On the Record- the Complete Collection

by Lee Winter

  “So what are you proposing?” she asked. “Braiding each other’s hair and swapping gossip about the boys we like?”

  “Only after hell has frozen over. And even then, I’ll pass.” Lauren shuddered. “I was thinking more along the lines of you tell me something about yourself that I don’t know, and vice versa.”

  At the guarded expression that immediately flashed across Ayers’s face, Lauren rolled her eyes.

  “Not your personal stuff. What about where you’re originally from and why you chose to work at the Daily Sentinel?”

  For a few moments, Ayers didn’t speak. Lauren became convinced she wasn’t going to, and her already crappy mood sank.

  “You first,” Ayers suddenly said. “Tell me, King, what lured you off the Midwestern prairies to the land of fake tans and plastic dreams?”

  “Okay.” Lauren grinned. “I grew up in Cedar Rapids. My dad and five younger brothers work in our family’s mechanic business. Dad loves to fix up classics like this one.” She patted the dash fondly.

  “Mom was a teacher. She died when I was twelve. I got my passion for books and writing from her.

  “In high school I discovered I had a good fast ball. Softball helped me get a partial ride to college to earn my journalism degree.

  “The first paper I worked at after college was a tiny rag barely thick enough to block out the light. At the Liberty Gazette I was a copy kid, but then I worked my way up to writing crop yields. High school sports results. Stories of big-ass root vegetables. And just for variety, more crop yields.

  “The boss was the editor, publisher, and advertising department. He made his own home brew, wore yellow suspenders, quoted Johnny Carson and Jesus, and called all the women on staff honey—which was to say both of us.

  “I got my first page one with a groundbreaking story on the cow made out of butter at the Iowa State Fair. Dad had that framed, much to my eternal shame. Oh, and I got another page one for my interview with the newly crowned Pork Princess. That’s actually a real title,” Lauren added when she heard a soft snort beside her.

  “Goddamned Iowa,” Ayers drawled.

  Lauren smiled. “Seriously, there were a couple of girls who would probably hogtie their own grandmas for the title.”

  “Stop talking,” Ayers suddenly commanded. She reached into her carryall and pulled out a thermos. She poured herself a coffee and after a few deep mouthfuls gave a grateful sigh. She waved the back of her hand in Lauren’s vague direction. “Continue.”

  “Right, so, the most exciting thing that happened in my second year was the local political race,” Lauren continued. She rubbed her thumbs into the leather stitching on her steering wheel as she remembered.

  “It was between three powerful local businessmen, two of whom were cousins, all trying to outdo each other over the size of their gun collections and love of ‘this here damn fine country.’

  “I’d dug up so many irregularities in their campaigns, I could prove they should all be disqualified. My boss decided retreat was the better part of valor, and it’d be safer for his community standing if I stuck to butter cows. He spiked the story. I walked.

  “My next paper was the Des Moine Standard.”

  “Well,” Ayers said after another slug of coffee, “a masthead I’ve actually heard of. You were moving up in the world.”

  “Yeah,” Lauren mused. “The Standard’s pretty famous for its political section.”

  “Which is what you wanted.”

  “Yes. I did all kinds of stories. Finally I asked to be given a shot at politics. They said to be patient. So I was. I patiently watched all the boys get their chance, including the cub reporter ten years my junior who got a political story on his first week on the job.

  “So I went back to my bosses. They told me they ‘highly valued my skills and hard work’ and maybe if I remained patient, they could see me slotting into Matt McKay’s job when he retired.”

  Lauren thumped the steering wheel in frustration. “Matt was barely forty-five! He’d been doing politics since he was thirty. His ass was nailed to that seat. He’d be a corpse long before he’d ever retire, and everyone knew it. I was some hilarious joke to them.

  “When I told them I wasn’t laughing, they ‘suggested’ that maybe I’d be better sticking to education stories. I was ‘good with teachers, right? Or health? Sick babies? Sad mommies?’

  “That was it. I decided there had to be other papers that’d give me a shot. But I wasn’t delusional enough to just go to DC without experience.

  “LA’s different. It has some decent papers amid all the fluff. It’s progressive, has plenty of female political writers, and best of all, it has a high turnover. They’re not likely to sit on their asses for thirty years doing the same beat. I packed up and drove out here.

  “Dad told me to ‘Do us proud’ the day I left.” Lauren sighed. “I’m not sure writing vapid crap about Hollywood parties constitutes doing anyone proud, though. But it was the only newspaper job I could find before my savings ran out. So. That’s everything.”

  She peered at Ayers. “Your turn.”

  “Well,” Ayers said and slid her sunglasses to the top of her head. “I’m originally from Boston. I was working at the Globe when they sent me to the Washington bureau. Several years later I was promoted to chief.

  “After a number of scoops over the years, including one that brought down three corrupt senators, Paul Harrington—that’s the father, not the son—headhunted me to run a new Washington bureau he was setting up for his LA paper, the Daily Sentinel. I moved to LA around the time the publisher’s son took over.”

  She stopped.

  “That’s it?” Lauren’s brow furrowed.

  “Of course not,” Ayers said with a smug smile and slid her glasses back on her nose. “So, may I assume our charming Q&A session has now concluded?”

  “Why didn’t you quit?” Lauren blurted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “When your new publisher recalled you to LA and dumped you in entertainment reporting? You’re way better than that, and everyone knows it. Including you. And, hell, you’re not even from LA! So why didn’t you quit?”

  “Ah the burning question. Are you in for a decent amount in the office pool, King? Tell me, what’s the going rate? Twenty dollars a bet?”

  “What pool?”

  Ayers screwed the lid back on her thermos. “I felt sure there would be one. I know the Boy King would love to know the answer to that question, too. So, tell me, why do you think I stayed?”

  “I…well, I guess you’d be breaking your contract if you quit and would have to pay the Sentinel out? What did you have, like, eighteen or so months left at the time? It’d be expensive.”

  “You think that I stay in a demeaning job well below my abilities just so I don’t lose money? Really, King?” She then pointedly adjusted the strap on her watch. Tiny diamonds embedded in its face glittered in the sunlight.

  Lauren rolled her eyes. “Fine. You’re right. Okay then I have no clue.”

  “Well, when you figure it out, let me know. Now, put Murrow back on. I’m suddenly fascinated to learn what Marilyn Monroe has to say.”

  Her lips curled into a smile as she closed her eyes again and settled back.

  Three hours later, Lauren pulled into a truck stop at Olencha. Ayers had drained her thermos an hour ago and was starting to look a little twitchy. She hadn’t elaborated as to the source of her discomfort—god forbid—but Lauren knew the signs well. She’d done plenty of road trips with five brothers after all.

  Ayers glanced at her questioningly as Lauren killed the engine.

  “I’m dying for some donuts,” Lauren lied. “And if you need a bathroom break, that restroom doesn’t look too tragic.”

  She jerked her thumb toward the detached building a little distance from the diner and its lone
rusty gas pump. She didn’t wait for a response and climbed out of the driver’s seat.

  Lauren entered the small diner, passing two truckers on the way out. A thin man held open the door and gave her a drawn-out leer. She hurried past.

  She took a step inside, her nose following the aroma of fresh pecan pie, when she saw a flash of movement through the eatery’s window.

  The truckers she’d just passed were pointing at Ayers heading to the bathroom and nudging each other. Their pace quickened as they followed her.

  Oh hell no.

  Lauren bolted outside, letting the screen door slap back against its frame, and ran across the empty parking lot. She overtook them and skidded to a halt in front of the men to block their path, just outside the bathroom.

  “Sorry guys, it’s occupied,” she said.

  “That so?” The skinny man offered her a creepy smile. He leaned into her space, forcing her to take a step backward toward the weathered brown door. He reeked of Old Spice and week-old truck grime.

  Her gaze flicked to his buddy who was built like a bus. He had a scratchy three-day growth and a sweat-stained Wild Turkey cap which threw his sharp-brown eyes into shadow. He gave her a hard look.

  “Move,” he warned her. “’Cause we need to take a leak.”

  He suddenly lurched two steps forward, leaning over her. She stepped quickly back again and they all heard the stark, dull thud as her back hit the wall.

  Old Spice crept around to her side. She could almost taste his excitement tinged with something primal. Fear shot through her.

  “You’re pretty,” he told her and slithered himself into her body. He sniffed her. “Be a shame to mess with that pretty face.”

  She felt the light sandpapering of stubble against her cheek, and his breath skittered over her skin, along with the heat from his ragged breathing.

  He reached out to grab a handful of hair, but she jerked her head away deftly. Her softball reflexes were still sharp, and her body remembered. Her senses had never felt more alert.

  She bounced on the balls of her feet, ready to run if it came to that. With a well-timed move she thought she could slam past both men—but then that would leave Ayers alone to face the gauntlet.

  Damn it.

  “Not going to happen, boys,” she said, gritting her teeth. She flexed her fingers into tight fists and dredged up some real menace.

  “It’s absolutely not fucking going to happen,” she repeated. “I grew up with five brothers, and I know about fifty different ways to make ’em drop to their knees and cry like babies. If you touch me or my friend, I will prove it in ways so painful that you can forget ever having kids. Your shitty gene pools would end right here.”

  She glared at them and tried not to swallow. The men exchanged a look.

  “Bullcrap.” Old Spice growled. He tilted his head as he regarded her, and his eyes lit with danger and something far more sinister. He made to shove her aside.

  Fear seared through her nerve endings like a burning sensation, only to be swallowed seconds later by a surge of incredible rage.

  “Stop!” Lauren yelled at him. He froze, startled. “So maybe you’re right, and you can stop me kicking you in the nuts so hard you choke on them. But you’re not faster than me. You can’t stop me from running over there right now,” she hissed, jabbing a finger at the diner, “and shouting loud enough to empty out the entire place. And they’ll all come rushing over to see you two big tough he-men menacing a woman half their size.”

  Pure malevolence darkened Wild Turkey’s cold, empty face. She stared back as he weighed his options. The sound of water running in a sink behind the door broke the silence.

  “Hey Jack,” Old Spice hissed to his friend. “Come on, it’s not worth it. This bitch is crazy.”

  In slow motion, Lauren watched as the washroom door began to open. Wild Turkey suddenly lurched forward, pushing himself full length against Lauren’s body, pinning her to the wall. Her head snapped back in revulsion when he brought his face next to her ear just as Ayers was about to come into view.

  “I could break you into tiny pieces,” he said softly. “Would enjoy that, too. Oh hell yes, I’d enjoy that. But I choose not to. It’s your lucky day. Bitch.”

  Suddenly he was gone. The oppressive smell of sweat and aftershave was replaced by an empty wash of dusty air. Lauren exhaled, adrenaline flooding her as he strode away. His creepy friend fell in beside him. Her pulse thumped against her neck.

  “Making new friends, King?” Ayers enquired as she came into view and watched the two men depart.

  “N-not exactly,” she said weakly.

  “Get your donuts?”

  She shook her head numbly.

  “Probably for the best.”

  Lauren stared at her blankly.

  “King? You all right?”

  Lauren swallowed. “Um, f-fine, yeah. Let’s go. Now. Come on.”

  She almost sprinted for the car, fearful her legs would give out before she got there. Once inside, with the car door closed, she smashed the knob to lock it and let out a shuddering breath. Her hands shook as she put them on the steering wheel, and they left sweaty smears along the black leather.

  “I can’t help but notice we’re not actually moving,” Ayers said gently after a few minutes as she buckled herself in.

  “Just gimme a sec, okay?” Lauren swallowed again and waited for her heartbeat to drop to merely freight train frantic.

  “Do you want me to drive? It’s been a while since I drove stick, but…”

  Lauren shook her head. As she did, she noticed the two rigs driven by the assholes were moving out of the parking lot. The trucks both turned in the opposite direction, away from Carson City.

  She blew her hair from her eyes. Every part of her seemed to sag in relief.

  “Okay,” she said as she turned the key. It took two attempts. The Beast sprung into life. “Let’s go.”

  They hadn’t said much since Olencha. Even their food and fuel stop at Bishop an hour ago had been a largely silent affair. Over lunch, Lauren had finally bitten the bullet and tried to decipher Florence’s instructions for their motel between bites of waffles, while Ayers made some calls after barely touching a lettuce and tomato sandwich on wholegrain.

  It had been seven hours, and with the adrenalin long worn off, Lauren was exhausted. Her gaze wearily flicked to the right and flashed past something wide and blue and probably beautiful. She was beyond caring.

  “Topaz Lake,” Ayers observed, startling Lauren out of her trance. “It marks the border to Nevada.”

  Not long after that, they swept around a final bend and hit the outskirts of Carson City. Dusky pink, browns, and creams made up the color palette of every surface, from the buildings to the dirt.

  Lauren pulled into their assigned Motel 395 accommodation. The sign proudly proclaimed Truck Parking, Queen Beds, and Senior Rates.

  She turned off the ignition in the wide gray square of cracked concrete that held no other cars. A squat single-story motel with a brown roof and fading white walls stared back. Its views were comprised of either the parking lot overlooking a stagnant green swimming pool or the wide highway behind them.

  “I’m going to kill Frank.” Lauren thumped her head against the steering wheel. “We’d be lucky if this hole is even one star.”

  Ayers glanced up from her notes and briefly scrutinized the motel. “No,” she said. “We passed a Grand Millennium a mile up the road.”

  Lauren shook her head. “Frank will never spring for a Grand Millennium. Look at this flea pit. That says what his budget is.”

  “All this tells me is what Frank thinks of you. Now—ignition, U-turn, drive. It’ll be up on the right.”

  Lauren was too tired to argue. She headed back up the road and within minutes pulled into the pink stucco building’s lot. The Grand Mille
nnium’s sign looked more expensive than the entire motel they’d just left. Which wasn’t saying much.

  Lauren glanced around the hotel’s plush foyer. She was asleep standing up; she was sure of it. She distantly noted that Ayers slid a credit card over the desk. Gold, of course. She was too exhausted to roll her eyes.

  Wait, Ayers’s middle name was Violet?

  She snickered wearily.

  “If you tell a soul, I know people who can make you disappear,” a low voice purred next to her ear.

  Lauren started. “Oh great. Now that we’re four hundred miles from home, your secret violent streak comes out—”

  “Ladies,” the concierge interrupted gently. She had cropped blonde hair, amused bright eyes, and a nametag declaring her to be Janice.

  “I can bump you up to our double suite if you like,” she offered. “No extra charge. No one’s using it this week. Let’s call it ‘family’ rates.” She winked.

  “Double suite?” Ayers scowled. “Do we look like a couple to you? Two. Rooms,” she added crisply.

  “Okay, yes ma’am.” The blonde head bobbed professionally. “Two rooms. I’ll give you both views of the courtyard.”

  Ayers radiated irritation.

  “Ma’ams?” Janice said after a flurry of taps on her computer. “I’ve put you in 408 and 409. I’ll have the porter bring your bags up shortly.”

  She slid a pair of white plastic key cards toward them.

  “Ayers,” Lauren said as she picked up one, “I really don’t think Frank will cover this.”

  “Oh he will.” Ayers’s eyes glittered as she snatched the other card. “Especially after we break our exclusive.”

  “Could be an expensive gamble if you’re wrong,” Lauren said. She snagged her duffel bag, trudged toward the elevator, and leaned heavily on the Up button.

  Ayers slid her carryall over one shoulder and followed. The doors opened, and she entered, but not before she shot a warning glare at a young porter as he attempted to manhandle her pair of designer LVs onto his trolley.

  As the numbers slowly counted up, the silence weighed oppressively in the small space.