by Evelyn Glass
“I guess you lucked out tonight,” I say as I sit back in my seat. Her glare is drilling an uncomfortable hole in me. The drive to the gym couldn’t take any longer.
“I guess I did.” She returns to staring at the road before saying tiredly, “I need the money, so you better live up to this bargain.”
“You’ll get your cash. Drop me off right there, and I’ll be back in an hour.” I reach over and grab her phone off of the counsel and quickly add my number to her phone. “If I’m not, call this burner under the name ‘Henry,’ and I’ll come out.”
“Henry? Is that your name?” I can’t tell if she’s asking for her own benefit or to weed me out, pry some information against me in case she needs to use it in an interrogation room for leverage.
“No. It’s not.” Henry is my dad’s name. I used it all the time when I was going undercover. Liam Murphy wasn’t muttered on many guy’s lips unless they really knew me.
“Then…”
“Let’s stick with Henry, for now, honey.”
“Honey isn’t my name either. I’m --”
I cut her off quickly. “I don’t need to know it. When I do business, it’s in and out. Hearing your name means I get attached. And you really don’t want me to be attached to you.” I wouldn’t mind my body being attached to her, but that’s a whole other story…
She pulls the truck around to the front of the gym like I told her. It’s the one unlit door us more notorious boxers use to come in undetected. No cameras. No lights. No groups of people watching us from behind. I could have been here all night -- not robbing a rival gang member’s house while they were busy dealing with a territory breach set up by my boys. And because I am such a regular here, a rising star boxer, each and every one of the men inside would vouch for me. No question about that.
She doesn’t look at me as I slip past her back towards the back of the truck. I just need one last reassurance that the jewels and diamonds are safe, and that they are well-hidden in case she does decide to pull a runner. I pull down the container of chocolate bugs and then open up the unlocked safe just one more time. Everything’s in its place. All I can do now is just trust that this girl is good to go.
For good measure, I grab a few ice cream sandwiches and return to the front seat. I throw her another hundred-dollar bill from my pocket. I wink as I say, “For the sandwiches. They’re my favorite. I’ll see you in an hour, right here.” She looks like she’s about to protest, but I’m already out the door, slamming it hard behind me. I run straight for to the door and watch as she peels the truck away quickly.
Now I can only wait it out and pray that she comes back. My whole, entire future rests on the back of that strange, beautiful girl’s ice cream truck.
Chapter 3
My first instinct is to call Jana. I’m not sure why it isn’t to call the police, flag down a passer-by, or at least get the hell out of Vegas. But all I want to do is ring up my bestie and tell her about this cute as hell bad boy that just leaped into the back of my dad’s ice cream truck. I’d have to leave out the part about him putting a gun to my head and then throwing money at me like I was some hired whore, but it would still be an awesome story.
Still, as I pull far out of sight of the gym, I can hear Jana’s authoritative and judgmental voice practically scolding me like she was my dead mom herself, “Don’t you dare touch that boy, Alana. He’s obviously nothing but trouble, and you’re attracted to trouble like a fly to honey. You’re already stuck.”
My inner-Jana was so right. Even though I was this straight-A student in sneakers and a cardigan, I had somehow attracted all the wrong boys. Blame it on the blonde hair or the bimbo-in-disguise look I’ve unfortunately got going on, but whatever it is, the boys, like that dad earlier, come running hard and then figure out how to weasel themselves into my life until I’m torn up and tossed out.
That was the case with my last, long-term boyfriend, Adrian. We met in our Creative Writing Prose course, and I thought that it was a sign. Here was a guy who was creative, well-educated, and motivated. He was nothing like the scummy townie boys I flocked to. We dated seriously for about eight months when things started to go south.
When I wouldn’t wear a tight enough dress, he started commenting on how my “thighs would look fat in a dress like that anyways.” And when I stopped making him dinner because of a night class, he demanded that I drop out by saying, “You don’t have the talent, Alana. You’re not some sophisticated writer like you think you are.” Then, like pretty much every guy before him, the cheating happened. The first was an “accident.” How a girl’s mouth “accidentally” ends up on his naked dick was still a mystery to me today, but I was willing to forgive a drunken night out with the boys. Adrian seemed sincere… until “accidents” kept happening.
I still see Adrian around campus. He’s in a few of my classes and in our master’s writing club. While it sucks to be forced to listen to his sad and pathetic poetry about having too much love to give, at least every time I see him, that little bit of anger I had for him seems to fade away. And the less I want to date or do guys like him… or the insanely hot guy with the emerald green eyes that just popped up in the back of my ice cream truck.
No. No. No. I am not doing that whole Stockholm Syndrome thing -- that psychological disaster they talk about on the news where the person kidnapped starts falling for the monster doing kidnapping. Being one of the hottest looking guys I’ve ever seen, complete with the dark crown of hair, chiseled jaw, and bursting and tatted up biceps, doesn’t mean it’s time for me to give into all that shit. I should be angry -- right? I should be pissed off that he violated my space and then threatened my life for whatever gain he is getting out of it.
This was win-win for him, but what about me? Sure, a few hundred bucks would pay for about a half hour of my dad’s medical care, but was it enough to risk me going to jail helping out someone obviously on the run? I don’t know what my dad would think of me if he knew I was currently driving around a guy in a leather jacket with a bad attitude and a trigger-happy finger.
If I was going to keep going with this plan, I had to find some silver lining, some win-win for me. I pull over into a diner’s unlit parking lot, driving behind the building. As I put the truck into park, my hands slightly shake. That energy from our meeting is coursing through my body, but I have no time to let it slow me down. I take a few deep breaths with my eyes closed before taking the seatbelt off and heading back to my chair in the truck. I power on the laptop and sit back while it purrs softly to life.
My blog, Graduate-Level Ice Cream, is still up in my browser. My last mini-blog post has gone live with a few comments trickling in. I take a second to read one from Jana, who is, no doubt, following along from her consistently boring American Literature grad class. She’s written almost prophetically about the deadbeat dad, Oh, GLIC girl… I am glad to hear you saw right through that slick asshole’s game. You can tell your picks in guys is getting smarter every day. ;-)
That winking face is practically taunting me. It’s the right and wrong comment to be reading right now when my mind is still spinning around fantasies of being kidnapped in my own truck by an ice cream loving Robin Hood. Part of me is ashamed to write what I want to write, but I need to get this out. The blog is supposed to be a place for my confessions, even if they are a bit insane and a whole lot of wrong. Jana was just going to have to deal with it.
I open up a draft page and begin to type as furiously as I can with as little time as I have left to go pick up the guy from the boxing gym:
Dear GLIC readers: I’m not sure if this is a cry for help or what, but I am sitting in my truck, still covered by today’s ice cream and melted chocolate sauce, and completely shaken. I just had something insane happen to me, and I don’t know if I should share it. But because I believe in honesty and confessions, here it goes:
I was kidnapped today. Okay, maybe kidnapped is the wrong word for what is going on with me. But let’s just say that a str
anger I’ve never seen in my entire life just popped up, as I was about to pull away from my parking spot. For about a total of two seconds, he made it clear he had a gun, and if I didn’t drive him to a location, he would use it. Something he told me he wouldn’t. It wasn’t that he was weak, but it was that he was in control.
So I did probably the most stupid thing I could have done, and I drove. Like I said, I had no idea who he was or what he wanted from me, but I drove. It wasn’t far -- the location-- but it was enough to make me feel as if I had done something absolutely terrible. Maybe I’m his alibi or his getaway. Maybe he’s mistaken me for some weird bus route he didn’t have a token for. I don’t know. But I dropped him off, and I am being forced to pick him up in a few minutes time. I am not going to test what happens if I don’t come.
I hesitate slightly, chewing on my nails, as I write out the last part of the blog post. This is the kicker, but it’s important. At least, I think it is.
The truth is that this isn’t your run of the mill kidnapper or hardened criminal. (Is there a standard prototype on them?) The truth is that this guy, who goes by Henry, is one of the most amazing looking men I have ever seen in my life. He has these green eyes that practically pulsate in the dark and a face that is both deliriously hopeful and scared at the same time.
And he must have sensed my fear or the weight of the world hanging on my shoulders because instead of forcing that gun to my head again, he handed me money. Cash. Cold har--
I stop myself as I try to finish the last few paragraphs. I have a strict rule at GLIC to tell it as it is but to also protect myself. If I was going to lay it out to the world that I am a victim of a possible wanted madman, I better not give away my innocence as well by saying that I accepted a bribe. That could potentially put me in prison right beside him, and I do not look good in orange.
So I delete that last section about him giving me money, and I end it with the ambiguous description of not-Henry. I’m about to hit “submit” when I pause. The clock on the wall tells me I have a good ten minutes to get back to him. That’s just enough time to let this go out there, but it dawns on me what happens after this post goes live. I can see Jana freaking out, grabbing her books from her desk in the lecture hall, and running out of the room in a flurry. She’ll call the cops; give them the description of my car, and the location of my main stops. Within an hour, they’ll be hunting me, and that guy down, and I’ll be putting myself at more risk than ever.
I can’t do this. Even though I know it could gain me readers -- drama always does -- I can’t risk this. And the thought of worrying Jana for something I admit that I am not even that terrified made me feel even more guilty at myself for writing this down. I don’t need this extra stress right now.
Frustrated, I shut the lid of my laptop and return to the driver’s seat. I lean back in my seat, my head leaning firm up against the headrest and my hands curled around the arms. I give myself a moment to think about my dad in this truck as he manned the helm. I was doing this for him. That’s all that mattered. I could be brave because of him. I could do whatever I needed to do because of him.
I turn on the truck and head back towards where I came from. I’m driving slower than before, but it’s more at the risk of not being pulled over. Believe it or not, but cops do catch speeding ice cream trucks. It’s hard not to notice us, even during rush hour traffic. I reach behind me and grab my black sweatshirt I left on the other side of the seat and toss it over my shoulders. The hood covers my head and masks my face. At least this gave me some sense of control.
Minutes and miles pass in a weird, otherworldly haze and I’m suddenly back at the Beat Gym. It’s a pretty happening place by the looks of it. The larger area of the gym is full of crowds streaming slowly into the two or three open doors. Security dressed in all black, like the mystery man I’m waiting for, sit by the door taking tickets and checking IDs. I idly wonder if that’s why we’re here. Maybe the guy commandeering my truck is actually some kind of bouncer in need of a ride...
… Yeah, it sounds ridiculous to even think that. I need to stop giving Henry, or whatever his real name is, a story. Whatever he needs my truck for is going to remain a mystery to me. I have to keep deniability here just in case this spirals out of control. Asking too many questions of him is just going to make me go down that hole of no return.
But when I see him, I can’t help but come up with a thousand more questions. He goes the opposite direction of the crowd, pushing through the surrounding bodies. He’s wearing an entirely different outfit now -- some workout gear. That doesn’t give me pause. I mean, he’s at a gym after all. What’s making me stop and stare, mouth open and all, are the women pulling at him. They all seem to know or recognize him as if he were this celebrity. A blond with fake tits holds on to him possessively while a redhead stands on her toes to whisper something in his ear that makes his head turn in milliseconds towards her. He laughs, his white teeth showing, as he pulls forward, shaking off the blonde on his way.
He spots me, raising a hand in my direction. I nod under my hoodie and unlock the doors as he sprints towards me. His black and white workout boxers blow in the wind as he goes. To my surprise, Not-Henry opens the driver’s side door and jumps up next to me. He’s so close I can smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with fresh body sweat and maybe a hint of bourbon.
“Scoot over, girl. Let me drive.” He gestures over to the empty passenger seat as he looks back at the crowd impatiently.
I put my hands on the steering wheel firmly as I reply, “What? No! This wasn’t part of the deal. I drive. You pay me. That’s it. I’m not letting you touch my dad’s ice cream truck.” The part about my father somehow just slipped out. He doesn’t need to know those details, yet I was giving them away freely.
“Listen, honey--”
“Don’t call me honey.”
“Okay, fine. I’m going to call you Alana since that’s the name on the truck.” He winks at me as he continues, “Alana -- I’m about to make you a ton of money in addition to what I am going to pay you. If you trust me, I will sell out this entire truck in under an hour, but I need to drive, and you need to go along with whatever I tell you to do.”
“I -- I don’t know.” I hesitate. He hasn’t lied about money so far, and he obviously has connections here. After the slow business day at the park, I could really use a turnaround.
“Come on, Alana.” His voice is as smooth as the ice cream in the back. It’s deep and earthy with a hint of planned seduction. This guy knows he is hot stuff. Those girls eyeing the truck and me with deep suspicion obviously built his ego up enough that he knew he could use it against me.
And like I a fool, I give in. I hand him the keys as I unbuckle and slide into the passenger seat. He turns back to me and looks me up and down. He points to my sweatshirt as he mimes unzipping, “Whatever this is you got going on isn’t going to work. We need to sex it up.”
“I sell ice cream to kids. I don’t do sexy,” I reply as I toss off the fleece and adjust my wrinkled t-shirt.
“You’ve got a tank under that stained shirt?” He stares me down a little too long as I huff and pull off my official work t-shirt. Underneath is a little white tank I wear in case the truck gets too hot to sleep in at night. It’s not in the best condition, but it will do until he reaches over and pulls down the shirt by the stomach, exposing my black push-up bra. A wicked smile creeps across his face as he proclaims, “Now that I can work with.”
Before I can argue with him, he’s already driving straight towards the crowd, aiming for a group of kids coming towards the arena section with their parents. “How do I turn on the…”
I’ve already got him covered as I press a button that turns on the classic ice cream truck music. I hate these songs. They practically haunt my childhood, but seeing his and those kid’s faces light up is something else. Not-Henry puts the car in park and runs towards the back. As I struggle with my seatbelt, I hear him figuring out the window latch. T
he sound of eager voices comes bursting through.
“Mom! Mom!” A kid shouts excitedly, “It’s Mr. Murphy! Can we get ice cream from him? Please!”
I get to the back of the truck just in time to hear Henry call back loudly, “For you, kid, you can have a scoop on the house.” He opens up the cooler and grabs a scoop from the drying rack. It’s like he’s already been back here, examined the territory, and worked a shift or two. He even manages to scoop out a perfect round ball of ice cream on a candy coated waffle cone. The ten-year-old boy looks even more thrilled than before.
He’s not alone. Behind him are at least forty others waiting to buy ice cream from the man they keep calling, “Mr. Murphy.” He even throws on an apron and my dad’s hat as he poses for pictures with busty girls in tight dresses all holding Miss Alana ice cream cones. The truck is practically going viral before my eyes, all because of my kidnapper.
And for his part, Henry looks as happy as ever handing out ice cream like it’s his second job. I help out behind the scenes by telling him the price of each item and restocking sundae toppings as we run out. When the person is done ordering, he hands me the credit card or cash and the occasional tip, not even bothering to count it or pocket it. My small register fills up as I transfer it to my overcrowded safe.
