Night Skyy

by Rich Bullock

  Canon Truax.

  She clicked and read the message. Three times.

  He thought she was harsh on guys? She laughed. He obviously hadn’t heard her shows soon after Loser Boyfriend left her behind. She considered herself downright mellow now.

  Canon Truax had sent messages after most of her last twenty or so shows, and it annoyed her that each week she anticipated his message more than the week before. If he missed a week, her disappoint annoyed her even more. Not that she ever replied. Lessons learned early on.

  When Night Thoughts first began, she used Facebook and other social media to interface with fans. It quickly got out of hand, requiring constant deleting of hateful, sometimes vile, posts. The first freak who suggested what he’d like to do to her weirded her out so much she’d cancelled her next show and triple-checked her privacy settings on every platform.

  All the Black Owl DJs had the same problems, so Big Jerry set up an internally monitored page for each show on the site. A simple mobile app came later, providing listeners with show interaction, live streaming, topic suggestions and polls, plus direct messages. Even with the new system, Skyy kept her real identity and location secret, and regularly blocked strangers who contacted her.

  But she hadn’t blocked Canon Truax.

  And there was a second message from him that had her laughing. Fishing at dawn. Seriously? Morning was not her best time. And fish guts and bait? She shuddered.

  He’d sent her his Facebook link last week, and she switched over to it to see if there was anything new. Talk about all American guy. Good looking, her age or close. His profile was sparse; nothing about being in law enforcement like in his direct message. She figured that was for his own safety. He never mentioned people by name, and his friends list was private. But there were photos.

  Oh, were there photos. Body surfing in the Pacific Ocean were her favorites, especially one of him striding out of the waves in low-slung swim shorts. If she had the high-quality original, she could sell wall posters to teenage girls on her stores and make a fortune. Other pictures showed Canon holding a string of five fish with a lake in the background, Canon with a man who resembled him standing beside a smoking grill, and Canon tubing behind a motorboat.

  Then there was that one pic, the one that kept her from blocking his messages on Black Owl: a profile shot of him staring across a sky-blue lake. She zoomed in like she had a dozen times before. Dark hair cut short, square jaw shadowed with a day’s growth, and a sadness in the lines at the corner of his eye. The creases and shadows spoke of pain or loss, and it made her want to know more. Made her want to know him.

  There were other pictures: riding four-wheelers, posing in khaki shorts and hiking boots by a Sequoia National Park trail marker, waterskiing, and diving off a floating wooden platform.

  She switched back to the beach scenes. Actual abs. Wow.

  So if you ever need anything, or if you’d like to talk or meet, you know where to reach me.

  Her finger slid the cursor to the Black Owl direct message window, hovering above the reply button. Should she? Big Jerry had good firewalls, so it wasn’t like he could find her through the app. Not unless he had a warrant out on her.

  Her cell phone rang and she jumped, convinced it was the cop calling—maybe to arrest her for…well, stalking his page or something.

  “Hello?” she said cautiously.

  “Hola, Skyy. You had breakfast yet? This place is dead.”

  Skyy relaxed. Lupe Rivera was Skyy’s closest friend in Tucson—almost her only friend—and owner of Miss Lupe’s, a Mexican restaurant that catered to locals.

  “Hey, Lupe. Got anything good today?”

  Lupe laughed. “It’s all good.”

  “Be there in a few.” She closed her laptop and ducked under the entry into her bathroom to shower off the morning sticky.

  Her landlord’s ad had touted the rental as “A quaint backyard bungalow, complete with bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.” He was also a visionary with deeply tinted rose glasses.

  The structure was two, big-box store garden sheds shoved together with the connected walls cut out. Two hundred eighty-eight square feet of luxury living. Plumbing? Yes. Insulation? Not so much. Skyy squeezed into the plastic shower stall—so tiny she had to step out if she dropped the soap—and adjusted the water temperature as cool as she dared.

  Usually, she loved experiencing different parts of the country, getting a sense of the culture, sampling the local cuisine, even picking up show ideas by eavesdropping in local coffee shops. And no one could deny the beauty of the desert at night with zillions of stars overhead. But almost from day one the desert didn’t feel right. Half a year and she was ready to see the next place.

  She dressed in shorts and a T-shirt proclaiming I ♥ saguaro. Simple wardrobe options were one good thing about living where summer got an early start…or never left. After a quick brush of her teeth and hair, she slid her feet into flip-flops and headed out into the broiler morning.

  Her Jeep Cherokee’s door handle was basking in full sun, so she used the hem of her T-shirt to tug it open. Fortunately, the car had cloth seats. She slid in and got the engine and AC going.

  In a New Year’s resolution to be truthful with herself, she admitted her restlessness wasn’t only from Tucson’s heat or the simple desire to see somewhere new. She could no longer deny her growing desire to find permanence, develop roots she’d never known, never sought, never imagined she wanted. Until now.

  Was it the cop and his friendly messages? His beautiful lake? In all her landings across the U.S., she instinctively knew each place was temporary, a consumable experience of new things before moving on. They were all impetuous choices. Intentionally searching for a specific place—or maybe a specific person—was something new.

  “Hola, Skyy,” Lupe said as Skyy entered Miss Lupe’s. Two men in work clothes and straw cowboy hats glanced up from their plates and Skyy traded nods of greeting. They were regulars, too, and the only other patrons.

  Soon after Skyy arrived in Tucson, she’d gotten lost on backstreets and stopped to ask directions from a woman weeding the flowerbed in front of a house-turned-restaurant. The gardener was Lupe, who invited Skyy inside for homemade tortillas. Two hours later, she had a new friend and a leftover container loaded with the best Mexican food she’d ever tasted.

  Although Lupe was only half-Mexican and hailed from Oregon, she had assimilated the local culture so thoroughly Skyy doubted many knew she wasn’t born and raised in the Southwest. That’s what twenty-five years in a place would do. Skyy knew nothing of that.

  “Good morning, Lupe,” Skyy said, breathing in red sauce, tortillas, salsa, and beans. She let her growling stomach lead her to a stool at the low counter separating the dining area from the kitchen. Lupe had a cup of coffee waiting before Skyy got settled.

  “Thanks for calling.” She blew across the hot brew, the robust aroma giving the day more promise. “I’m starving.”

  “Of course you are.” Lupe delivered a plate heaped with chorizo scrambled eggs, beans, and rice. “You don’t eat enough.” She came around the counter with her own mug of coffee and sat beside Skyy.

  “Don’t hold back,” Skyy said, taking an embarrassingly large bite. The flavors exploded in her mouth, and she had to close her eyes and breathe through the experience. “Wow, this is so good.”

  “Sí, gracias.” Lupe sipped her coffee, then said, “You look bad. What’s wrong.”

  “Sheesh, Lupe. Really don’t hold back.” She rubbed her cheeks. Did she have pillowcase creases? Maybe a little more looking the mirror before going out next time.

  Lupe waved off the comment, waiting while Skyy finished another bite. “So…?”

  With a sigh—and not from the fantastic food—Skyy set down her fork. “I’m not sure Tucson’s the place for me,” she said, then felt guilty for dissing her friend’s town.

  “What are you looking for?” Lupe asked, then gestured for Skyy to keep eating while she rose
to cash out the two men who had finished their breakfasts.

  Lupe’s question was a good one. Maybe some place where not everything in her bathroom had to be travel size? She had an underlying fear that her life, too, had become tiny and closed.

  Skyy was mopping up the last red sauce with a flour tortilla when Lupe returned from chatting with the men. The bell on the door chimed as they left, and she and Lupe had the place to themselves.

  “What makes you think I’m looking for something?”

  Lupe narrowed her eyes. “If you’d found it, you’d be there. Right?”

  Skyy nearly laughed at the simplicity. “Was that the way it was for you coming here?” Lupe nodded, but Skyy noted the way her friend hunched over the counter, as if a weight rested on her shoulders.

  “So, my friend Skyy, where are you going this time?”

  Instead of telling Lupe about the cop and his lake in California, Skyy asked, “Is there something wrong, Lupe?” Was she upset that Skyy was thinking of moving?

  Lupe sipped her coffee and stared through the service window into the kitchen. There was a new man working in the back Skyy didn’t recognize.

  “I’ve spent half of my life in Tucson, most of it right here in this restaurant.” Lupe turned to Skyy. “I’ve cleaned ceilings, walls, and floors, and every piece of equipment, glass, and spoon thousands of times. The restaurant business is long hours, hard work, and it never ends. All for a chance at not going under.”

  Skyy knew about being financially close to the edge, but she couldn’t imagine being tied to one place every day of the week, year on year.

  “Do you enjoy it?” Skyy asked.

  Lupe looked around the room and gave a rueful smile. “For a long time, yes. Less so lately.”

  “Your daughter?” Skyy asked. Lupe’s daughter and family moved to Florida two years ago.

  “I really miss those grandkids,” Lupe said. Then she sat up straight. “That’s why I called you today. I was hoping you could come so I could tell you. I’ve decided to sell and move to Florida.”

  “You… What?” Skyy opened, then closed her mouth. She’d eaten here at least twice a week for months. Lupe not being here seemed…wrong.

  “I’ve been restless,” Lupe said, lifting her mug in Skyy’s direction. “Much like you, my friend. That’s why I asked you what you are looking for. For me, I’ve figured it out. Family is more important than working twelve-hour days in a restaurant.”

  “But…what will you do there?” Skyy asked, trying to Lupe in any other setting than here.

  Her friend shrugged. “Lots of old retired ladies in Florida. Maybe work in a yarn or quilting store. Definitely not the restaurant business. Or I’ll just lie on the beach for a few months and listen to the ocean. Drink Mai Tais.”

  Quilts and fruity cocktails? “When are you thinking of moving?”

  Lupe shook her head. “No thinking. Doing. The restaurant sale closed yesterday afternoon. I didn’t want to mention it to you or anyone until it was a sure thing. My moving truck comes next Wednesday.”

  “Lupe, I don’t know what to say, except I’ll miss you.” Skyy blinked at the sudden moisture in her eyes. Her friend was leaving in a week.

  Lupe gave Skyy’s hand a squeeze, then pulled her into a hug. “Here’s what I say to you, my friend Skyy: Life goes quickly, so go find what you desire. You shouldn’t live it alone.”

  Saying goodbye to Lupe left Skyy more than slightly depressed. London Grammar’s Truth Is a Beautiful Thing was probably too melancholy, but it fit her mood while she worked her other business.

  She’d developed a knack for figuring out what people wanted before they knew, and her targeted ads on various social media sites kept the orders flowing into her multiple online stores. Although everything shipped straight to customers from suppliers, service issues landed squarely in her lap. Today’s issue was missed delivery dates by one supplier, and she couldn’t afford poor reviews. She buckled down and fired off an email to the supplier and apology messages to the customers. That done, she began setting up new ad campaigns.

  The work was another reminder that life these days was virtual. People met, fell in love, and broke up electronically—sometimes without ever meeting. Last week, a caller told about how she’d had a baby with a man she met on a dating site. That wasn’t the odd part. A clinic froze his sperm and flew it to her doctor’s office for implantation. She became pregnant and gave birth without the father ever knowing where she lived, nor did they know each other’s last names. It was like using an anonymous donor from a sperm bank, except Daddy wasn’t entirely anonymous, just unmet.

  So not what Skyy wanted for her own life. The more she talked to people online, the more she longed for normal, for old-fashioned one-on-one.

  That got her thinking about Canon Truax, and she brought up his messages from last night again.

  So if you ever need anything, or if you’d like to talk or meet, you know where to reach me.

  What if he was a normal person looking for that same one-on-one?

  Hand trembling a little, she clicked in the message reply window and typed Good morning, then frowned at it.

  That sounded…like she’d just woken up beside him in bed. She pounded the delete button until the letters disappeared.

  Ignoring him was the safest thing, but the idea of sending a message had taken root. She couldn’t just leave and go buy toilet paper at Target or something. His after-show messages these last weeks felt like a connection, even if it was across the ether and so far entirely one-sided. He didn’t know she read them and waited for his next one. If she never replied, he might give up.

  And what if, like he said, he was one of the good guys? Could she not take the chance? Could she go on with her luxurious life of rented garden-shed-guest-houses in paradise locales like Tucson?

  Recognizing the sudden inspiration, she changed screens and jotted notes in her Show Topics document: Where to live. Have you ever moved just to go somewhere new? What matters in making the decision? Then she switched back to the messaging screen.

  Her fingers twitched over the keys for two full minutes, mentally composing and discarding message after message before finally typing two words.

  Hi. - Skyy

  Before she could overthink it, she hit the Return key.

  Instantly, her heartbeat sped up, and she brushed perspiration off her upper lip with the back of her hand.

  “Oh, crap. What have I done?” Rarely had she contacted a fan. And this time she hadn’t added the D like she always did for her professional persona. Skyy without the D sounded personal, friendly, stripped down. She was always Skyy D the professional radio personality to her fans—all 154,000 of them. But now to one person she was just Skyy.

  And she should have said more. Instead of wording that would close the conversation, such as thanks for listening, this sounded like an invitation, an opening for him to jump in.

  What if he was a creeper like Creeper?

  Chapter 3

  Skyy spent Thursday morning worrying about her message to Canon Truax and contemplating a move. Lupe’s final words haunted her: Life goes quickly, so go find what you desire. You shouldn’t live it alone.

  Did that mean finding a certain cop?

  The bungalow slash garden shed shared the utilities and Wi-Fi with the main house, so moving simply required informing her landlord, Troy. Her rent was paid through February, and her deposit covered her last month. That meant she didn’t have to move immediately, but now that she’d gotten her teeth into the idea, she couldn’t let it go.

  Where to land next was the pressing question. Guest houses and garage conversions were best. They provided privacy and freedom to work or sleep anytime she chose. No toilets flushing in the next room, no dog barking in the hall.

  Problem was, both types of rentals were rare, and many were occupied by jobless millennials who moved home after college. Either that or else the owners jumped on the Airbnb wagon to generate extra bucks. Sky
y earned enough to live on if she was careful, but she couldn’t compete with those high Airbnb nightly rates.

  She searched the Internet and called on listings in Flagstaff and Prescott. Neither met her needs or price. Although she loved the thought of living on water, especially after the desert, Lake Havasu City proved ridiculously expensive—and probably hotter than Tucson.

  Lakes dotted the upper Midwest, and she could find something there—once the snows melted. Going from frying pan to freezer wasn’t a good move. And they had a lot of bugs there. She sighed. The older she got, the pickier she became about weather and location. She’d become a weather snob.

  No, the truth was that none of these other cities lived up to Canon Truax staring across his California lake.

  And why hadn’t he messaged her back? She grabbed her phone again to check. It had been a whole day. Was he surprised by her message, put off? After all, he had no idea what she looked like, how old she was, or if she was a convicted felon, con artist, or international jewel thief. Well, jewel thief might be a stretch, but as a cop, he’d be cautious by training.

  “Skyy?” The door opened without a knock, and a spiky head of hair poked around the edge in a blast of hot noon sun. The rest of Ember Peyron clomped inside when she spotted Skyy at the table.

  Ember—her real name was Sally, which she “detested”—described herself as “half black, half white, and half alien.” The otherworldly part came in the hairdo which changed colors every week or so. Today it was black blending to purple at mid-length and tipped in pink.

  “Nice earrings,” Skyy said. They were silver-wrapped jade, finished with feathers that matched her hair color, and so long they brushed her shoulders. “They go good with…”

  “Nothing!” Ember laughed, closing the door.

  Her go-to wardrobe was a variety of bright Spandex tank tops, clashing shorts, and black lace-up boots. The overall effect was petite Goth meets Southwest in the Caribbean. Silver eye shadow on her mocha skin made her eyes appear enormous.