Done Dirt Cheap

by Sarah Nicole Lemon

  She sent it. Tucked the phone under the inside of her thigh. Picked up a fry.

  “Do you mind starting it for us?” one of the guys asked.

  “Sure. When I’m done with my fries,” she said, chewing. She tried not to stare at her phone.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen,” she announced brightly.

  He just smiled and nodded. “I was eighteen when I got my first Harley.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I had this old Honda when I was eighteen,” the other guy said. “Eighteen when I wrecked it, too.”

  Both men laughed—a nice kind of laugh, filled with old memories and good stories. Tourmaline joined in because she, too, had an old, well, recent memory and a good story. Somewhere beyond or above or away from the moment, she looked at herself and wondered how she’d gotten there. But even when she considered herself from a distance she didn’t want to be anyone else. Not right now.

  Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it up.

  Maybe needs the idle adjusted? You make it home or did it break down on you?

  She grinned, stupidly and sloppily, and her greasy fingers slipped as she texted back. I stopped for fries. It’s not broke down yet.

  The two men talked between themselves, respectfully quiet as they waited for her to finish and start the bike. The parking lot lights hummed and the tree frogs still sang.

  Church over? she typed.

  Cash replied, Not yet, but I’m not going to be your watchman.

  No sir. Never.

  You probably have twenty minutes.

  Her cheeks were starting to ache from how hard she was smiling.

  I liked that you called me Cash. Not the conscript, he said.

  The stupid grin felt sloppier and wider and when she shoved a fry into her mouth, staring at the screen, she could barely close her mouth to chew. Well, you aren’t my conscript. So . . .

  That’d be a much different experience, I think.

  What do you mean? I make all my boyfriends stand outside the door with a beverage at exactly thirty-five degrees in case I want it.

  Only after it sent and she reread it did she cringe. Why did she keep forgetting? Always having a cold drink handy was the usual low-level shit conscripts had to do for their sponsors, but Cash was making her reframe the entire way she interacted with a conscript. She fumbled with the phone, still cringing. Oh God, WHY DO I KEEP DOING THAT?

  Mm-hm.

  Conscript seems like it could be an awkward intersection for you. No? Am I making shit up?

  It can be awkward. Everyone’s pretty good, though.

  She wasn’t sure she believed him. Everything that could be tested was. Any weakness would be found. What kind of man you were and where your line was. They’d have easy ammunition with Cash. But Cash would know that it was only for a time, and afterward those same persistent assholes would have his back without question. Would take up his burdens alongside him.

  You’ll always have Joe, she texted back, thinking Joe, another black Original Member, would be extra protective of Old Hawk’s kid.

  Joe just tells me how much of a pussy I am, but yeah, I’ll always have him. Then: Erase that last text, please. I wasn’t thinking.

  She rolled her eyes. If Dad was reading her texts, that one text about Joe wasn’t going to be the problem. But she did as Cash asked and told him it was done. She shifted her weight on the bike. Her back was starting to hurt, being slouched like she was. She straightened into her usual posture and immediately relaxed. Princess, fine. But Princess who did as she pleased.

  Her phone buzzed again and she smiled until she read it. It wasn’t from Cash.

  The neighbors called the cops about the noise. My dad had to spend twenty minutes calming them down. What’s wrong with you? From Anna May.

  Tourmaline’s face flushed hot and she stared at the text, uncertain how to answer. Finally she put it down unanswered.

  Cash texted. Sounds like they’re almost done. If you’re still eating fries . . .

  Oh shit thanks. She crumpled the bag and tossed it into the trash can on the sidewalk.

  The two men looked up, but Cash sent another text. You going to be around later to talk?

  She thought she might as well have driven to McDonald’s in the pink Hot Wheels Jeep she’d had as a kid, given how ridiculous her face felt, but she ignored the men and texted right back. If I got someone interesting to talk to.

  Ha. Okay. I’ll let you know if I see anyone.

  She stood and shoved the phone deep into her pocket. Then slammed back down on the kick start. The one time she didn’t much care what it did, it of course woke right up.

  The two men nodded, grinning at her and each other.

  “Sounds amazing!” one of them yelled.

  “Thanks!” she hollered back, putting the bike in neutral and carefully inching her way back out of the parking spot.

  “Nice meeting you.” The other one waved.

  Not knowing what to do, she put it in first and gave them a salute. Which ended up awkward as hell.

  But then, it didn’t matter what she did, because she was gone.

  She should have left sooner.

  In the driveway, the headlight washed over her father sitting in a lawn chair in the driveway.

  But where there had been fear inside her chest, now there was a still space. While her throat ached and her leg was bleeding and she’d talked freely with Cash and with strange men at McDonald’s, Dad’s disapproval could not touch her.

  She puttered into the garage and cut the bike, the roar still in her ears and hands.

  Her father didn’t say a word, didn’t even move out of the firmly planted lawn chair as she covered the bike.

  Tourmaline closed the garage door and headed for the house.

  “What were you thinking?” he asked as she passed.

  She stopped, hands slack in her pockets. What was she thinking?

  Too much. She was thinking of the weight of Cash’s hand on her neck. The moment where they shouldn’t have been thinking of kissing each other and were. She was wondering whether the cop had given up looking for her. Whether Anna May was still angry. Whether Wayne still ate cereal on that disgusting couch. Who the hell Ray was and why his name had held so much power. She was missing her mother, while trying not to actually think of her so she wouldn’t be overwhelmed inside that ache. But mostly, she was thinking Virginia had been right about everything.

  Except, Dad wasn’t asking her about any of those things, but about why she went on a joy ride.

  And for that shard of spun-sugar childishness now crushed under the concrete pillar of the McKinley Hollow Bridge, there wasn’t really a reason she could offer. It was as simple as this: It had bothered her to watch them all stare at that damn bike so many times and never take it out. It was as complicated as taking the counterfeit crown and shattering it across her knee. Neither reason was something she wanted to talk about.

  She stared at the garage door and stayed quiet.

  He flicked ash into the dark, the end of his cigarette a red ember in the dark. “That was incredibly dangerous.”

  “You do things that are dangerous,” she said softly.

  “Honey, it’s different.”

  How so? But she didn’t ask. He wouldn’t know the answer, either.

  “Not even a helmet.” He said it with nearly infinite disappointment.

  She held her ground, swallowing the urge to defend herself. What would she say, anyway? Without even closing her eyes, she saw Wayne’s face. Felt his hands clamp on her throat. Smelled the sickening blend of foul memories and present woe.

  “Your mom called while you were gone.”

  Her stomach pitched. She’d missed a call from her mother.

  “She said you should come visit. She misses you.”

  Tourmaline felt as if she’d fall apart right there, break into countless pieces and drift away. At least she wouldn’t have to be there when Mom got the letter saying
she’d been banned.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, Tourmaline,” her father said. Not Dad. He was using his president’s voice.

  She lifted her chin and cleared her throat. “Yes, sir?”

  “I was thinking about everything that’s been going on, and I just wanted to tell you how much I respect your strength and the decisions you’ve made to stay committed to doing the right things. You’ve pressed on through the chaos involving your mother. You haven’t let any of the usual teenager things pull you away from your studies or your future. You’ve grown into a very respectable, sophisticated young woman. That’s—that’s something really incredible to watch. I never thought I could raise a daughter like you. Especially on my own.”

  She had to admit he was compelling. Telling her the things she most desperately wanted to hear. The gravitas in his voice held her right there, as if his words didn’t completely contradict the way he made her feel. Even in the moonlight, she could see everything that made him president. The way his hands folded to catch a glint of light on the massive silver ring. The way he sat, at ease, confident in his power. The lack of movement when he spoke. Even the way he smoked—she could see it was part of him. Part of the president.

  It was power.

  Power to build his own world. Power to be who he wanted inside that world. Power to never let anyone clamp a hand on his throat and to bring consequences upon anyone who dared try.

  She wanted to scream. To reach out and rip it off him and find her way into it.

  He kept talking as if to someone in the club who had stepped out of line; his cigarette smoke trailed into the dark. “I just want to encourage you to stay committed to the path you began. I want you to remember who you are going forward. There’s a lot of things out there”—he waved the cigarette gently toward the road—“that aren’t going to seem like bad decisions, but are going to distract you from what you want to become. Or take you places you don’t mean to go. I know it felt like not a big deal to take that bike out there tonight, but people who want to hurt me will not even hesitate to take advantage of you. You’re a good girl, with a bright future. I don’t want to see even a bit of that slip away.” He stood and ground the smoke under his boot. “I’m proud of you, T.” He tucked her hair behind her ear, patted her cheek, and smiled in the moonlight. The unspoken Don’t let me down tacking its weight onto her mind.

  Tourmaline’s shoulders sagged.

  He turned for the house.

  “Dad?”

  He paused, hand on the door. Waiting.

  She had to tell him. To hang her head and weep in defeat. For she didn’t have what she needed to save herself from Wayne. Swallowing, she focused on the pain cinching her throat, as if Wayne’s hands were still there. She was about to tell him, but when she opened her mouth, she asked, “Do you know a Ray?”

  “Ray?” her father repeated. “What about a Ray? Ray Longwell?”

  “A Ray someone would be afraid of you for. A Ray everyone would remember.”

  “What? No.” Her dad snorted. “The only Ray I know is a buddy. He’s a supervisor at Westvaco. I play pool with him occasionally. Why?”

  It was a terrible moment. A sudden shift where she watched her father—the president—lie. A lie she would have believed an hour ago. “I don’t know. I just heard someone . . . Never mind.” Suddenly, it was all in question. Everything he’d ever told her.

  He was going to kill Wayne. He or Jason or even, God forbid, Cash. But the order would come from him. And he’d do it whether Alvarez was watching or not. She could leave for school, but it would not be with the burden of the past lightened.

  “Are you okay?” her father asked quietly. “Are you doing okay?”

  “Yeah,” she answered automatically. “I mean, I’m fine.”

  “I’m worried about you. Hanging out with this Virginia girl. She’s not from church.”

  “Nope. She’s not.” The breeze gusted, sending a fresh rush of tingling stabs into her leg. She touched her throat, wondering if it would bruise.

  “Be careful. You’ll make it through.” His voice was low and calm. Soothing. “I’m not going to let you get hurt. Don’t worry.”

  She should tell him about Wayne.

  “Come here, honey.” He pulled her into his chest and hugged her tight.

  She took a deep breath of his T-shirt, throat taut as he stroked her hair, as if she were still a little girl—before the little girl had died one summer night on a red velvet Oldsmobile seat with panic in her hands.

  “It’ll be okay.”

  It would be okay, because she was going to take care of Wayne.

  Virginia arrived at Hazard’s office promptly at nine Monday morning, waiting outside the locked back entrance for someone to let her inside. CSX trains clattered through the trees. The wind was already hot and it snapped the skirt of her old pageant interview dress against her thighs. The dress made her feel younger, as if she could stand next to Tourmaline in it and even she could be that spritely dogwood blowing in the breeze. White petals defiant. Too late, she realized she did not want to be wearing a dress for this meeting.

  Hazard let her inside, wearing his bloodred power suit, a crisp white shirt, and cowboy hat. He didn’t say hello, just beckoned with his hand for her to follow him into the office. She didn’t get to know the script ahead of time. She was watching the opening credits, and all she could hope for was that she hadn’t been written out.

  Virginia straightened her shoulders and walked in as if she were walking onstage, following Hazard as he subtly ducked under the door frames on the way to his office.

  A phone rang and there was a faint smell of fresh coffee that made Virginia’s stomach rumble.

  “Close the door,” Hazard said, putting his hat on the desk.

  She did. As soon as the latch clicked, he started in about the extra pills he’d told her to put to the side.

  Why weren’t they individually repackaged, Ms. Campbell? Are you trying to be sloppy? You’re succeeding. You can’t be sloppy and worn-out and tired for this. This is not how I run things and I don’t care how long you’ve worked for me, I’ll fire you. I’ll fire you and I’ll make sure you don’t work for anyone in this state. And if you end up on the street, turning tricks like the whore you are, I’ll have every cop in the county arresting you. If you’re a stripper, I’ll have the health department in there measuring your thong. If you’re a waitress, no one in this town will leave you a tip. If you’re a grave digger, no one will fucking die. That is how much you will want for work. I will not tolerate this. Sloppy work puts you in prison. You are not allowed to fuck up if you want to stay employed.

  At first, she tried to explain. She’d asked about the extras and he’d said to put them all together. He hadn’t given her a breakdown. She hadn’t been given a list. She had packaged them. How was that sloppy?

  But he just talked over her until she fell silent.

  Finally, his voice dropped and he straightened his tie. “Tell me about the Wardens.”

  She told him all she knew in a flat voice, looking toward him, but not at him.

  The yelling started again.

  Again, she tried to explain. “This is what you asked for. To distract them. To know what they care about.”

  Again, he talked over her, drowning out any defense.

  Someone knocked on the door and cracked it open. “Your nine fifteen is here.” The secretary ignored Virginia.

  Virginia automatically turned for the door, assuming it was over.

  “Sit down,” Hazard snapped.

  The 9:15 walked in, looking like shit on a stick. He wore a ball cap pulled low and his fingers were dirty, but he plopped into the seat beside Virginia like he owned the room.

  “Give him your bags,” Hazard said curtly.

  Her jaw dropped. “Why?”

  He just looked at her, expression dead, until she pulled the backpack off her shoulder and handed it over.

  “They
’re color-coded,” she told Nine Fifteen.

  “Write down the code,” Hazard said.

  “But—” Virginia started.

  Hazard held up his hand. “Just do it, Virginia.”

  She shouldn’t have gotten upset, no matter what he said. It meant he was in control. And handing over her stuff didn’t just mean she was losing her work—her codes, and her clients, and presumably her paycheck—it meant she had lost his trust and his faith. But she steeled her face and did as she was told.

  “You’re done with this. I want you to focus on the Wardens. You keep showing up in this cheap, girlish shit.” He gestured to her dress. “You’re not taking this seriously. Maybe you don’t have enough time to focus on it. This shouldn’t be hard.”

  Nine Fifteen took the bags and leaned back, watching easily, not at all embarrassed to be witnessing her mortification.

  “Go back and do it right this time,” Hazard snapped.

  Virginia’s fist clenched at the unfairness. This wasn’t what he’d told her to do. She had been doing it right until he changed the rules.

  “Go through Harris’s home office and take pictures of anything that hints at income, or payouts, or anything illegal. Do it, or you’ll beg me to fire you. Change your clothes and get to work,” Hazard said. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

  Virginia stood and left without a word.

  Outside, when she opened her mouth to cry it came out as a scream. Her fists curled and her body pulled apart. What had happened? She hadn’t done anything wrong—had she? Jerking open the truck door, she jumped inside.

  There was only one thing to do.

  In a squeal of hot asphalt and gravel, she headed into the mountains.

  Danylynn and Wave stood in front of the vacant and boarded corner store, flip-flops in their purses and heels strapped to lotioned legs in the purple twilight. While she waited and gathered herself, Virginia brought them iced teas and cigarettes from the gas station down the street. The women knew why she was doing it, knew Virginia had thought herself better than this and was now trying to make repayment . . . as if it would deflect her fate. And maybe she’d never stand there, at the light, listening to the trains and the cars and waiting for a truck to stop. But she’d be with them all the same, and they knew it.