental company?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The one you rented the crane from.”

  “Uh. I think it’s Dayson’s?”

  “Cool.” If nothing else pans out, I can always get in

  touch with them.

  I walk jauntily to my rental car. I didn’t really have a

  dinner, but I’m too sleepy for a night out, so I think I’ll pick up something delicious and take it back to my room.

  Dinner in my underwear with a good book. What a treat.

  I’ve got my eyes peeled for decent options as I pull

  out, but my gaze is drawn to a figure walking through

  the dark toward the lounge. I roll down my window as

  I pass. “Bye, Derrick! Don’t worry, I won’t post those

  pictures online!” He slides right out of my vision when

  he stops dead in his tracks, remembering my phone raised

  to snap a few photos.

  Derrick won’t pick up any strange women again, and

  this is going to be good for his life in the long term, es-

  pecially if his career continues to take him on the road.

  Honestly, it was a lesson he needed to learn. I glance into the rearview mirror and wave again.

  But what did I learn tonight? Well, I found out more

  about Roy Morris, for sure, and that would’ve made this

  whole excursion worth it, even without any other benefits.

  But I also learned something deep and important about

  myself, I’d say. I can never be good or honest, but maybe

  I can actually be faithful? As long as that definition is …

  slightly looser than normal. So the bigger question is:

  Does this mean I want to keep trying?

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  I pass a gas station with a Popeyes franchise inside and

  decide to go for it. It’s hard to find red beans and rice in Minneapolis. Fifteen minutes later I’m back in my room

  and digging into dinner. Fifteen minutes after that, I’m

  idly flipping through the TV channels. I should have

  grabb
ed more cookies on the way in. The last one from

  yesterday is hard now.

  I feel strange and restless, on some sort of precipice,

  and I’m wondering if I should get dressed again and go

  out. Maybe I could go back to the truck stop, ask more

  questions about Kayla, and throw in a few about Roy

  Morris.

  Kayla could be in real danger from this guy. That

  soccer coach was pushed into some kind of corner. It

  wasn’t just a friendly transaction for sex. That’s also not the kind of deal that would send a youth pastor running

  for another state.

  If Little Dog and Kayla were shaking men down, that

  would’ve been a dangerous move with a man like Roy

  Morris. His brother’s fortune and political career would

  be put at risk, and girls have been killed for far less than that in this world. Hell, even I could be in danger from

  a guy like Morris, but I like that. Bring it on, asshole.

  I’m considering getting up and putting on my shoes,

  but a call comes through from Luke. “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey, yourself, beautiful. Did you solve any myster-

  ies today?”

  I grin because he knows I like being called beautiful.

  “Not really, but I’m getting closer. I think Kayla is a sex worker and that may be the crux of it. I’m trying to track

  down her pimp.”

  “Holy crap. Really? That’s so sad. The girl is just a

  baby.”

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  “Yeah,” I agree, though I doubt she’s been allowed to

  be a kid for years. She had to learn to survive. To protect herself. To hurt people to stop them from hurting her.

  We’re from the same damn family, after all.

  “Be careful,” Luke says softly. “It sounds like she was

  mixed up with some dangerous people. I wouldn’t want

  you to get hurt.”

  “Because you love me?” I ask.

  “Yes. I do love you.”

  “What if I told you I flirted with another man tonight?”

  This strange mood is making me lash out. I want to stir

  the pot and force a reaction out of him.

  “I’d think maybe you’re telling me that to make me

  jealous because you want some attention.”

  Well, damn. “You shut up!” I cry, giggling now.

  “Is it true?”

  “Shut up,” I repeat, but then I add, “Maybe. Did it

  work?”

  “A little. What else did you do?”

  “I didn’t touch him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “No? Did you want to?”

  “Eh. Only a little.”

  “Did he want to touch you?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” I can hear him smiling through the

  phone, and it makes me smile too. “Remember when I

  ran into you last year?” he asks. “Here in the city? You

  were the hottest thing I’d ever seen. So sure of yourself.

  You scared the hell out of me, and I couldn’t get enough

  of you.”

  Now I’m positively preening, stretching out in the

  bed, pointing my toes, arching my back. “Is that right?”

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  “It’s one hundred percent right. So yes, I’m jealous.

  But no, I’m not surprised. You’re like a panther, Jane. Wild and gorgeous. And I definitely don’t want you touching

  other men, but I can’t imagine you being some contented

  housewife either. That’s not what I’m asking of you. Do

  you know that?”

  “Not really.” I’m slightly irritated that he’s not more

  jealous, but I’m also thrilled that he knows so much about

  me … and he still wants more. “You’d let me cheat?”

  “Would you let me cheat?”

  A vision of Luke pumping into some weak replacement

  flashes through my mind and fills me with murderous

  rage. He’s mine. He’s really mine, and all my imaginings

  of letting him go are nonsense. “No.”

  “Then no, I wouldn’t let you cheat. Keep it in your

  pants, Jane.” I snicker that he’s so close to the truth. “But you’re a sexual being. Like, a really sexual being.” He distracts himself with that for a moment and mutters a curse

  that makes me laugh. “You like it rough, sometimes,”

  he mutters.

  “I really do.”

  “So when you get home, you tell me what you did,

  and I’ll make sure you get in big trouble. Will that work?”

  I’m grinning so hard now that my cheeks hurt and

  my whole body aches with immediate arousal. “Is that

  a promise?”

  “Yes. And be careful. It may be more anger than you

  actually want.”

  “That’s impossible, you idiot.”

  “You make me feel crazy sometimes. But we’ll think

  of a safe word.”

  “I won’t need it,” I promise. “God, this is so hot.”

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  His choked laugh sounds edged with pain. “I don’t

  want to lose you, Jane. I want to keep you. That’s what I’m trying to do. There’s no one else like you out there.”

  “That’s true,” I say.

  “So are we all made up? Everything’s better?”

  “Maybe, but please shut up, Luke. I don’t want to talk

  about feelings right now.”

  “No?”

  “No. I want to have sex.”

  Always the magic words. And abracadabra, they work.

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  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I wake up at 5:00 a.m. because I fell right to sleep after

  my intimate little talk with Luke. I guess I was worn-out

  from all the excitement.

  There are voices and footsteps outside, and I glance

  out the window to see the atrium teeming with men leav-

  ing their rooms. Wow. These people don’t mess around

  with waiting for sunrise. Now I realize why the breakfast

  buffet starts before dawn.

  But I don’t want thick biscuits and gluey gravy, so I

  take a quick shower before getting dressed and pulling on

  my boots. When I check my phone, I find that Little Dog

  still hasn’t written back, and, frankly, I’m starting to get irritated. That shithead had better be dead somewhere.

  Figuring I have all the time in the world, I head out

  to grab a good breakfast at Sonic, and then I cruise out of town in a line of petroleum workers eager to get to their

  fracking sites. My little sedan in a parade of big trucks.

  It makes me feel like a princess.

  The sky ahead of me is purplish pink. The sun rises

  behind the smokestack cloud like I’m entering some sort

  of futuristic dawn hellscape. I glare at the tower and keep driving toward the little prison town beyond.

  Instead of bothering to sneak up on the boys, I pull

  right up to Little Dog’s mansion on the hill. Assuming a

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  group of twenty-something guys doesn’t have the com-

  mon sense to use a lock, I walk straight to the front

  door. Voilà. It opens on quiet hinges, letting me in to

  do anything I want.

  For a moment I take in the house in darkness, the

  dank, lingering stench of weed and sickly-sweet hops.

  The ticking of a grandfather clock in the dining room.

  The heavy air
that tells me they haven’t cracked a win-

  dow in weeks.

  Once my eyes adjust, I move deeper into the house.

  One guy is passed out on the couch amid a hailstorm of

  crumpled beer cans, but he’s not the person I’m looking

  for, so I keep walking. At the first bedroom I crack open

  the door, but it’s another guy in there and he’s actu-

  ally managed to score some female companionship. Not

  Kayla, though. This girl has dark brown skin and black

  twists of hair.

  I shut that door and continue on through the open

  doors of the master bedroom, pulling them closed behind

  me. It’s too dark for me to see well, so I shove aside the

  curtains that cover a sliding glass door to let some of the rising sun in. When I turn, I find Nate sprawled across

  the king-size bed in sweatpants and a sleeveless T-shirt.

  Little Dog still isn’t home, it seems, but Nate doesn’t seem worried. He’s content as an innocent babe and snoring

  slightly with each breath.

  I sit down on the bed with him and grab his phone

  from its resting place on the mattress near his arm. Hoping he has a fingerprint lock on his passcode so I can use his

  hand for entrance, I wake up his screen. Lo and behold,

  this guy has no lock whatsoever. He really is an innocent

  babe. You don’t often find such trust in a pothead.

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  Upon opening his texts, I find a thread from “LD,” and,

  sure enough, Nate texted him the first time I dropped by.

  Where you at? Some lady just came by. You still

  alive?

  He sent that text as soon as I left, but it looks like

  Little Dog didn’t respond for hours. But he did respond.

  Still alive & kickin. What lady?

  “Well, well, well,” I whisper. If it ain’t Lazarus Pimp

  himself, back from the dark beyond.

  Dunno, Nate responded. She was looking for Kayla.

  Was she alone?

  That seems like an odd question. Not Was she a cop?

  or What did she say? but Was she alone? Hmmm.

  His friends already said that someone came by and

  beat the crap out of Little Dog about a week after Kayla

  went missing. It seems like he’s on the run from that bald

  guy as opposed to fleeing from something he might have

  done to my niece.

  Nate reassured him that I had come alone, then asked

  if everything was cool.

  Jus layin low man. Hope we can head back soon.

  We! “A clue, a clue,” I sing softly before scrolling

  back through previous texts. Little Dog has indeed been