Problem Child (ARC)

by Victoria Helen Stone

  “Kiki?”

  “Yeah. She works the trucks here every once in a

  while. Not often, though.”

  I scroll to another picture. “This is her?”

  “Yeah, that’s her.” She takes a drag from her ciga-

  rette and scuffs her sandals against the cement. “She’s

  missing?”

  “She’s been gone a few weeks. Unless you’ve seen

  her since then? This was the last place she was headed.

  About a month ago.”

  “No, I ain’t seen Kiki. Have you talked to her pimp?”

  “Little Dog?”

  “Yeah”—she smirks—“Little Dog.” Then we laugh

  together at him and his rural white-boy bravado.

  “Did she seem okay the last time you saw her around

  here?”

  “I don’t know. She was so little, we used to tell her

  to go on home. I mean, she’s young and everything, so

  we worried. But mostly we didn’t want her drawing the

  cops here neither. No one needs that kind of attention,

  you know?”

  “Sure, I get it. What about Little Dog? Did he seem

  normal to you?”

  “Yeah. I saw him more recently. He was hanging out

  in the lot, then some big SUV pulled up, and he took off

  like a bat outta hell.”

  “Who was in the SUV?”

  “No one I’ve ever seen. Big guy with a shaved head.”

  Interesting. My mom mentioned a bald man too. A

  bald man with a gun. I glance over the lot. “Anyone else

  around tonight?”

  “Nah, I’m the early bird.” She grins. “Getting that

  worm.”

  137

  Victoria Helen Stone

  We snort-laugh together as she grinds her cigarette

  butt beneath her flip-flop and shakes out her hair.

  “Smart lady, waiting by the showers,” I say. “That’s

  a good tactic.”

  “Girl, you wouldn’t believe the swamp ass these guys

  acquire in those leather seats. No thank you, ma’am. I’ll

  take a clean dick any day.”

  I don’t mind her ma’am at all. In fact, I hand over a ten-dollar bill. “Thanks for your help with my niece. I

  appreciate it.”

  “No problem. I’ll ask around if you want to come back

  in a couple of days. I’ll have my son tomorrow night, so

  I won’t be here. But check in on Thursday.”

  “Got it.”

  “I hope Kiki is all right.”

  Kiki. Just a regular, everyday underage sex worker,

  maybe. But something about good old Frank’s reaction

  is still bothering me. Time to reach out to a local pimp,

  it seems.

  138

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Knowing Little Dog has been spooked by something, I

  decide to go with the harmless “I’m just a girl” approach

  to reassure him that he’s in charge here.

  Hello, Brodie! I’m Kayla’s aunt from Minnesota and

  I’m trying to get in touch. Do you know where she

  is or how I can contact her??? I’m pretty worried

  & I just want to be sure she’s ok. Thanks so much!

  I shop in the truck stop for a few minutes while I wait

  for a response. I grab a bag of Funyuns and eye the men

  around me in the store. And they’re all men, aside from

  the woman ringing them up. This town has always been

  filled with so many strangers, men coming through for

  work or fueling up before a long drive into the panhandle.

  It’s never been a safe place to be a girl.

  I look at them in line, their faces unsmiling and un-

  shaven, and I imagine any one of them might have offered

  Kayla cross-country passage in exchange for a daily blow

  job along the way. Of course, any one of them might have

  decided rape and murder was just as fun a pastime and

  dropped her body in the scrub somewhere along these

  two-lane highways. As a monster myself, I’m not under

  any delusions about the kindness of strangers.

  139

  Victoria Helen Stone

  I find it curious that men are so often the monsters,

  because it’s definitely not about some mythological kind-

  ness of women. We can be cruel and harsh and abusive.

  But we don’t lash out in the same ways.

  I assume men’s anger drills down on us so specifically

  because women are presented at the earliest age as with-

  holders of pleasure. Look at them over there, walking around with what we want. Toying with us. Denying happiness. Look at them, with their tits and pussies, just living their selfish lives like they’re not cruel gatekeepers. Time to teach them a lesson.

  Even the most normal sexual interaction is framed as

  him getting some and her giving in. If you aren’t kind

  enough to give a man what he needs, why should he treat

  you kindly in return?

  Women aren’t raised to be angry in response. We’re

  raised to appease. But I don’t care about pleasing anyone

  or being called nice, so these weird expectations have

  always been a bright glow in my peripheral vision. That

  works out fine for me. They never anticipate that I’m the

  one expecting to be appeased.

  But I am.

  As I slip into my car, my mind shifts to the decision

  of what to do next. I’m not good at waiting, but I’m at

  Little Dog’s mercy here.

  I’m tapping a finger against my chin when my unfo-

  cused gaze sends a clue to my brain. I stop tapping and

  narrow my eyes on a distant line of white. It looks like…

  When I tilt my head, I see it. A wind turbine blade. A

  huge, solitary blade just lounging around like a lazy queen.

  It’s a quarter mile up the road, cradled on the long

  trailer of a truck parked alongside the highway. Another

  truck pulls up as I watch, slowly easing into place. The

  smooth white blade slides through the evening sun before

  140

  Problem Child

  it disappears behind the length of the first turbine blade.

  I want to touch one, so I start my car.

  By the time I pull in, the driver is out of the cab and

  halfway across the lot, heading for a door with a sign above it that reads simply “Lounge.” The lounge is attached to

  a cheap motel. All these guys need on the road is a bed

  and a few beers, I guess.

  I park my car and jump out, heart beating with

  excitement. The blade extends far beyond the end of

  the trailer, and flags are everywhere, warning of an

  oversize load. But there are no people. No guards. Just

  two Ford pickup trucks that are also decked out in

  traffic warnings.

  I walk right up to the blade and stroke the cool white-

  ness. There’s no one and nothing to stop me. Thrilled, I

  drag my fingertips over the surface and follow the long,

  curved line. Not metal, I assume, but fiberglass or some-

  thing more modern than that. Manufactured spider silk,

  impossibly light and strong. Okay, it’s probably just fiberglass. Whatever it is, I press my palm to it and slide my

  hand up as far as I can, then back down.

  “Cool,” I murmur. “So cool.”

  One more pickup pulls in, followed by a truck hauling

  some kind of hydraulic crane, and I immediatel
y recognize

  the logo on the crane: Morris Equipment.

  “Hot damn,” I whisper to myself as the men hop out

  of the vehicles and head inside together. On the hunt

  now, I follow.

  There are several round tables in front of the bar,

  and most of the men at them are wearing the same gray

  coveralls. They must work for the wind power company,

  because unlike the gas workers these guys look nearly

  pristine. A little dust lingers on their shoes but that’s it.

  141

  Victoria Helen Stone

  I head straight for the bar and order a tequila sunrise

  because it just feels right in this place. The bartender is a thirty-something woman with short bleached hair, dark

  brown acne-scarred skin, and a flat stare. I watch her for a moment, curious whether she’s like me, seeing the world

  through cold eyes. But it’s hard to tell these days. Pill

  addicts seem nearly as icy as I am, but their ice is slushy and unstable, shifting underfoot.

  She mixes my drink and hands it to me without a

  word. We don’t smile at each other. I order some fried

  cheese sticks off the bar menu, and then I settle onto a

  stool to spy.

  The table to my left already has a pitcher of beer in

  the middle of it, and the men are lively and upbeat. That

  table is an American melting pot. A black man, two white

  guys, and another fellow who could be Bangladeshi.

  They’re laughing loudly about something, happy to be

  done with their workday.

  The table to my right is quieter. Two white men wear-

  ing coveralls are nursing beer bottles, and a third man

  sits with them, a tumbler of whiskey in front of him. He

  was driving the last pickup that pulled in.

  His short brown hair is mussed as if he’s stressed-out,

  and he’s wearing black slacks and a blue polo shirt with a

  wind turbine logo. He’s the boss, and the two guys with

  him aren’t thrilled they got stuck sitting with him.

  At a table on the other side of the room are two truck

  drivers. I recognize the Native American guy who was

  hauling one of the blades because I’d never forget that

  shaggy mullet anywhere. We’ve got a whole little wind

  industry convention here.

  I take off my sweater to reveal the tight white T-shirt

  beneath it and get up to move toward the jukebox. As I

  142

  Problem Child

  pass the quieter table, I gasp. “Oh my God, are y’all with

  the windmill company?”

  One of the men snorts derisively, but the boss smiles.

  He looks about thirty. Young to be in charge of a bunch

  of bigger, stronger guys. Dark circles age his eyes, and

  his teeth look a bit yellow. He’s probably a smoker and

  maybe an insomniac too.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he offers politely. “That’s us. But they’re

  wind turbines, actually.”

  “Turbines! Oh, gosh, that’s right. I’m so silly. Turbines.

  Well, I just think they’re so pretty and pale against the

  blue sky. Do y’all put them up and everything?”

  “We oversee installation when there’s one going up,

  yes. And we do maintenance and repairs, of course.”

  “I saw the trucks outside. Don’t y’all just love your job?

  This is so exciting!” I bounce a little and watch three pairs of eyes dart toward my breasts. Well, one pair lingers more than darts, but the boss himself is far too polite to gawk.

  “Well,” I say with a coy smile, “I’ll let you get back to your drinks, but I might have some questions for you later.”

  “Ask away,” he says. “I’m Derrick.”

  When he holds out a hand, I take it between both

  of mine and gently squeeze. “That’s so sweet, Derrick.

  Thanks for being nice to me.” His cheeks flush just the

  tiniest bit.

  I let his fingers slide out of mine, offering the slightest warm pressure as I bite my lip self-consciously and tip

  my smiling face away from his. As I continue toward the

  jukebox, there’s a moment of silence behind me, then some

  muffled snickering. I hear Derrick whisper something

  short and hard, but the snickers don’t stop.

  The boss man isn’t an ideal target, because he may

  think of himself as setting a good example for his men,

  143

  Victoria Helen Stone

  but he is my best bet for information. The other guys

  would be big on boasting and low on return.

  As I formulate a way to pump him for information, I

  realize there’s another prize for the taking here. Derrick

  undoubtedly has some sort of universal key to the wind

  turbines, and a shock of hot excitement slices through me

  at the thought. I can get Derrick alone to question him

  about Morris Equipment and I can make my windmill

  dreams come true.

  If anyone can give me a tour, it’s the boss man. And

  good examples aside, he might also be desperate to look

  like a big boy in front of his blue-collar employees by

  walking me out of here.

  It works to my advantage that Derrick is only mildly

  good-looking and is a little on the short side. Maybe

  five-six. He wasn’t such a gentleman that he stood when I

  came over, so it’s hard to tell his exact height. Regardless, I doubt he gets much attention—or any attention at all—

  from random women in bars.

  I put a slow sway into my ass as I walk, then lean over

  to look at the jukebox selection.

  I don’t really like music, so I’m only making a show

  of it. Music is a tool used to outwardly express emotion

  or amplify the feelings we already have, so why would

  I care about it?

  I tip my hips to the right and then to the left, my

  gaze sliding aimlessly over the rows of choices. But then

  I see a song I recognize! “Big Red Sun Blues” by Lucinda

  Williams. I liked to sing that song when it was too damn

  hot outside. How it managed to get so unbearably humid

  in this dry scrub prairieland was always a mystery to me.

  Complaining about the heat ate up whole months of

  my life when I lived in Oklahoma. The tornado warnings

  144

  Problem Child

  were a relief whenever they came, because there was

  usually a cold front behind them. And, hey, it’s always a

  good time watching people scramble.

  I’m about to ask one of the men for change when I

  see an American Express sticker at eye level. Even juke-

  boxes take credit cards these days. How funny is that? I

  insert my card and choose my song and a few others. The

  background music dies down and “Big Red Sun Blues”

  fires up. Grinning, I sashay my way back to my barstool

  as the opening bars twang. I add a little wink for Derrick

  when I pass.

  “Why don’t you sit here?” one of the men calls out.

  I hear a chair scrape on the floor and turn to see Derrick

  shaking his head, his mouth tight as the spare chair next

  to him slides farther out from the table. Just as Derrick is forcing his disapproving mouth into a flash of a smile for

  me, the other guy’s booted foot disappears back under

  his seat. />
  “Y’all are so sweet! Are you sure? I don’t want to in-

  terrupt or anything…” I glance uncertainly back to my

  stool, but the guy who shoved the chair out is nodding.

  “Join us. Never hurts to look at a pretty face. We’ll

  buy you a drink, won’t we, boss?”

  “Sure. Yeah. Of course.” He’s flustered, but he can’t

  say no to buying me a drink now that it’s been offered.

  “Oh my gosh,” I croon. “Y’all are so nice!” I gather

  up my drink and sweater and plate and two napkins, all in

  an awkward bunch, and I swing my stuff onto their table,

  leaning too far over to show off the V-neck of my T-shirt.

  “Oh my gosh,” I repeat. “This is so fun.” I’m wearing a

  rose-pink bra that they can see through the material. I

  hope it makes them imagine the color of nipples. That’s

  the whole point.

  145

  Victoria Helen Stone

  The point! Get it? Because they’re nipples.

  Derrick raises a hand and calls for another round of

  drinks with too much volume and seriousness, as if he’s

  unaccustomed to making this kind of request.

  “So I guess you’re not from around here?” I ask Derrick.

  “No, we’re based south of Oklahoma City, though

  the blades are shipped up from Houston, of course. How

  about you?”

  “I’m from over in Norman. Out here for my uncle’s

  funeral.”

  “Aw, that’s too bad.”

  “Yeah, I think a few drinks are in order. It’s all been

  a little stressful. Family stuff, you know? I’m just ready to wind down and forget about the whole thing.”

  On cue, the drinks are plunked down on our table,

  and the three men all clink their glasses against mine. I

  quickly finish my first tequila sunrise and start on the next.

  “I really do get so excited when I see those wind

  turbines!” I say. “Do you boys hear that a lot? I just love them so much.”

  They all chuckle. “We don’t exactly have groupies,”

  Derrick says, but he sits up a little straighter as if his ego is plumping out.

  I scoot closer to him. “It’s just so cool, though. And

  it’s so good for all of us. Those oil guys must hate you,

  flaunting the future right in front of them!”

  More laughter. I slap Derrick’s arm and scold him for

  laughing at me. One man gets up to excuse himself, and

  the other quickly shifts his chair around so he can twist

  and talk to the other table. His boss is distracted now and he can make a slow escape.