Then, with a screaming whine, a group of Ducati motorcycles started up from the stoplight on the street, popped wheelies, and veered, leaning at dangerous angles, into the parking lot. Jenny and Lewis were forced to halt suddenly and back up a few steps as the bikes passed a foot in front of them. Lewis put an arm out protectively in front of Jenny, who muttered, “Assholes.” Most of these drivers were wearing full body suits of leather with helmets that matched their bikes. The Harley guys turned and shook their heads disdainfully as the hotshots screeched to a halt and started to debike. They locked up their helmets carefully and started toward the bar.
Jenny and Lewis crossed the narrow lot to their car, and he came to her side to unlock the door for her. Both of them were surreptitiously keeping an eye on the dynamics between the two vastly different groups of men.
Jenny watched as Pistol’s friend flicked his cigarette into the air, watched as it arched and landed at the feet of one of the newcomers, a tall, handsome man wearing jeans and a black leather jacket with yellow lettering to match his motorcycle that declared the make of his bike from every angle. She’d seen him somewhere, but she couldn’t place him. Maybe he’d come in the coffee shop. All of his friends wore the same type of leathers with similar advertising, some from head to toe, with their brand name on every part of their bodies.
“Are you guys on some kind of a team,” asked the Harley rider mockingly, “or do you and your girlfriends just like to dress alike?” His buddies hooted and made kissing noises.
Jenny watched as the tall man stopped and turned toward Pistol. “Tell your friend to keep his redneck mouth shut or I’ll shut it for him.”
Pistol said nothing at first, but the edges of his beard moved upward as a slow smile spread over his face. “You tell him. I think he’ll like that.” He turned to his companion. “Mike, this young lady wants to talk to you.”
Jenny felt increasingly unsafe with the burgeoning testosterone level. She’d seen enough fights in her life to know when one was coming, and she had developed a keen distaste for bar brawls and domestic violence. She got into the car and closed the door quickly behind her, shutting out the confrontation. Lewis started the car, and they eased their way out of the parking lot through the multitude of motorcycles.
On one of those motorcycles Mike leaned back, crossed his ankles at the heavy black boots, and continued antagonizing Vince. “Listen, fancy boy, I wouldn’t want you to break a nail, and I’m in a good mood tonight, so you go on in and get yourself and your softball team there a round of wine spritzers.”
Vince took a step forward, but one of his buddies put out a restraining arm and said, “Forget it. They’re just cheap trailer trash.” A glance around told Vince that, whereas the Harley riders were clustering forward, eager to rumble, his Ducati boys were backing away, and fear flickered in his eyes. After pointing a threatening finger at Mike, who laughed, Vince turned and walked toward the bar.
Mike called after him, “Bye-bye, princess.”
Vince stopped and turned back, but his friends urged him forward. Vince’s eyes met with Army’s. Obviously solo, he was watching Vince from his seated position on the pavement.
Seeing a safer outlet for his rage, Vince snapped at him, “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Army regarded him coldly, his hands forming into fists before he muttered, “Nothing,” and turned away, ignoring Vince utterly.
“Let’s go. I need a drink,” one of Vince’s friends said nervously, and they hustled him through the glass door.
The Harley riders burst into catcalls and jeers.
Mike lit another cigarette, and he, Pistol, and the others sat on their bikes or stood around talking and smoking. Army, who had watched the conflict with bland detachment, cursed his bike again. Mike, his smoke dangling from his mouth, crossed over and leaned down to peer at the broken-down Honda seven-fifty.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked, deliberately not making eye contact with Army.
“I wish to fuck I knew,” Army grumbled.
“Well, maybe I can help you out.” Now he turned a handsome grin on the younger man. “I’m Mike. I own a garage.” He extended his hand.
“I’m Army.” He took the hand in a hesitant manner and shook too hard, the kind of shake that a man who acts tough to cover insecurity gives. “Thanks, but I can’t pay you,” he said gruffly, as though that were no big deal and the end of it, and turned back to his work.
“Well, Army, I didn’t ask you for money, did I? I mean, it seems like an awful waste of talent for me to sit here watching you dick around when I could do this.” He reached two long fingers up inside the bike and there was a clicking sound. “And that should do it. Why don’t you give it a try?”
Army stood up and tried the ignition key. It sputtered.
“Throttle,” Mike ordered.
Army followed his directions and the ignition caught, coughed, and held. He chanced a glance up at Mike. “Thanks,” he muttered. Then he started to shake his left hand, waving it back and forth as he held his right arm stiffly down by his side.
“No problem.” Mike smiled at the younger man’s reluctant acceptance of help. The tattoos told him most of the story. Prison was no place to be needy. “Did you burn your fingers?”
Army’s eye’s shot up at Mike and he curled his left hand into a fist as though to hide it. “Uh, yeah,” he said hesitantly. “On the muffler.”
Mike dismissed it. “Done it a million times.” He smiled. “Still hurts like a son of a bitch every time.”
“Thanks again.” Army climbed onto his bike and put on his helmet.
“Why don’t you come in and have a beer with us?” Mike invited.
“Oh, I can’t. I, uh, got a curfew.” Army mumbled the last words and turned his face away, pretending to check out something down by his leg on the bike.
“Yeah,” Mike said kindly. “The State of California is a jealous bitch of a wife.” He smiled and nodded.
Army turned and looked at the other man directly for the first time, and for a fraction of a second a smile flickered on his mouth. But then his eyes went dead again, as though returning to a habitual state. Dead to caring anymore.
“See you around.” Mike made to punch Army’s shoulder, thought better of it, and turned abruptly away as the backfiring bike sped out of the parking lot.
Chapter 17
Sunday
Overnight the sky had filled again with thick clouds, and soft, plump raindrops had begun to fall. The rain and wind loosened the ripe acorns of an oak and a few fell, knocking intermittently on the tiles of the roof below it. The rain kept up a constant background tempo.
The sound thrummed through the bedroom where Jenny and Lewis lay on opposite sides of the bed, sleeping. The moisture increased the chill in the January air. Without waking, they moved closer to each other in the bed, seeking the warmth and the comfort of the other’s body.
Lewis heard the music of the rain and the light, sporadic tapping of the acorns before he opened his eyes to the bare gray dawn. He found that he was nestled against Jenny, his arm curled over her chest, his face in her hair, and he smiled. He loved the soft warmth of her body against his, and he pressed ever so subtly against her. On her way to wakefulness, she responded.
They rocked slowly and gently against each other as she pulled his arm tighter up against her chest, and, opening the front of her flannel pajamas donned in defense the night before, she placed his hand snugly on her breast.
It felt so soft and firm and comfortable, so female. He pressed harder against the roundness of her backside, and she equaled the pressure. Reaching down with his free hand, he pulled at the elastic waistband of her pants; she rolled onto her back and lifted her hips to free them. Ah, permission granted.
Unbuttoning the last few buttons of her shirt, Lewis ran the flat of his hand over her stomach and down between her legs. He kissed her neck, and then, when the moisture below equaled the moistness outside, he lifted hi
mself up on top of her, and with a sigh of pleasure lowered the heated skin of his chest against hers.
Jenny pulled up her knees and received him with the supreme satisfaction of having a man who fit. They moved slowly against and with each other until the friction increased and the pace mounted. The rain fell harder outside and thunder rumbled. As the rain became increasingly frantic, the sounds of quickened breath and small cries of effort and pleasure filled the warming room.
And then came the quiet, soft kisses, apologies. Defenses were abandoned. Forgiveness was gracefully granted. They listened honestly, spoke without filters, and, reaching out beyond their fears and insecurities, did the bravest thing: They compromised.
Chapter 18
It was late afternoon, and Sherry Jackson’s feet ached, and it was raining again, which always made her bones hurt. At least it wasn’t pissing down, the way it had for three weeks in a row right after Christmas. This rainfall had lightened to an on-and-off smattering. She’d been up at dawn doing the motel’s laundry and cleaning out the rooms. Some of the things these people did were disgusting. A couple of the cheap rooms rented out weekly, and those guys usually weren’t too bad, or if they were, they didn’t expect her to deal with it every day; in fact, they preferred she stay out. That was just fine by her. Sometimes it was families who had no place else to go, too many people crammed into a small room with a double bed, and a bathroom with an upright shower. Those rooms had so much stuff on the floor that she couldn’t do much except change towels.
The worst were the meth smokers. Those rooms were sticky with spilled liquor, the tang of chemical smoke, and she didn’t even want to think about the blood and vomit in the bathrooms. Cleaning toilets on this job was as disgusting as scraping out a toxic shit-house. Sherry had become a real detective in her years of cleaning rooms. She used to make a game of guessing things about the people who had stayed there and their distasteful habits, until she’d become too sickened and jaded to care anymore. I could write a book, she had thought, and then the next thought had been that no one could bear to read it.
There was only one room she hadn’t done today, fourteen. The broken DO NOT DISTURB sign hung crookedly from the knob, oddly mimicking the reflective number four, which dangled askew from a single tack. Whoever it was had paid for two nights in advance, but she was still supposed to at least check and see if they needed towels. She’d been around all day and she hadn’t seen anyone go in or out. Most likely that meant they’d stayed up all night doing methamphetamine or crack and were either crashed or hiding from the light in a dangerous state of vampirelike paranoia. Great.
Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was almost four o’clock. She wanted to get back to her studio apartment and start drinking in earnest. She kept a small bottle hidden in the laundry room, but it had run out a couple of hours ago, and she was down to her last couple of smokes.
Screw ’em, she thought, and she shuffled painfully up to the door, her Rite Aid slippers making a scuffling sound on the rough pavement. She rapped loudly. “Housekeeping!” she called out brusquely. There was no answer. She tried again, but there was still no response. She put her ear to the flimsy, hollow door and listened; you could hear through these doors like cardboard.
Nothing.
Great. One more jerk who’d left the sign on the door and gone out; now she’d have to clean the room and that would take another fifteen minutes. She pulled her master key from the cord around her neck and put it in the keyhole, hoping that the chain lock would be on and she could get out of this hellhole and go to the one she lived in. At least she could put her feet up and watch TV there.
But the door met no resistance. She opened it about a foot and peered into the darkened room. The lights were off, the curtains were drawn, and the rain-darkened afternoon afforded little illumination through the partially opened door.
“Hello? Housekeeping,” she called again, but there was no response. She sighed and, leaving the door open, went to retrieve her cart, which she rattled noisily down the cement until she was outside the room. Then she swung the door open the rest of the way and gathered an armful of towels. She surveyed the dim room, waiting for her eyes to adjust as she stepped in. It wasn’t the worst; there was a bottle of Southern Comfort lying on the floor, empty, of course. Damn, she could have used a drink. All the sheets were off the bed except for the bottom one, and it had a large yellowish stain and was smudged with something else—she didn’t know what and she didn’t care. She’d stuff them in the laundry with enough bleach to kill the Great Barrier Reef and forget about it. The rest of the sheets were piled in a heap in the corner. There was the normal musty, moldy smell of carpet that never really dried out after the rain had seeped through the roof, mixed with years of human body odor, but something else was in the air: the lingering smell of burned meat.
Sherry looked around. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had barbecued inside the hotel room. She’d caught one Korean family with a little brazier happily grilling up chicken skewers and some god-awful thing that looked like the tongue of a large bovine. Yuck.
She turned back and switched on the light. Steeling herself for the worst, she started for the bathroom, glancing again at the pile of sheets in the corner, and then froze.
From the jumble of dirty linen jutted a human foot—a female foot with chipped dark green polish on the toes. The rest of whoever it was was completely covered.
The hairs on Sherry’s arms shot up as though they were trying to get the hell out of there, but something else—an excited curiosity—thrilled through her as well.
“Hello?” she tested again, but the feeling of speaking to an empty room remained. Her mouth, already sour from cigarettes and whiskey, went dry and rancid. Breathing shallowly and clutching the towels in front of her like protective padding, she took a few steps closer to the foot. “Hey!” she shouted, and then she reached out a slipper and nudged the heel. The foot moved a little, but then stopped again.
With a trembling hand, Sherry reached out and took hold of the piled sheets about where she guessed the head would be, and pulled.
A convulsive shudder rattled her whole body, and she ran, screaming and retching, from number fourteen.
Chapter 19
Luke and Whitney looked at each other when Joy came into the kitchen. She looked like hell; her eyes were sunken, and her skin was more pallid than usual. She did not acknowledge them in any way. She got herself a large glass of tap water from the sink and gulped it down, then turned to shuffle out, deliberately snubbing her father and his wife.
“Joy,” Luke said in a voice that made it clear he would not be refused or ignored.
A huge exasperated sigh was forced out by Joy as she turned toward them and crossed her arms. “What?” she asked sharply.
“Well, first of all you can lose that attitude with me if you ever want to leave this house again.” She exhaled belaboredly and rolled her eyes slightly, but the gesture was quieter and less emphatic this time. “Second, you might want to sit down, ’cause this could take a minute.”
“I’ll stand,” Joy said, but she looked as though bolting would be far more preferable.
“Fine. Now listen. Yesterday morning you weren’t just drunk, were you?”
“Whatever.” Her eyes floated around the room, resting on anything except Luke and Whitney. Whitney watched her, feeling anger and pity in equal parts.
“I’m not really asking,” Luke cut in sharply. “I’m telling you, I know it was either cocaine or speed, because you were too jumpy and paranoid to just have been hungover. You think you’re the first person to use drugs? Baby, I snorted my weight in cocaine in my late twenties.” He paused for a moment to make sure that sank in. Joy tried to look completely unconcerned, but for the first time her eyes shot to her father and then away. Luke went on: “I’m going to ask you a question in a minute, but I’m gonna say something first.”
The girl mumbled an inaudible response and crossed her arms more t
ightly. Luke ignored it.
“You think you know everything. You think nobody understands you but this older crowd I know you’ve been hanging with. I’m gonna give it to you straight: You’re pretty, and you’ve got a body that’s a lot more grown-up than you are. There’s gonna be men who play on that. Who treat you like an adult because they know that’s what you want. They’ll offer you freedom and drugs and anything else, and all they want is to fuck you.”
The statement shocked Joy; that much was obvious to Whitney. Joy’s body went rigid and she looked panicked.
Luke went on: “They’ll use you up and spit you out. You will end up strung out, used, and very possibly hurt or dead.”
Whitney looked down at her hands, remembering Greer’s warning. She had said nothing to Luke, and she could certainly see the need to keep a close watch on Joy, but the frustrating fact was that it wasn’t really in their control. Joy spent too much time with an incompetent mother who thought of nothing but herself.
“Do you have anything to say?” Luke asked his daughter.
“Is it too much to think that people might actually like me?” Joy asked. The hurt in her voice was ill disguised by the sarcastic contempt.
Luke took a moment to pretend he was considering it. “Yes,” he said definitively, “it is.” Joy opened her mouth but he went on: “If we’re talking about men, not teenage boys, and they are paying a lot of attention to a fifteen-year-old girl, filling her head with bullshit about what a grown-up she is, then my answer is yes. Because no man is gonna hang out with a fifteen-year-old unless he’s twisted enough to try to take advantage of her.” Before she could say anything, Luke leaned in and told her, “I’m telling you this because I know these kinds of men.”
Joy looked as though she’d been lashed with a whip, but she had no response. Her mother let her do what she wanted; why couldn’t he just leave her alone?
Eye of the Beholder Page 11