Brightest As We Fall

by Cleo Peitsche

  “What the fuck!” screams an angry male voice. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  It’s coming from outside. Everyone falls silent.

  The screaming man isn’t just angry. He’s furious, the kind of rage that leads to violent bar fights, someone calling the cops.

  Go away, I think. Probably everyone is thinking it. In this part of town, it’s not uncommon for fights to spill over. Punches, broken bottles, even bullets, they’re all opportunistic: where they hit doesn’t matter. They want to land. To break, to wreck, to ruin.

  The woman behind the glass is safe, but if someone comes in here with a gun, there’s literally nowhere for the rest of us to hide except behind each other. The people in line know it, too; they’re shuffling nervously, licking dry lips.

  “Get the fuck away from me, man.” This guy’s voice is slightly nasally. He yells some other stuff, but I can’t make out the words until he says, “I didn’t fucking touch your goddamn phone charger.”

  All this over a cell phone charger?

  Shouts come from outside, then a scream, a wail so high-pitched that everyone waiting in line cringes.

  “That didn’t sound good,” says an elderly man, and we all laugh nervously.

  I’m trembling. If there was a side exit I could duck through, I would be gone.

  The front door jerks open.

  Chapter 2

  The man who enters is about six three and over two hundred pounds of muscle. He’s got the square jaw and broad shoulders of a football player. His dark hair is cut close on the sides, longer on the top. He could be former military, but he doesn’t hold himself with the sort of rigid discipline that Dad’s friends did.

  I don’t know why I notice all that before I see that one of his large hands is covered in blood. Not a lot of it, but enough to make a shiver skate down my spine. I don’t think he got it from ripping a hangnail.

  His dark blue gaze sweeps across the room, then his head swings back toward me.

  “You’ve got big eyes,” he snarls. “Who are you?”

  My face instantly heats.

  I glance at the woman behind the glass, but she’s busy with a customer. She must have heard the commotion and seen this guy come in, but she’s intent on getting to her break, I guess.

  The man stalks toward me. He’s wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, exposing faded tattoos: two thorny roses wrapped around a lion’s mane; a grinning skull; falling feathers; tangles of barbed wire that wrap around his thick biceps. He can’t even be thirty, and I wonder if he got all that ink in preschool. Or maybe he spends a lot of time outside; sunlight makes tattoos fade faster.

  “I asked you a question,” he says sharply. “Who are you?”

  “DeeAnn,” I stutter.

  A knocking sound fills the room, and he and I both look over. The woman behind the glass points to me and nods.

  Which means this must be Toby. My heart sinks.

  The guy considers me. “You’re mousy. Do you understand what this job is?”

  I pull my shoulders back, thrusting out my chest, and nod.

  His eyes squint slightly and his lip curls in disapproval. My heart takes off at a gallop. He’s going to say no. I have to convince him, but there’s no way I’m going to pull down my zipper when the entire room will be able to see my boobs.

  That’s what I tell myself, but my fingers find the tab pull and begin inching the zipper open. Because if I can’t convince Toby, then I’m screwed.

  He watches as I slowly expose the swells of my breasts, pushed up and together by the bra. I’ve got a fairly nice rack, or so my exes have said, and the bra makes them look spectacular. Or so I told myself this morning.

  “Stop.” He sounds disgusted. “Fix yourself.”

  I look down, thinking that maybe the bra has shifted and is cockeyed, making my boobs unappealing. But they’re where they should be.

  I try to see them through a customer’s eyes, through the eyes of a man who has spent his hard-earned money (or illegally obtained money, if I’m being realistic) on half an hour with me in a motel room.

  They look fine.

  With a smooth motion, I yank the zipper back up, then look at the stranger and await his verdict.

  “You don’t need to do that in here,” he says, still disgusted. And maybe something else. Pity? It slides away. “None of these losers can afford it, anyway.”

  When he says losers, I glance at the people in line. They’re pretending not to be paying attention.

  What an asshole. He’s not satisfied with making me feel like shit—I expected a certain amount of crudeness—but he just went out of his way to insult people for no reason. I hate that I’m here.

  But I think I’d hate being carved up by the loan sharks even more.

  “Let’s go.” He turns and drags his booted feet toward the door.

  Dazed, I hurry after him, my cheeks scorching.

  The last thing I notice as I scurry through the door is a chemical rose scent, and I know I’ll forever associate roses with this moment.

  The moment I turned my fate over to a monster.

  Outside, a man in an oversized, stretched-out T-shirt is sitting on the curb in front of a dirty pickup truck.

  He’s hunched over, hand covering his nose. He’s got a shaved head, beady blue eyes, and bushy eyebrows.

  “That her?” he asks, his voice muffled and nasal.

  “No, it’s Cinderella.” Toby yanks open the passenger door of the truck. He looks over at me, and instantly I’m squirming under his gaze. “Do you need a special invitation? Get the fuck in.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble and clamp my bag tighter under my arm, trying to compress the gold duffel into something unobtrusive. My too-small bra doesn’t provide enough support, and my breasts jiggle uncomfortably as I hustle forward.

  This is ridiculous, I tell myself. You should be running away, not toward him.

  He doesn’t make room for me, so I can’t avoid rubbing against him as I climb into the cab. His tall body is hard with muscle. Unexpectedly, he smells like clean sweat and soap.

  The truck, on the other hand, is haunted by cigarette smoke and beer. Underneath it all is some serious funk, like someone’s been sleeping in here. Someone who doesn’t bother washing up or changing his underwear.

  My new best friend shoots a dangerous look at his buddy sitting on the sidewalk. “Come on, Toby.”

  Wait… The guy who got me isn’t Toby?

  That’s Toby?

  I feel even sicker.

  The real Toby slowly gets up from the sidewalk. He’s a big guy, too, but not as big as the first one, and while he looks like he’s got muscle on his frame, it’s hidden under a wrinkled layer of baggy clothes. When he lowers his hand, I see his nose is reddened and maybe a bit swollen.

  He folds into the driver’s seat, and then I know where the bad smell is coming from.

  As subtly as I can, I turn my face away.

  I was told I’d have to prove myself to Toby, which means he’ll be my first customer. Except I imagine he won’t be paying, so I guess not technically a customer.

  But the way he smells, I’m not sure I’ll be able to go through with it.

  Except I have to.

  “There’s a bottle in the glove box,” Toby says. “Get it for me.”

  Lube, I think. He’s going to do it right here. But that’s ridiculous. I start to reach for the glove box, but the first guy shakes his head, warning flashing in his eyes.

  “Move over, honey,” he says. He wrinkles his nose like I’m the one who smells bad.

  Even though I don’t want to move a centimeter closer to Toby, the other guy, fake-Toby, scares me more. I immediately scoot along the seat.

  He swings himself up and lands heavily. I almost bounce. Fake-Toby pulls a bottle of hand sanitizer out of the glove box and throws it at Toby, who squirts a few drops on his palms before wiping his fingers on his filthy jeans.

  There’s nothing to hold on
to when Toby begins driving. I press my hands together and wedge them between my clamped knees, my bag between my elbows. I wish I could accordion all of me into an unobtrusive little square.

  Toby accelerates fast and brakes hard, and within a few minutes I’m dizzy, and the top of my throat feels thick. I haven’t gotten carsick since I was a kid, but Toby might be about to change that.

  “What’s your name?” Toby asks. He takes his hand off the steering wheel to wipe at his nose. A brownish-red smear comes away on his wrist, and he curses.

  “Her name is DeeAnn,” the other guy says.

  Toby looks over at me. “She’s got that slutty look. Maybe we can clean her up a bit.”

  Don’t take it personally, I tell myself. This is just business. I’m a product, and I’m fine with that.

  “I don’t mind the slutty look,” the other guy says idly. “They can take it rougher.” It’s not meant to be a compliment.

  Toby rubs his nose again, then drops his hand to my knee. I flinch.

  He notices, and an irritated expression crosses his face. “Great,” he says. “She looks like a used-up whore but acts like she’s never been fucked.”

  “I’m not a virgin,” I say. “Not by a long shot.”

  “You’ve never done this before,” the other guy says.

  I shake my head. “No, but—”

  “That’s fine,” Toby says. “Everyone has to start somewhere. How old are you, sweetheart?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “You could pass for nineteen. We’ll say you’re seventeen.”

  Since we’re having a discussion, I dare to ask, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Got an errand to run, and then I’ll bring you to headquarters.”

  When Toby says the word headquarters, he smirks, and I know the place he’s referring to won’t have cubicles and potted ferns.

  “How long will the errand take?” I ask.

  The other guy grabs my face and turns my head toward him. His hands are big and strong. Too strong.

  “Smart whores don’t ask questions,” he says, his eyes burning with intensity.

  “Don’t damage the goods, Jason.” Toby cranks down the window to wave at a couple of kids sitting on the side of the street. The friendly gesture is surprising. “What’s with you today, man?” Toby asks.

  Jason releases me roughly.

  I rub my jaw, trying to get the feeling back. He might have rearranged my molars. “I wasn’t being nosy,” I say. “I have to use the ladies’ room, is all.”

  And I especially need to use it now. I really, really need to pee. And a drink of something to calm myself down.

  “The ladies’ room,” squawks Toby. “She’s so fancy under all that makeup. Hoity-toity hooker. You can hold it for half an hour, Miss DeeAnn.”

  My cheeks ignite with embarrassment. In the past few minutes, these two men have made me feel invisible and crappy.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew this wasn’t going to be a day at the spa. Not that I’ve ever been to a spa.

  More than forty minutes later, we’re deep in the countryside, kicking up dirt on unpaved roads. I haven’t seen another car in at least ten minutes. My imagination is working overtime, presenting terrifying scenarios. What I keep coming back to is this: maybe they’re taking me into the boonies to make a snuff film.

  The pickup turns onto a gravel path. We bounce along, my heart going faster and faster. Within a few seconds we’re out of sight of the road. Hilly forest crowds in on us, looming over the path. I squeeze my hands into fists and clench my jaw until my teeth ache.

  The forest thins some, and Toby pulls up to a nondescript wooden shack at the edge of an overgrown field. Four motorcycles are parked near the door.

  The pickup’s engine ticks. Other than that, silence, and my skin erupts into goosebumps.

  “Go pee in the meadow,” Toby says. “Then come right back here and wait for us. Got it?” He snaps his fingers an inch from my eyes, and I flinch. “Got it?”

  I nod.

  “Stupid whore,” he mutters.

  At least I know how to properly use hand sanitizer, I want to say.

  “Stay away from the building.” Jason pushes his door open.

  “All right.”

  I’m thrilled to inhale fresh air. Toby’s body odor isn’t the sort of scent I want to get used to.

  The sun warms my face when I scoot to the edge of the seat, reminding me of happier, more innocent times. As I carefully lower myself onto the ground, tall grass tickles my ankles and calves.

  At least two years have passed since I last left Rhodell Heights. Chirping birds counterbalance the melancholy echoes of cicadas. The area is surrounded by small hills. Some of my friends go hunting in this general region, and I remember from high school that there’s a pond perfect for skinny-dipping.

  Because I always worked weekends, I only went once. The pond could be an hour away for all I know.

  Jason and Toby swagger toward the building. I glare at their backs as I hug the bag to my chest.

  I look at the motorcycles and think about the kinds of people Toby and Jason associate with. Most if not all of them men, probably. I’m glad I wasn’t invited in. Not with the way I’m dressed.

  The meadow is pretty, dotted with pink and purple flowers, but the terrain doesn’t look accommodating for a woman wearing platforms. The ground is uneven, and it’s difficult to see where I’m placing my feet. It takes an eternity to move deep enough into the field that I don’t have to worry about someone coming outside and seeing me.

  Maybe this is my last act of privacy for the afternoon.

  I pull up my skirt and drop my underwear.

  Squatting in platforms is even more difficult than walking in them. I teeter precariously, then pitch forward and press my fingers against the ground for balance.

  A bumblebee nearly flies into my forehead, and I jerk away.

  The sudden movement causes me to lose my balance. My duffel hits the ground. I throw my arms out and manage not to land on my face, and thank goodness because if I come back all banged up, Toby will probably leave me on the side of the road for being too air-headed even for fucking.

  My right sandal has come partially off my foot, revealing blistered skin. As I’m working the shoe back on, I hear a muffled shout.

  “Someone must have touched Jason’s phone charger.” A giggle bubbles up my throat. “Big scary man doesn’t like that.”

  Then, more shouts, the pitch frenzied.

  The laugh dies on my lips. Instinct tells me to stay where I am.

  Or maybe I’m just frozen with fear.

  Whatever the reason, I stay put. If Jason is punching people again, I don’t want to see him, don’t want to accidentally get in the way of his fists.

  I’m not sure what I think of Jason. Usually, I can get a good read on people. Toby, for example, I understand. He’s a criminal and a slob, and he has a foul mouth. He’s a bad guy, but I don’t think he’s an evil guy. He wouldn’t cut up a cat for the hell of it.

  Not that I think Jason would… but it wouldn’t shock me, either.

  He punched his friend over a phone charger. And the way he grabbed my face… He has no qualms about putting his hands on another person. It’s like he feels entitled.

  He’s brutal, obviously. Possibly monstrous.

  I’ve never been one to plunge into infatuation just because a guy has a pretty face. Women threw themselves at my dad, and he damned sure took advantage of it. I loved my dad. He treated me like a princess, but he could be… a jerk, a user of people. All people, not just single moms foolish enough to suck him off while I was playing with their daughters in the back yard. Oh, I know about pretty men who treat women as disposable.

  In a flash, I identify what’s lurking behind Jason’s dead eyes: intelligence. I think about the way he stopped me from obeying Toby’s command to get the sanitizer out of the glove box. Jason’s cruelness is calculated. He’s manipulative. And petty. Tob
y disgusts me, but he doesn’t scare me. Jason scares me.

  The shouting seems to have died down.

  For all I know, the men are back in the truck, waiting for me to finish up. They don’t seem like the type to be patient. I need to get a move-on.

  I’ve just finished fixing my shoe when, bam! The calm shatters into a million pieces.

  Four loud blasts echo across the field.

  Gunshots?

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  I lose track of how many shots. Immediately, I drop down again. Even though I know I’m not visible, I flatten myself more. The scents of rich soil and crushed grass fill my nose.

  Another explosion of gunfire rings out.

  A whimper of surprise leaks from my throat.

  When the eruptions end, I realize the birds have stopped singing. Everything is so very quiet.

  I have no idea what happened. There’s no way, with all that shooting in such a small building, that at least one person didn’t get hurt or worse.

  If the men who brought me are dead, then I need to run, to save myself.

  If the men who brought me are alive… then I need to run. Because they don’t know me. They have no reason to trust that I would keep my mouth shut—though I would because I don’t want to die.

  But why would they trust me? If I were them, I wouldn’t.

  Jason or Toby, or the guys with the bikes. Evil is evil. If I don’t get out of here, I know how this will end.

  With a bullet in my brain.

  I hunch down, rip off my sandals and pull on the socks and sneakers from inside my duffel. No time to stow the sandals, so I hold them in my fists as I run. The road might be safer, if it weren’t so far away, if I knew a friendly motorist would pick me up.

  But I don’t know that, so I head toward the woods.

  A huge black tarp looms in front of me, and I don’t want to find out what it’s covering.