by Ina Zajac
“Don’t worry about it. Got you here without getting into a brawl, so that’s cool. There’s a fifty in there, from one of the Fort Lewis guys.”
His name escaped her, but she’d sat with him after her dance. He had bought her four twelve-dollar Diet Cokes. “I didn’t lap dance or make out with anybody, did I?”
“You don’t remember?”
Her stomach lurched. She put her hand over her mouth. “Tell me. What?”
“Nah, nothing,” he said. “So, the breakfast burritos are getting cold. I’d make you a Bloody Mary, but last night you kept saying you had to drive somewhere this morning.”
“Oh crap,” she said. “What time is it?”
He pulled his phone out of his back jeans pocket. “Seven twenty-two.”
“I have to get to church youth group,” she said.
“On Saturday?”
“Yeah, where’s my dress?”
“There, on the back of the chair.”
“And my car? Is it here?”
His laugh was punctuated with a snort. “Damn, church girl, you shouldn’t drink,” he said. “I drove us here in it. It took us an hour to find it. You said I was your knight in shining armor.”
She got out of bed, pulling his shirt down until it hovered just above her knees.
He headed back downstairs. “I’ll nuke you a burrito. You can take it with you.”
She slipped into her dress as fast as she could. Wait, this wasn’t even her dress. It was similar, but much shorter. Had she left hers at the club? She didn’t have time to worry about it. Dan’s mother would be there waiting. Worried.
Crap, she hadn’t memorized the bible verse for the week, and would have to learn it during the ferry crossing. Where was she anyway? She threw on her trench coat. Wait, not her coat. She hadn’t even worn a coat the night before. Did this guy have some fetish with women’s clothes? It was longer than the dress, and her thighs needed covering, so she would take it and worry about it later. She picked up her purse and heels—somebody’s heels. Somebody’s clear six-inch stripper heels. She made her way down the stairs barefoot.
Nick rushed over holding a napkin-wrapped burrito in one hand and her car keys in the other. “Careful. It’s super hot.”
“How do I get to the Fauntleroy terminal?”
“Left three blocks then right on California Ave.,” he said, forcing her breakfast and keys into her hands. She had to hold her shoes in her armpit. “You’ll pass the junction, go another mile, and take a right at Zeek’s Pizza.”
“Got it.”
“Wait, your tips.” He slipped a stack of bills, folded it in half, into her hand with her keys.
She stepped out onto the front porch, which ran the length of the front of an old white Craftsman. It must be a hundred years old, she thought. Just gorgeous. She was awestruck by the beauty of the rust-toned trees lining the yard. This was not some crack house in the hood.
“Thanks, Sir Lancelot,” she yelled back to him while she rushed down the stairs. She turned back around and—slam—ran into some guy. The lava-hot breakfast burrito squished between them. Eggs, potatoes, and sauce smeared the lower half of his white t-shirt. Money flew everywhere. Her purse slid off her shoulder and onto the path, along with her keys and stripper shoes.
She jumped up and down, reaching into her bra, somebody’s bra, trying to free the scalding potatoes from her cleavage. “Ouch, ow, ow!”
His two hands joined hers inside her bra and she pulled back. She looked up. It was the boob painter from the night before, Matt. His black hair stuck up and he needed a shave, but she remembered his kind brown eyes.
He pulled his hands away. “I’m sorry, didn’t see you,” he gushed. “Checking my phone. Are you okay?”
She wanted to play it off and tell him it didn’t hurt, but he was right in her face. She couldn’t lie. He was too close. So she pulled away. “I gotta go,” she said. Where were her keys? Be cool, she told herself, though she knew it was too late for that. “Sorry about your shirt.”
He looked over her shoulder, smirked up toward the porch, and shook his head. “Nick kept you safe from Carlos last night, huh?” He wiped his phone against his jeans and stuck out his bottom lip.
His tone struck her as snarky, but she didn’t have time to worry about it. She had to get out of there. Dan’s mom would be worried sick. She had to get the donut table set up. It was the most important job of all. The kids would be so disappointed. She found the shoes that weren’t even hers and made a break for her car. She just left him standing there, an island in a sea of cash.
Nick yelled at him from the porch. “You gonna help get her money or just stand there like a dumbass?”
***
NICK
HE HOPED she hadn’t just spilled that burrito on Kaytlyn’s coat because he hadn’t actually asked if he could borrow it the night before. He watched Via make her way to her car. It was such an awkward getaway, very entertaining. She had the coat belted tight, like she could be naked underneath. He thought it was a hot look, but it would have been even better if she had put the heels back on. It was a shame girls never wore their heels in the morning. She got into the car and screeched off.
Matt yelled after her, “You’re pretty!”
Nick shook his head, and wished to God he hadn’t witnessed such a pathetic personal display. Girls seemed to dig his best friend’s awkward vibe. They fell all over themselves trying to understand him. They said he was complicated and quirky. Grandma Daney called him eccentric. Standing there in the yard, oblivious to the money blowing around his feet, he looked full-on psych-ward crazy.
“Hey, nimrod—you can’t just leave money in the yard,” he said. “Mrs. Jensen will see it, and she still talks to my grandma.”
Matt ignored him and walked up the path, looking like ass boiled over. What a sorry-looking son of a bitch. The burrito stain screamed against his otherwise bright white t-shirt. His hair splayed out into an anime-kid crest. His forehead was wrinkled up like he was pissed off. He schlepped up the stairs and grumbled, “Please tell me you haven’t nailed her yet.”
“Who, the Bambi?” Nick called most women Bambi until he could think of a fitting nickname—a ‘Nick name.’ “I didn’t know dibs were called, my bad. I think I’ll call her Short Skirt, Long Jacket.”
Matt had no comeback, just squinty eyes and an exposed lower lip. It was the same pout he’d used since grade school, except now it sunk into cheeks in need of a shave. He had grown up on the next block over; they had been friends since the fifth grade. Neither had any siblings, just each other.
When his grandma moved into Wesley Gardens a year ago, Nick had promised to take good care of the place. He would be the man of the house, so to speak, though he had been training for the position since his mother had dumped him off there when he was ten. She’d been living in Margaritaville with some scuba bum ever since.
The unmistakable sound of skateboard wheels against pavement made him look up to see Tucker and Toby from across the street—good kids who terrorized the neighborhood in small doses. They didn’t have a thing for illegal fireworks like he and Matt had.
“Hey, you guys busy?” he asked. They stopped, spotted the money in the yard, and exchanged matching grins. Twelve-year-old twins made the best neighbors because they were always up for making money, and their affinity for Mountain Dew and Sour Gummies made them mega productive.
“If you pick it all up for me, you can each keep twenty bucks.”
One of them yelled, “Sweetness!” Nick couldn’t tell if it was Tucker or Toby. Didn’t matter.
Matt reached his arms wide and groaned as he stretched. “When I painted her, she was nervous. How was she?”
“Obviously inexperienced, but sweet.”
Matt smiled and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Wait,” Nick added. “Did you mean dancing on stage or banging against my headboard?”
The punch slammed into his gut so fast it startled him. He w
anted to laugh, but had to cough first. Damn, he thought, he must really like her.
“Kidding,” he said. Matt should have known he wasn’t serious. It was a super douche move to pounce on a defenseless wasted chick. Every guy knew that. “Tucked her into my bed and crashed in the studio.”
There were two couches in the studio, which was just what they called the basement, and two more couches in the living room. He collected wayward women like stray cats, except instead of milk they wanted cocaine and a place to shower. It was like a messed up bed-and-breakfast. They usually had at least one drunk girl or bandmate passed out somewhere. Never in his grandmother’s bed though. He kept her room just as she left it. He never went in, but allowed Matt the pleasure of going in to dust from time to time. Matt’s bedroom, his safe haven of cleanliness, was always off limits.
Nick sat on one of the faded, forest green Adirondack chairs. They needed painting.
He couldn’t wait to hear about Matt’s night. “So, how’d it go, bro?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Truth.” Nick glanced over to check on the twins, who were making good progress, though some of the money had drifted into the street. “Watch out for cars, please,” he yelled down to them. What a terrible way for a kid to die—picking up stripper money from a muddy gutter. “Tell me about the new crash house.”
“Same shit, different neighborhood.” Matt ran his hand through his hair. It was going to start falling out if he didn’t stop touching it so much.
“I pulled into the garage, and they installed this overhead panel,” Matt said. “It fits into the gap in between the headliner and the moon roof.”
“So, the moon roof still works?”
“Yep.”
“So, if a cop pushes the button, it rolls back and—”
“It just disappears.” He made a half-assed magician’s voilà motion. “It’s all good. As long as they don’t bring dogs.”
Nick tried to visualize two kilos of cocaine fitting in such a flat space.
“It’s like a pan of G-Dane’s cookie squares, just half the height and twice as wide,” Matt added.
The thought of warm, gooey chocolate chip squares filled Nick’s mind. His tongue arched up into the roof of his mouth in phantom enjoyment. Maybe he would try to bake some and sneak them to his grandmother the next time he went to see her. They wouldn’t be as good as hers, but he could try.
He realized he hadn’t checked for baked treats. He leaned forward in his chair and scanned the porch. Nothing. No sign of his Betty Crocker Stalker, a fan who liked to drop off drug-laced baked goodies. It was safer not to eat them, and they didn’t want any raccoons to either.
“Haven’t seen our little friends lately.” Some of raccoons had taken up residence in the chimney last June, and Matt was dead set on never using it again for fear of inadvertently roasting one.
Nick felt his drum kit calling to him from the basement, but he should aerate the lawn, and fertilize it, and fill in the bald spots, and rake leaves too. Caring for his grandma’s place was physically and financially draining. Something was always breaking. It was a big house, and drafty. The oil bill alone could get up to twelve hundred dollars a month during the winter. The fireplace had been retrofitted, so they could use it, but only on days when the city didn’t have a burn ban. Seattle was full of noble planet lovers who would rather freeze than pollute. And then, of course, there were their nesting furry friends to consider.
“Tour of Homes is coming up. I should work in the yard today,” he said, hoping Matt would tell him not to bother.
“You should, but you won’t.”
Nick nodded. Instead, he would grab a cup of coffee, go downstairs, and disappear into his drum kit. Hours would go by and it would feel like five minutes. “Don’t forget practice tonight.”
Matt brought his fingers together at his temple and gave him a mini-salute.
“Nick, Nick!” Toby ran up to him with a fist full of money. Maybe it was Tucker.
He counted out two hundred twenty-two dollars, nodded, and gave them each a twenty. “Thanks, guys.” One day they would probably get the balls to rip him off. He figured that was going to hurt.
“She got two hundred twenty-two bucks in tips?” Matt asked, his voice pitchy. “Two hundred twenty-two bucks?” A hot pot of compulsion seemed to be brewing behind his friend’s eyes. “I’ll get that to her. You get her number?”
Yes he did, and he had earned it, too. Maybe she didn’t remember walking around that damned Pink Elephant Car Wash five times, but he did. He remembered everything. The way she had grabbed his hand was sweet. She had asked him about his dreams.
Nick couldn’t help but scowl. “You just want an excuse to see her again.” He felt a sense of déjà vu encircle him as he continued. “She could be more trouble than she’s worth.”
“I’m bored. I need a distraction.”
What the hell? Now he was getting pissed. Lately he’d found Matt’s lack of motivation irritating. “You could—I don’t know—write some new songs.”
“Maybe she’ll be my muse,” Matt said, bringing his fingers up to press the bridge of his nose before closing his eyes; he looked so old.
“I thought you said you were done with dancers, not that she was much of a dancer. And, you didn’t hear her drunk rambling last night. She seems like she needs a lot of attention.”
“I can definitely help her out with that. What else did she say? Anything about her husband?”
“Not husband. Fiancé, gone ‘til January,” Nick said. “Heard all about him last night. He’s like her first and only boyfriend. Sounds like a tool.”
Matt looked as happy as a little girl. “I can work with that.”
“Dude, she was saying her engagement ring is like magic, like something from some opera. A ring of power—about how if she had been named Brunhilde she’d be brave.”
“Sounds like Lord of the Rings to me.”
“Whatever, don’t care. Just saying.”
“Are you going to issue a warning, like a snarly old wise man?” Matt asked. He widened his eyes, waved his hands Jedi style, then over-enunciated his words into a dramatic whisper, “Young master, this is not the girl you’re looking for.”
CHAPTER 7
VIA
VIA CAME DOWN from the ferry’s upper deck and scanned the rows of cars, but couldn’t remember where she had parked. Thank God she hadn’t seen anyone from church. She would have preferred to spend the crossing in her car, but the Gatorade in her bladder hadn’t let her. And her stomach had gurgled for tea. She had also tried to wipe off the booby art. No easy task considering her burrito burn. It hadn’t helped that the restroom had been abuzz with women coming and going. Staring.
A gust of wind blew through the belly of the Klahowya and whipped strands of her hair against her cheeks. She jerked to a stop and nearly dropped her paper cup of scalding hot tea. In her other hand she held tight to her phone. The spiked heel of her right shoe had wedged itself into the metal grating. “Crap, seriously?” Wobbling her ankle back and forth was useless. It wouldn’t budge.
A passing seagull called out, sharp and insistent, “Haw-haw-haw.”
She would have bent over and set down her tea, but the dress, somebody’s dress, was too short, as was the jacket. I can’t flash my thong, she thought. Not on a ferry in broad daylight. Her stomach flipped then spun. Her brain was pulsing and swelling, too big for her skull. All she wanted in the entire world was to go home and crawl into bed for a week. She would never drink again.
A man down a row was getting into his car, but she was too embarrassed to call to him. She turned and looked over her shoulder. Three cars back, two teenaged boys sat laughing at her. One of them pulled out his phone. “No way,” she called in their direction. She was not going to become some online joke.
The story about the rock climber trapped under a boulder popped into her mind. He had cut off his own arm to save himself. Voices drifted down the creaky met
al stairwell. People were coming. How humiliating. “Just leave the stripper shoes, and go,” she muttered.
She stepped out of the right shoe, then kicked off the left. Hobbling barefoot down the row, looking for her car, she found it almost funny. Who was going to come across her cast-off footwear, and what would they think? Relieved, she spotted her car and got in. She stretched and breathed in the sharp, briny breeze coming through the open car window. Now she needed to figure out how she was going to get through the next few hours without people realizing she had been out all night. She looked over her shoulder and found her tan canvas beach bag. Inside were the grimy bejeweled flip-flops she should have thrown away months ago. She reached back, scooped them up, and put them on her feet. The right one was ripped, the toe strap was about to snap. Hopefully, they would last the morning.
She had preordered the donuts from Bob’s Bakery, so those would be ready, but there was no time to go home and change clothes. She pulled down the rearview mirror and looked at her chest, which looked even worse than it had in the dim-green florescent lighting of the ferry’s restroom. It was red but not blistered from the burrito.
The Klahowya slowed and drifted into position past the guidepost dolphins jutting out from the water. The captain eased the three-hundred-foot ferry in against the timber wing walls attached to the Vashon Island dock. It carried less than ninety cars, but upstairs there was plenty of seating, restrooms, and a cafeteria, and that was all she usually cared about. This morning she could have gone for a Nordstrom and a burn unit.
She would need to Project Runway herself into a church-worthy outfit. She found an earth-toned paisley scarf in the glove box and tied it loosely around her neck. It covered the burrito stain nicely. She couldn’t just wear the jacket though; it wasn’t much longer than the slut dress.
The slamming of car doors echoed back and forth all around her as people got back into their vehicles, which reminded her head to ache. She knew she needed to eat something, but she wasn’t even confident about the tea and Gatorade staying down. She leaned over and picked up her travel bible from the passenger seat and unzipped it. Tucked inside was the youth group topic schedule. This week’s bible verse was Ephesians 6:10-18. Amen. She had a plan.