Auctioned

by Lulu Pratt

  I smiled. “So after Madison and Monroe, next is John Quincy Adams.”

  Henry nodded. “John Wince Adams.”

  “Quincy.”

  “Kw-incy.”

  “Yup. He was the son of John Adams. And then there’s Andrew Jackson.”

  My son mouthed the name, as if each syllable were precious. He drank in knowledge like a hummingbird on the tip of a purple orchid. He was ever thirsty for more.

  “Which ones were girls?” he asked.

  “There ain’t any presidents who have been women, yet,” I explained. “But we’re working on it. And when you turn eighteen, you can help pick as many women presidents as you like.”

  He scrunched up his face, not happy with this discovery, but he set it aside.

  “Okay, now who?” he asked, and I was about to tell him about the disastrous Martin Van Buren when my boss strode across the dirt parking lot.

  “It’s the cowboys!” Big Bob hollered across the empty vastness. “Howdy, hicks!”

  Frustration bubbled within me, but I kept my temper. Big Bob always called me a cowboy, hick, redneck… you get the gist. Sure, I was from Texas, with an accent thicker than molasses and the boots to match, but I was no hick. And I was certainly more open-minded than Big Bob, who himself was the picture of small-town values, which is to say that he was an absolute prick. He quite literally walked tall and carried a big stick, though in his case, it was an ivory-topped cane carved in the shape of a bald eagle. Yeah, he was that kind of patriot.

  Big Bob also had a handlebar so thick it could catch butter drops, and cheeks that puffed out whenever he got upset, which was far too often. He wasn’t much of a boss, and he wasn’t much of a man, but auto repair was the only job I knew and Rough and Ready was built on car repair because the only thing people did ‘round here was drive on through. Every now and then, as so happens, they’d break down. And thus existed Rough and Ready’s sole industry, if you will.

  “What are you two knuckleheads eating today?” he panted as he hobbled over to our table, his beer belly hanging over the brass belt buckle that clipped in his rotund waist.

  “Salami,” I replied. Henry crossed his arms over his chest. I hadn’t told him as much, but I think he sensed that Big Bob wasn’t worth the price of spit. Kids are intuitive like that.

  Big Bob made a face. “You that poor?”

  I bristled at this, but only replied, “I’m as poor as you pay me, Bob.”

  He snickered, “Oh, right.”

  Like I said, a prick.

  “Did you need something?” I asked, the patience feathering at the edges of my tone, my irritability obvious. I tried to keep a basic modicum of inner peace, but some days, I was just pushed to my breaking point.

  “Yup,” he replied lazily, twirling a finger through his suspenders. “Car broke down.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Well, I was just comin’ back from Miss Keller’s — picking up some of those chickens, y’know, because Mrs. Big Bob is making chicken wings tonight — and I saw some girls, some gorgeous things, all legs and tits, leaning over their steaming car just a-ways away from the town sign.”

  “And you stopped and offered them help?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. It was a shitty old car, didn’t look like there’d be much money in the repair. But you can go help ‘em out if you feel like it.”

  My lips pulled into a thin line. “So you’re saying two young women are alone in the desert with a broken car, and you didn’t help them?”

  He shrugged. “We can’t all be saints, Carter Conlin.”

  “That’s a low bar,” I muttered.

  “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing,” I replied, stiffening up, standing from my chair. “I’ll go pick the girls up. You think they need a tow?”

  “Probably.”

  Shit. We had no towing service in town. Big Bob, the old cheapskate, refused to pay for one as he spent most of his money on Civil War-era guns and artillery. This meant we’d need to call for a towing service from one or two towns over.

  “Call it in,” I instructed Big Bob, running him ‘round as though I were his boss and not the reverse. “You set up the tow, I’ll grab the ladies.”

  He simmered. “That ain’t fair, I want the ass.”

  “Then maybe,” I replied through gritted teeth, “you should’ve thought of that when you left them there alone.”

  Big Bob looked about ready to pick a fight when Henry spoke up. “You gonna help some girls, Daddy?”

  “Yeah, kid.”

  I leaned down and gave him a kiss on the forehead. Listen, I’m all for rescuing damsels in distress, but could they be distressed when I wasn’t spending time with my kid? It was just another searing reminder that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t give Henry all the attention he deserved. I would never be enough of a father for him.

  I’d help these girls all right, but it didn’t mean I had to be happy about it.

  “All right, Henry, you stay here.”

  “Can I watch some TV with Big Bob ?” he asked hopefully, standing up on his tippy-toes.

  “Nu-uh. Read your book.”

  “But I don’t wanna.”

  “But you gotta.” I turned to Big Bob. “Please don’t let him watch anything.”

  Big Bob ignored this, and I knew with a sinking resignation that he would turn on the TV the minute I left. It was just another little way for him to exert his power over me and remind me that, above all else, he really just didn’t care.

  There’s only so much you can control, I reminded myself. You are doing your best.

  Was this my best?

  The thought stayed with me as I hopped into my truck and drove off to welcome some strangers to Rough and Ready.

  CHAPTER 3

  Phoebe

  “FUCK,” Jo-Beth snarled, leaning over the hood of the car, her denim shorts riding up, her white sneakers covered in dirt.

  “What is it?”

  She stood up. “Well, we’re screwed, that’s what.”

  “Why?” I asked, my hand shielding my eyes from the sun as I walked to the car. “Can’t we do anything?”

  She threw up her arms. “The engine is fucked, and I know a little about cars, but not enough for this. We need some serious repair, if not on the body, then at least on the motor. I’m…”

  Without notice, Jo-Beth plopped down into the dirt, but her face between her knees, and screamed with frustration. This was what my psych professors would call Jo-Beth’s classic coping mechanism. She was kind of a screamer. Not to psychoanalyze her or anything, but I thought maybe she could work on a coping mechanism that didn’t involve rasping her vocal cords dry and raw.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” I told her, wrapping my arm around her shoulder and squeezing her tight. Jo-Beth’s love language, to use the term loosely, was touch. She could always be soothed by skin-on-skin contact. Knowing these kind of psychological details about my friends sometimes made me feel like I was overstepping, but it was always good in times of crisis.

  “Why did I have to do physics?” she moaned. “Why couldn’t I do good, practical science?”

  “Because you had to be a smarty pants show off,” I reminded her.

  “Oh yeah, right.”

  Her hands clenched in the dirt, her jaw locking. I knew I couldn’t let Jo-Beth have a meltdown, because then I would have a meltdown, and of way more epic proportions. Unfortunately, I have panic attacks that feel like the end of the world, and my daily anxiety runs to the “quivering hands” variety. And please don’t tell me to use CBD, because trust me, I’ve tried everything.

  In that moment, I was keeping it together by the skin of my teeth.

  “Let’s stand up,” I suggested, offering Jo-Beth my hand. She considered it for a moment, then reluctantly took my outstretched palm and levered herself upright. “That’s better.”

  “Now what?”

  I paused, and thought. “Now, we wait.”
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br />   “That last truck past us,” she scowled, referencing the shiny white Chevy that had driven by fifteen minutes ago.

  “Then we won’t let the next one go by.”

  “And how do you plan on doing that?”

  “Simple psychology,” I said with a wink.

  I reached over to Jo-Beth and began to adjust her clothing. I rolled her shorts up three more inches until they were covering her pussy and little else, tied the hem of her T-shirt up, and let down her ponytail. Within moments, I’d transformed my dirt-covered friend into a blonde Daisy Duke.

  She laughed. “You think we’ll get a truck to stop just by sticking my tits out?”

  “Uh, yeah. Duh.”

  Jo-Beth rolled her eyes, but obliged. She was a good sport. “Your turn. Let’s see that belly.”

  “Nobody cares about my body,” I reminded my friend.

  “That’s not true, Phoebe. You have a lovely body.”

  But it kinda was. I’m not torn up about it or anything. I’m thin and built straight up and down. All skin and bones, nothing much in the way of tits or ass. I’ve got long legs and not much else. My hair is brown, my eyes are brown, my skin is pale. Nothing exciting, nothing interesting, but I did have a smile that went all the way to my eyes and to my hairline. I would always be the extra in a film, never the star. Jo-Beth, on the other hand, is a new age Scarlett Johansson.

  Jo-Beth’s gaze bore into me. I knew she disapproved of my tepid self-love, and I didn’t want to have the argument again. Avoiding her eyes, I pulled out my phone, preparing to call someone, anyone. AAA, maybe? It’d take them hours to get out here, for sure, but if that was the case, we’d better call early, before the sun went down.

  I breathed out a shaky puff of air. “Jo-Beth, there’s no service.”

  She tugged her phone out of her back pocket and glanced down. “Same here. Fuck.”

  Okay. So the situation just went from kinda bad to red sirens, screaming children bad. We were in the middle of nowhere. We had no phones. We could trot Jo-Beth and her tits out on the dirt road as much as we wanted but that didn’t do us a lick of good if there was no one on the small country road, and I didn’t see any cars in the distance.

  Maybe you’re thinking, But Phoebe, you wanted to go to Rough and Ready! You crashed in a town!

  And that’s a cheery outlook, and I respect your urge to look on the bright side. Very sweet. But the only things I knew about Rough and Ready were the mysterious alien lights and the abandoned brothel. There are no internet profiles, such as Yelp, Facebook, et cetera, for restaurants, hotels or most important of all, repair shops. So it didn’t matter that we were right on the edge of where we were theoretically supposed to be, because we couldn’t contact any of them.

  I bent over the hood of the car, frantic, hoping to find some kind of Alice in Wonderland hose that said, “Reconnect me!” Why didn’t cars just ask for what they needed?!

  “Phoebe, stand up!” Jo-Beth shouted with excitement. “I see a truck!”

  Unwilling to get my hopes up, I turned to look in the direction Jo-Beth was facing.

  Sure enough, there was a shiny red truck, far away on the horizon. It struck me as being too well-kept for the area, but beggars can’t be choosers. And anyways, if I was a beggar, I’d be delighted by the sight of a nice set of wheels. This perhaps suggest I wouldn’t be a very productive beggar. I digress.

  Jo-Beth darted out into the middle of the two-lane highway, bouncing up and down to jiggle her breasts, her flat stomach bared to the sun. If there was a straight man in that car, he was gonna stop.

  Several moments passed as Jo-Beth and I waited with suspense for the truck to approach. Distances are confusing in the desert. The waviness of heat off the road makes the background wiggle and the foreground mutable. I’d thought the truck was five-hundred feet away. Now I saw that it’d been more like a mile. Couldn’t this dude drive any faster?

  After a seeming eternity of rising anticipation, the truck was closing in. Jo-Beth leapt up and down with even more urgency, and I waved my arms, doing what little I could for the team. The truck was slowing.

  “We need help!” Jo-Beth called. “Our car broke down!”

  I stayed quiet, knowing she would take the lead on this. She was far more outspoken, and if anyone could convince a stranger to stop for two other strangers in the middle of the desert, it was her.

  The truck pulled to a stop about twenty feet from us. My heart raced. Exterior maintenance was no indication of who sat in the driver’s seat. He — or she, the windows were too tinted to tell — could be a murderer. A kidnapper. A general felon about town. In the span of a second, all the possibilities flashed through my mind.

  I braced myself. This truck was our only hope, but that didn’t make me any less paranoid.

  Then out stepped the hottest man I’d ever had the privilege of laying eyes on.

  I did a double, triple take, wondering if he was a desert mirage. Because a man that good-looking had no business being on the edge of Rough and Ready.

  He towered at something like six-two or six-three, and though he wore cowboy boots, it was clear that the height was all his own, not enhanced by any hidden heel. His tanned skin and deep brown eyes suggested that he might be Latino, but I wasn’t sure. He had the firm set jaw of a man who knew what he wanted, but the soft expression of one who wouldn’t take it by force. His hair was slicked back, as if he’d just dismounted a horse and was still wet from the ride. Traces of stubble shaded his high cheekbones.

  And his arms, oh darling, they deserved their own epic poem. I oogled them as he put on his cowboy hat. Firm tattooed biceps, taut forearms… I felt an overwhelming urge to run into them.

  Then I remembered that even hot guys can be murderers, kidnappers and ne’er-do-wells.

  Hotness is no indicator of moral goodness, I reminded myself, reciting something I’d learn in psych class about humans’ disposition to trust people that were conventionally attractive – an unfortunate, hardwired failing. Sure, he was handsome beyond all reason, but I couldn’t let that distract me. My survival was still on the line.

  And besides, a guy this sexy should be in LA or NYC, acting in blockbusters or headlining major modeling campaigns. What the hell was he doing out here? It was just suspicious. I crossed my arms over my chest and planted my feet into the ground.

  “Howdy, ladies,” he called out as he slammed the door of his truck, a thick Texas twang curling through his voice.

  I wasted no time. “Who the hell are you?”

  He grinned.

  ***

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