DIRTY READS

by Scott Hildreth

  “If I told you I knew how you were feeling would you believe me?”

  “Uhhm. Like really believe you?”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  “Probably not.”

  “I see. Well…” She adjusted herself on the cushion, crossed her legs, and fixed her eyes on mine.

  It was the first time I had really noticed her eyes, but they were a lot like Navarro’s. A memorizing blue, and definitely not easy to look away from.

  “I was seventeen. My husband was twenty-one, and he was at work. We married much younger back then. We’d been married for two years at the time.”

  I was shocked. “You got married when you were fifteen?”

  “I sure did. He was in the military, and we married immediately after he completed his basic training.”

  “Wow.”

  She smiled. “I wanted to be the perfect housewife. I had his dinner ready every night when he got home from work. We lived off-base in a small house – just a one bedroom. We were renting it for $250 a month.”

  I laughed. “Those days are long gone.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” she said. “Would you like something to drink?”

  Her voice was soothing, and I enjoyed listening to her tell her story. Although she was considerably younger, she reminded me of my grandmother, which I found comforting. “No. I’m good for now.”

  She smiled, rested her hands in her lap, and continued. “So, one day, I had dinner in the oven, and was waiting for my husband to come home. A man knocked at the door, and I answered. Back then, people walked from door to door selling things. Door to door salesmen, that’s what they called them. We didn’t have the internet, or cell phones, for that matter.”

  I grinned at the thought of living back in the day, and not having all of the distractions of the modern world. Life would be so much different, for sure.

  “He was selling vacuum cleaners. I wanted to tell him we couldn’t afford one, but to be really honest, I was interested in seeing what it was capable of. A Kirby. That’s what they called it. Nothing, he said, could get my house cleaner than a Kirby. I had almost an hour to spare before my husband was to get home, so I agreed to see his demonstration.”

  “Was it as good as he said?”

  She shook her head. “We never got that far. He closed the door, locked it, and then he raped me.”

  My heart sank. I had no idea that’s where she was headed with her story. “I’m so sorry.”

  She smiled a faint but genuine smile and continued. “I felt guilty. For letting him in, you know. I felt responsible, because I was wearing the skirt that my husband liked so much, and though if I had chosen a pants suit, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”

  She didn’t seem upset at all talking about it, but I felt terribly sorry for her nonetheless. To think of someone doing something like that to an unsuspecting housewife was horrible. I stared back at her, at a complete loss for words.

  “Mood swings, fits of anger, anxiety, and periods of having less than zero self-esteem followed. It lasted for years. We were trying to have a child at the time, so, I told my husband I needed to go to the doctor. I went that day and got help. I talked to someone like me, a counselor. And, here I am. I’ve spent my entire life helping people like you and me.”

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  “So, if I told you now that I knew how you were feeling, would you believe me?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Are you ready to talk, Peyton?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I am.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Nick

  She thrust her hip into the door of her Jeep, and swung it closed. I watched as she walked into the shop, a plastic bag dangling from her right fist. She swung it back and forth comically, as if to bring attention to the fact she was carrying it. I hadn’t seen her for an entire week and I didn’t like it much, but she told me she’d come around as soon a she was able.

  By the look on her face, she must have been a little more than able.

  Smiling from ear to ear, she continued to walk toward me, the grin all but covering her entire face. Watching her walk was a treat in itself, and I could do it for as long as she would let me.

  Her jean shorts, Chuck’s, and Jimi Hendrix tee shirt were a reminder of the way things once were.

  “Here,” she said, tossing the bag toward me.

  I wasn’t expecting her to throw it, but caught it before it fell to the floor, nonetheless. It wasn’t heavy, but it was heavier than I expected. “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  I opened the bag and removed the box that was inside. Covered in Harley-Davidson wrapping paper, the 12-inch by 12-inch box was perfectly wrapped.

  “Did you wrap it?”

  “No,” she said. “I got some random lady to do it.”

  I nodded and glanced down at the box.

  “Yes, asshole. I wrapped it.”

  “Oh. It looks nice.”

  “Open it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a fucking gift, you big goon.”

  She’s only been gone for a week, and it seemed in the time that she was away, she’d got her spunk back. Surprised, and feeling like I was feeding off of her playful nature, I tossed the box on the workbench and spun her around by her arm. As soon as I did it, I realized I probably shouldn’t have. Her reaction told me otherwise.

  She bent over and pointed her ass at me. After a few seconds of hovering there bent over, she stood up.

  “I thought you were going to spank me. Fucking tease.”

  “I was just fucking around.”

  She brushed her hair away from her face. “Open it.”

  I peeled the paper away from the box carefully, and placed it aside. After opening one of the flaps to the cardboard box and looking inside, I laughed.

  “You know what it is? she asked.

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “So, you’ve been aware all along that they existed?”

  “Yep.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “When were you going to tell me?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Dick.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a dick.”

  I opened the other end of the box. “That’s kind of harsh.”

  “Really?” she snapped back. “Why don’t you ride on that steel fender for a few hours and then find out they make a little suction cup seat for it. I fucking swear. I was so mad.”

  I couldn’t do anything but laugh. “Sorry.”

  “The guy at the shop said it was a one-size-fits-all type affair. Is that right?”

  I nodded. “Sure is.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Enough with the names, you little fucker. Jesus.”

  “I just can’t believe that you’ve had me on the back of that thing sitting on a bare fender. And, there’s another thing I realized after I was looking at some motorcycles at the dealer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You turned it into a hardtail. It doesn’t even have fucking shocks.”

  I chuckled. “Yep.”

  “Yep it does, or yep it doesn’t?”

  “It’s a hardtail.”

  “Fucker,” she hissed.

  “Thanks for the gift, reporter.”

  “You’re welcome, outlaw.”

  She looked remarkable. The way she was acting led me to believe she was feeling better about everything. I had no way of knowing if the deaths of the four men contributed to her state of mind, but I really couldn’t ask, either. The newspaper had their names listed in the obituaries, but other than that there was nothing on the news, in the newspaper, or on the internet.

  Further proof that their lives, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t really matter.

  “Why are you so fucking giddy today, Peyton?”

  She shrugged. “Dunno. Just happy. Maybe it’s the seat.”

  “Quite a bit of excitement o
ver a little seat.”

  “That little seat’s going to make a huge difference. That’s what the guy said.”

  The thought of having her on the back of my bike excited me. Especially as happy as she was. “Only one way to find out. Have dinner yet?”

  “Not yet, why?”

  I tossed her seat in the air. She caught it and grinned.

  “Let’s roll, reporter.”

  “Music to my ears, asshole,” she snapped back.

  And hearing her smart-assed remarks were music to mine.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Peyton

  Two weeks and five sessions of EMDR therapy later, and I was feeling better than I ever believed could have been possible. One eighty-dollar suction cup seat later, and my ass was in heaven. I felt like kidney-punching Navarro as he leisurely rolled down the street for keeping me in the dark about the possibility of a comfortable ride.

  We rode along Mission Beach Boulevard after our fish taco dinner, and the ride was a completely different experience altogether. The new seat made riding much more pleasurable. I thought I liked it before, but riding without having my teeth jarred with each bump was allowing me to enjoy everything around us.

  I peered beyond the boardwalk and fixed my eyes on the beach. It was late in the evening, and although the sun wasn’t setting yet, the low clouds on the horizon seemed to be reaching for the orange ball of fire as it descended toward the ocean.

  Seeing the beach, ocean, and soon to be setting sun while riding on my new seat took me to a place I hadn’t been since I was a little girl. I tapped Navarro on the shoulder and leaned forward. “Can you pull over?”

  “We’ll hit Belmont,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  After a few more wonderful minutes of riding, he turned into Belmont Park and came to a stop. I pulled off my helmet, climbed off the bike, and waited for him to get off. Instead of hopping off in a rush like he normally did, he gazed toward the beach for a moment, and then looked right at me.

  “Got any plans tonight?”

  I hung my helmet on the handlebars and shook my head. “No, why?”

  “Want to just sit here and watch the sunset?”

  It seemed like an odd question, coming from Navarro. I had hoped that he’d pull over and allow me a few minutes to sit and watch the clouds transform from white marshmallow puffs to picturesque brush strokes of oranges and pinks as they encompassed the sun.

  Actually witnessing the sunset, especially with him, seemed like a dream come true.

  “I’d love to,” I said.

  He hung his helmet on the handlebars. I waited for his usual five-steps-ahead I’m bigger and badder than you stroll, but he stepped to my right side and waited.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  I took advantage of the situation, and of him. I gripped his left arm in hand and prepared for his refusal. His eyes met mine, then he looked ahead like nothing had happened. After a few steps, I felt guilty, and released his arm. I really wanted to know if he was going to tell me to get the fuck off of him or if he’d somehow manage to find a way to allow me to touch him.

  Knowing he wasn’t going to browbeat me over it was nice.

  After a few steps, he reached for my wrist, tucked my arm inside of his, and continued walking. No eye contact, no spoken words, just a gentle gesture by a man who probably didn’t have a gentle bone in his body.

  I fought against my urge to grin, not wanting him to know just how special he was making me feel. I realized we were nothing more than associates, but having someone understand exactly when to act like a human wasn’t a common occurrence in the world any longer, and I knew it.

  I accepted his offer of kindness and wore an internal smile all the way to Oceanfront Walk. A thigh-high concrete wall separated the walkway from the beach, and when we reached it, we both naturally stopped.

  I wondered if he planned on standing there or actually going down to the beach. About the time I decided to ask, he turned to face me.

  “You gonna step over that fucker, or you want me to toss you over it?”

  I spread my feet shoulder width apart, and gave him my best fighting stance pose. “If you think you’re big enough.”

  For that fleeting moment, I had forgotten that he possessed the skills of a ninja. He reminded me really quick of it, though.

  In one effortless move, he picked me up and flipped me over his shoulder and onto the other side of the wall. Somehow, while doing so, he retained control, and lowered me to the ground on the other side.

  More than likely some instructional judo move he learned in preparation for combat. No matter how he came to learn it, I was impressed. With him on one side of the wall and me now on the other, I stood there and grinned.

  “More soldier bullshit?”

  “Soldier?” he snapped. His eyes quickly thinned to slits.

  Oh fuck, I hit a nerve.

  I prepared for an evening-ending argument.

  “Soldier? For fucks sake. You think I was a soldier?”

  Not now, no.

  He wasn’t just acting like he was insulted, he was insulted. I didn’t know what else to do, so I shrugged.

  “United States Navy. SEAL Team One. I wasn’t a fucking ground pounder,” he barked.

  My throat constricted, my mouth went dry, and my pussy started tingling. All at the same time.

  I swallowed hard. “You were a SEAL?”

  He inhaled a deep breath and glared. After a forced sigh, he shook his head. “Some fucking reporter you are.”

  He hopped over the wall. “Come on, shit-for-brains, let’s go watch the sunset.”

  We walked down to within a few feet of where the ocean met the land and sat down. The sound of the waves washing ashore was calming, and exactly what I needed. One benefit of having an outlaw biker accompany me to the beach was that most people – upon seeing his kutte and tattoos – decided to move further away, leaving us with our own little private spot.

  “Thank you.”

  He shot me a look. “For what?”

  “This.”

  He shrugged. “Used to do this when I was a kid. We didn’t live very far from the beach. It’s nice thinking back to when I was a kid. Before things went to shit.”

  I wondered just what he meant by before things went to shit. Eventually, curiosity won the battle, and I proceeded to offer him an even trade. My when things went to shit in trade for his.

  “When I was eight, my mother went to get some things from the store. My two brothers and I were at school. There was a pileup on the freeway, and she was sitting there waiting on traffic. They said the guy was going seventy or so when he hit the car behind her.”

  He touched my hand. I looked right at him, and he looked back. We shared a moment with our eyes locked, and then I continued.

  “She didn’t make it home. They said she wasn’t in pain though. I guess it broke her neck. At least that’s what they told us. That was when things went to shit for me.”

  He decided to sit down, and pulled against my wrist as he lowered himself to the sand. We sat side by side with his hand touching my wrist lightly. Just enough that I knew it was there, but I didn’t look.

  He stared out at the ocean for some time. All the while, he seemed to be doing breathing exercises. In through the nose and out through the mouth, which I never really noticed before. The sound of it became comforting, so instead of disturbing him, I just decided to watch the clouds change color.

  “She looked about your age.” His eyes were fixed on the beach. “That’s what I told myself when I saw her. Twenty-five. I remember thinking that.”

  If it took him fifteen minutes to develop the courage to speak, I knew better than to look at him. I simply nodded and continued to watch the clouds transform into a rainbow of colors.

  “We’d just cleared a building that was filled with insurgents. They were assembling the IED’s that were blowing up our troops. A bomb making facility. I stepped around the corner, and there she
was. Our eyes locked. She looked worried there for a second, and I figured she was just scared. Hell, everyone was scared. She must have seen it in my eyes. The relaxation, or the tension leaving. I don’t know. But she saw something.”

  He turned his head away from me and I heard him spit. He looked back at the horizon, but I didn’t turn toward him, I could see him out of my peripheral.

  “Whatever she saw let her know I was no longer a threat. She relaxed. I relaxed. We pressed on. Maybe ten meters. And then I saw it. She started to raise a Kalashnikov. It wasn’t a choice. It was a combination of training and experience.”

  He didn’t have to say it. My heart sank for him. I lifted my hand and placed it on top of his.

  Our hands touched, and he looked at me. The skin under his eyes was swollen, but he wasn’t crying. More than anything else, he seemed exhausted. “She was twelve.”

  He must have seen it in my eyes.

  The shock.

  I didn’t respond.

  He looked out at the horizon. “I shot a twelve-year-old girl. You want to know the sad thing?”

  I fought to swallow, and once again, didn’t respond. The silence encouraged him enough to continue. Either that, or he simply needed to say it.

  “If I hadn’t shot her, she would have shot me or one of my team members. If I had to do it all over again, I’d do it the same way. Sad, but it’s true.”

  “I’m sorry,” I somehow managed to say.

  I squeezed his hand for sincerity’s sake.

  “So, I came home from the war. I’d been fighting in one place or another for fifteen fucking years, and I was ready to settle down. I tried to get a VA loan for a house.” He turned toward me and shook his head.

  “They denied me. The motherfuckers put me in a position where I had to kill a fucking pre-teen girl, then denied my government home loan because I had insufficient credit. Tell me how the fuck I was supposed to get credit when I was busy fighting for this country’s fucking freedom?”

  I’m so sorry.

  “Anyway. That’s when things went to shit for me.”

  He looked away, obviously upset, but not angry. I was upset too, with our government. I turned toward the setting sun, but left my hand on top of his. He didn’t object. Not in the least.