Shelter
If she was going to get out of town, she was going to need money.
She still had a little of the money Sasha gave her, but it wouldn't go very far. And she needed to save some for Perfectua. Assuming she could find somewhere to buy it.
She was going to have to call Jason.
Jason Truman, Esquire. Her lawyer -- sort of. He'd overheard her being blackmailed by some pervy insurance company pencil-pusher and came to her aid. He'd agreed to help her get her mom's estate sorted out -- at no cost but expenses, which he'd cover until everything was finished. He'd even put her up in an apartment and helped her with a little money.
Sort of.
Lately Jason had started to flake on her. Angela knew he was a busy man with very important (and paying) clients, but he totally dropped the ball on paying the rent for the place he'd put her up in, and now she was out on the street. Sure, as it turned out she needed to get out of there anyway, but she didn't like anybody thinking she was a deadbeat. And this whole time, the deal with the house got more and more complicated -- her mom hadn't left a will, hadn't put Angela's name on the house or the insurance policy or anything, then Angela's long-lost aunt showed up to make a claim against the house... None of that was Jason's fault, but the worse things got, the harder it was to get a hold of him to find out anything.
Still, Angela was shocked when she dialed his number -- the private one he'd given her, the one she was supposed to call so his office manager wouldn't find out that Jason was doing another pro bono case -- and instead of Jason's answering machine, she heard a hostile female voice.
"The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again."
She dialed again, carefully, and got the same message.
"This is getting ridiculous." Angela let her anger flow, feeling it cover the very nervous vibe building in the dark corners of her mind. She dialed the main number on the front of the card, the one she wasn't supposed to call.
Busy.
She tried again, and again. Finally it rang.
"Thank you for calling Digital Wilderness Publishing. If you know the extension-" She hung up. Digital What?
Again. "Thank you for calling Digital Wilderness-"
Angela felt panic creep up the back of her neck. She dialed information.
"What city?"
"Los Angeles. Truman and Kelly, LLP."
"Here's the number."
Angela's pen didn't work; she wrote the number in the dust on the phone booth window with her finger.
A woman answered. "Truman and Kelly." Clipped but chipper.
"Jason Truman please."
"Who's calling?"
"Angela Barrett."
"One moment." Long pause; Angela felt herself trembling. "I'm sorry, Mr. Truman is unavailable. Can I take a message?"
"I... I don't have a phone." She had one -- the one Detective Rubio had given her -- but she'd lost it. Considering the way Rubio had just yelled at her, that was probably a good thing. "I really need to talk to him, it's an emergency."
"Are you a client?"
"No. Well, sort of." She didn't want to get him in trouble, but she was desperate -- and anyway, if he wouldn't make himself so hard to get a hold of, she wouldn't have to do it this way. "He took on my case pro bono."
"Your name again?"
"Angela Barrett."
"One moment." Another pause. "I'm sorry, Mr. Truman isn't working on any pro bono cases right now. Are you sure you have the right office?"
This couldn't be happening. "Please, I know I'm not supposed to call and I'm sorry if I got him in trouble and I know things are just getting harder and I don't blame him if he doesn't wanna help me anymore but I don't have anyplace to live and I just wanna know if I'm gonna get the house back soon cuz I hafta leave for awhile an' Mister Truman won't have any way to get aholda me an'... and I... I don't know what I'm supposed to do." Angela ran out of gas, trailing off into sniffles.
There were muffled words in the background. She heard a click -- did they hang up on her? -- and then someone spoke to her.
"This is Jason Truman." Only it wasn't.
"I need to speak to Mr. Truman."
"This is Jason Truman," he repeated. It was? He sounded different...
"Mr. Truman, it's Angela."
"Yes, that's what my secretary told me. Have we spoken before?"
Angela felt dizzy. "Lots of times," she said, her tongue dulling with uncertainty. "You've been helping me get my house back."
"I think maybe you have the wrong Truman."
"Jason- Mr. Truman, I met you in Oak Valley, at a strip mall. Your limo's tire went flat in the parking lot. You helped me with the insurance agent who was trying to blackmail me." She paused briefly with each statement, hoping he would jump in and say something, some acknowledgement, some grunt of recognition... but as she continued, she knew she wouldn't get it. "You were working on my mom's probate stuff. You got me a place to stay." She trailed off to a whisper. "Please."
"I'm sorry, Miss... Barrett? We've never spoken before. Are you sure you're not looking for a Jason Truman practicing there in Oak Valley?"
"We met at the fabric store where I worked," she sobbed, knowing it wasn't him but hoping that by saying it she would snap herself out of whatever terrible nightmare she was in.
"I'm sorry. I'd like to help you, but-"
Angela clung desperately to vanishing hope. "Do you have a son or somebody, another Jason Truman there?"
"I'm afraid not. You're sure the man you met was named Jason Truman?"
"Yes. I have your- I mean his business card."
"With this number?"
"No, a different one. But it's for some publisher or something. Y-He gave me a private number to call, only it's disconnected."
Jason Truman -- the real Jason Truman, apparently -- sounded very serious. "Miss Barrett -- Angela -- I think someone's taken advantage of you. You need to go to the police."
Oh. No.
"Right away," Truman-the-stranger continued. "Ask to speak with the fraud unit."
The Police. What was this man telling her?
Someone's taken advantage of you.
So who's Jason Truman?
His name isn't Jason Truman.
Who is he? Why would he do that? Why go to all that trouble to make himself look like somebody else? Why would he help me? Do all that paperwork for me? Spend all that money on the apartments?
But he didn't spend any money. He never paid the rent.
Not at the Willows, but the first place...
He had you sneak out. Why? Because he didn't pay them either.
But... the business cards... the limo...
Anybody can print their own cards. Or rent a limo.
All the court stuff... and my aunt...
Did you talk to your aunt?
The papers I signed...
Did you read them? Do you even know what you signed?
No, this has to be some kind of mistake. There must be another Jason Truman. Maybe if I call Information again...
"Hello? Miss Barrett?"
She barely heard him. "Y-yeah..."
"You need to go to the police."
"I don't understand," she said, to herself as much as to him. "Why would anyone do this?"
"You said you had a house in probate. Even a modest house in California is worth a lot of money."
No. "The house blew up. It's just... an empty lot."
"It's the land that's valuable. Did you sign anything?"
You signed away the house.
How could I? It wasn't even mine -- that was the whole problem...
"How?"
"Miss Barrett, I really don't have time -- I'm late for court. But I'm going to give you over to my assistant, and she's going to get the number of a detective in Fraud up there in Oak Valley, and I want you to call them. Unless you happen to know someone in the police department there, maybe the officer that handled your mom's case. Do you know someone?"
Do you know someone?
Only a detective who'd developed a frightening obsession with her, who probably hated her for rejecting him and breaking his son's heart, and who got transferred to some far-away training program anyway.
And another detective who thought she'd ruined his big case on purpose, who knew her secret identity, and who was looking for her right now.
"Miss Barrett?" The voice was thin and distant.
"I can't go to the police."
Angela dropped the phone. It clattered against the empty phone-book holder. She stepped back, away from the phone booth, as if it was somehow the cause of her world's sudden collapse.
But she needed the phone. She had to make another call.
No, I should drive over there.
But Miguel is looking for you. The courthouse is right by the police station.
She had to find out what was happening with the house. Right now.
It took several minutes -- and most of her remaining change -- to get transferred to the right department.
She recognized the acidic voice immediately. The older woman who'd given her such a hard time when she'd first gone there. "Case number?"
"I... I don't know."
"Last name?"
"Barrett."
There was a brief pause; the clerk's voice changed. "I told your husband I'd take care of the paperwork. You really shouldn't be calling; I could get in trouble for bumping your case up the list."
Husband? "My... husband?"
"Yes. I told you both when you were here last week-"
"Last week?"
"Tuesday. When you signed the papers."
"Papers?"
"Completing transfer of the lot to the city. For the park."
"He sold it?"
"For about a quarter what it's worth. Listen, I told you then once you signed it was final. You can't come back now and change your mind. You said you were in a hurry; I did you a huge favor expediting it."
"What's his name?" She didn't even care how strange the question sounded.
"Whose name?"
"My h-husband."
"Who is this?"
"Please, just tell me his name."
"I'm not saying anything." Click.
This is stupid. I shouldn't be here.
Ricky is still your friend.
Miguel is probably on his way over here right now.
What are you worried about? Unless he can *fly* he can't catch you.
Angela checked herself with a pocket mirror. She looked like hell -- ratty hair, no makeup, dark circles under bloodshot eyes... she pulled the baseball cap down tighter and slid the sunglasses back up her nose. She didn't have the luxury of getting all dolled up. Or taking a shower. She hoped the perfume wasn't too much.
Angela's fingers traced the sign over the doorbell -- one of those wooden plaques people got at the state fair or at Four Points, with the family name carved in an old-west style, the letters painted gloss black to look burned-in like a brand.
The Robinsons.
They wouldn't be happy to see her. She was the bad girl who'd almost corrupted Ricky. No doubt their daughter Becky had told them about the time Angela showed up at Ricky's house dressed like a stripper to pay his dad back.
I bet she hasn't told her parents what she does with Ricky in her bedroom when they're not home.
Angela tugged down on her baby tee and up on her jeans. She'd dug around in her car for fifteen minutes and this was the most conservative thing she could find to wear. The Robinsons were so strict and conservative they'd probably think it was totally slutty anyway. She remembered the way Mrs. Robinson would always look at her in church with just a hint of disapproval. Mr. Robinson never looked at her at all.
Probably afraid to.
She rang the doorbell again, this time listening intently for sounds of movement inside the house. It was still.
Maybe I should leave a note.
Or just come back later.
"Hi!"
The voice from behind startled her; Angela spun around.
A portly man in a jogging suit and flip-flops stood on the sidewalk. Headphone cords dangled from his ears. An electric hedge trimmer occupied one hand.
"I live next door; I saw you walking up to the porch there."
"Yeah; are the Robinsons home?"
"You a friend of Becky's?"
"Yeah," she lied.
"Well they already left."
"Oh. D'you know when they'll be back?"
"Becky? Probably not till Christmas."
Christmas?
The neighbor smiled. "I guess Becky didn't have time to tell all her friends -- she's headin' off to private school. A boarding school in Arizona."
"Oh." Boarding school? "There was a b-young man staying with them..."
"You mean Ricky." The neighbor smiled wider. "His dad picked him up days ago, took him up to Sacramento."
"I don't understand."
The man looked up and down the street, then motioned her to him. When she reached the sidewalk, he started talking in a low voice. "Apparently mom and dad came home early a few nights back and caught the two of them together."
Angela remembered the pictures. The ones Miguel had given her. The ones he'd taken from outside Becky's window.
The ones of Becky dressed as Sapphire, having sex with Ricky.
"Sorry," the neighbor said, "I didn't mean to bring up a sore subject. Was he your boyfriend?"
"I don't know," Angela slipped.
"Well anyway, the shit hit the fan. Imagine Mister and Misses Purity finding out that their perfect little virgin wasn't. They practically disowned her on the spot. But they can't kick her out till she's eighteen so they shipped her off to some catholic prison in the middle of the desert. Too bad -- she's a good kid. Him too. Had 'em over for dinner once. Anyway, they're heading off back east to be with Mary's folks for a while. She always runs back home whenever something challenges her sanitized view of the world. Probably won't be back for two or three weeks. He'll be back in a couple of days."
He seemed to run out of steam all at once. The moment of silence was awkward; she felt his eyes searching for a safe place to look.
"He didn't leave a number, did he?"
"Who, David?" Mr. Robinson.
"No, Ricky."
"Not with me. Probably not with the Robinsons either. They weren't exactly thrilled with him deflowering their princess. You shoulda heard the yelling. He kept swearing she'd just attacked him -- like any parent of a teenage girl would believe that." Again, things suddenly felt awkward. "Anyway, I gotta get back to the hedges. See ya."
She'd just attacked him.
Just like Angela did once.
And just like before, it pushed Ricky out of reach.
Dear Ricky,
Don't worry! Everything will be great -- you'll see!
Miss you already!
XOXOX
Becky
Rebecca Robinson checked the address on the postcard against the one on the back of the comic book one last time.
"Hey, you gonna buy that?" The airport newsstand attendant gave her the evil eye.
"I already did. You don't sell this comic here," the girl said; the attendant just grunted.
Becky flipped to the comic book's inside front cover. "Inks: Rick Aquino." It would be something to remind her of him, even if it was some boring story about a loser detective and his loser clients. The story wasn't Ricky's fault. At least he was doing what he loved to do. He was going to make it.
And so was she.
Boarding school! Mother and Father have really lost it. Excuse me -- Mom and Dad.
I can't believe they reacted like that. They always said I should save myself for someone special. Ricky lived with us for a couple of weeks; couldn't they see how special he was? *Is*. I've known him for years. He tutored me that whole semester and never even tried anything. They trusted him then, why not now?
Hypocrits. "Save yourself for marriage." They didn't. Five months from their wedding to my birthday. I'm not stupid.
And Ricky, trying to worm his way out of it. That was so disappointing. Sure, it was my idea, but he seemed to like it enough. And Oh My God was he good.
Of course, I was pretty aggressive with him. But that's what he needed. I was so sick of seeing him in that funk she put him in, moping around like a puppy on his master's first day of school. Trying to reconcile his infatuation with Angela and his fascination with Sapphire, acting like they were the same girl. Boy is *that* screwed up -- the two couldn't be more different. Poor guy. He'd still be waiting for Angela to give him what he needs if I hadn't jumped his bones. A bit much to take in all at once, but he'll come around. Especially when he sees what *I* can accomplish.
As for Mom and Dad, well, saving for marriage was exactly the kind of timid-girl crap that was Angela was using to twist Ricky up in the first place; I couldn't exactly lay the same trip on him and expect to get anywhere. Besides, if I know he's The One, what's the problem?
"Hey, you want me to send that one too?" A tall scraggly looking dude with a duffel bag and a canvas jacket reached for the postcard.
"No," Becky said, pulling away. "Hey, lemme see the others one more time."
"Yeah, whatever."
Becky flipped through them. Times Square. Statue of Liberty. Brooklyn Bridge. That fireman statue where the Twin Towers used to be. Empire State Building. The skyline at night. Every New York themed postcard available in the terminal. She was surprised she'd found this many, considering she was in Las Vegas.
Becky checked the backs. Short notes, each one written with a different pen, each addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Robinson.
"One a week."
"Yeah, I heard you the first ten times."
"Don't get lazy on me and send them all at once. I'll find out, and then I won't send you any pictures."
The dude licked his lips as his eyes roamed up and down Becky's petite, curvy frame. "Believe me, I got it."
"All right. Thanks again," she said, handing them back to the dude, ignoring the fact that he was staring at her chest again.
"Thank *you*." Dude tipped an imaginary cap.
"Attention passengers for Northeast Flight 391 to New York. If you have not checked in and received a seat assignment, please report to the counter and do so now."
"I'm outta here." Dude backed away from her across the walkway, nearly running into several scurrying passengers, his eyes never leaving her body. Becky used to hate such attention, but now that she was on her own, she was putting it to good use.
Brains, beauty, and balls -- the world doesn't stand a chance...
"Attention passengers for Northeast Flight 391 to New York. Passengers with seat assignments in rows 1 through 12, please report to the gate for boarding. Passengers with seat assignments in rows 1 through 12 *only*, please report to the gate for boarding."
Becky smiled.
Time for my next performance.
She pulled the cellphone out of her pocket and dialed home. (Well, what used to be home.) Her parents were already on a plane to Ohio to see Grandmother. They wouldn't hear the message until they checked the machine, hours from now. Maybe even a day or more. By then it would be too late.
"You have reached the Robinson residence. No one is available to take your call now. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and we'll return your call as soon as possible." Beep!
"Hey, Mom, Dad," Becky started, knowing the familiars would irritate them. She felt her chest tighten a bit; she'd rehearsed basically what she was going to say on the whole flight from Oak Valley, but it was different doing it now for real. Exciting. She was truly striking out on her own. "The next message on the machine is probably going to be from Ms. Mason from the Academy. She'll tell you I'm not there. That's because I'm not going.
"I don't need boarding school. There's nothing wrong with me. Sex isn't something you just wash away. Ricky isn't something you just wash away. I'm tired of living under your old-fashioned rules. I'm tired of trying and failing to live up to your impossible expectations. You try to control everything, but you can't. I'm not your little robot. You should just want me to be happy. I don't think you ever asked me if I was happy."
Becky felt emotion tighten her throat; she cleared it.
"Don't worry about me. Not that you ever really did. I know what I'm doing, and I'm going to be fine. Maybe for the first time ever."
Becky took a breath; that was all she had rehearsed, but if she stopped now, the machine would hang up and they might not hear what she needed them to hear, so she began to improvise.
"I don't know what you're going to tell all those other phonies you call your friends, I mean, little Becky Robinson a runaway, that's got to be embarassing. I'm sure you'll figure out a good spin. Thou Shalt Not Lie, Except To Protect Your Reputation as Perfect Christian Parents."
Her search for things to say tapped a vitriolic vein of long-suppressed emotion. "God, I can't believe you were just going to send me off to some knee-sock prison for two years! But then, that's all you ever did, send me off somewhere. Sunday School, Brownies, Christian Campouts -- what a joke; you know, I was about the only one who *wasn't* constantly getting laid -- all those classes and lessons, those weren't for me, those were for you, trying to make me in your image without putting in the time yourselves. You spent all that time helping underprivileged children and homeless people and anyone else you could get to listen to your sermons, but you never had time for *me*. Except when it came time to take credit for something I'd accomplished. Well, let's see if you take credit for *this*."
Becky was so wound up, so furious, she nearly slammed down the receiver, forgetting the real reason for the call. Fortunately, her fury was checked by the very announcement she'd hoped her parents would "accidentally" overhear:
"Attention passengers for Northeast Flight 391 to New York. All passengers report to the gate for boarding."
Becky took a deep breath, mostly regaining her composure by the time the announcement finished. She was back to her script. "Well, I've gotta go. Don't try to find me. I'm not your little girl anymore."
She left the phone hanging.
It was easy to forget just how vast the Oak Valley sprawl really was when most of your cross-town trips were made floating thousands of feet above it. But driving around aimlessly in an ancient brown Corolla was proving an effective reminder.
Angela hadn't left Becky Robinson's neighborhood so much as she'd fled it. A half-hour running north along the east valley freeway was aborted when south seemed like a better idea. After over an hour spent droning in the opposite direction, she had to stop for gas -- and she still hadn't left Oak Valley's suburbs. They all had different names down here, some evocative, some derivative, but it was all the same unbroken spread of concrete and drought-resistant landscaping. Hunger forced the girl to venture a few blocks deeper into the familiar-yet-not community. Exhaustion exacerbated her directionally-challenged attempt to leave it. A dozen blocks on with no freeway onramp in sight, a panic-quelling thought occurred.
You could drive around for days in Oak Valley and not see the same place twice.
Or the same person.
A plan began to form around her body's two most imposing needs: sleep and Glitter.
If she was having trouble finding her way, maybe Miguel would have trouble finding her.
She honestly had no idea what part of Oak Valley this was. Downtown proper was far off in the distance, enough that most of the time she couldn't see it -- and when she could, the mid-day haze made the collection of skyscrapers just a smudgy mound off the horizon. She knew the street by name -- Bateman Avenue -- but had never been on this stretch of it.
She needed to find a motel. The first few miles offered nothing but corporate-suite chain hotels, way beyond her budget. Gradually the white concrete curbs and black asphalt streets and too-green grass gave way to cracked yellowing rust-stained concrete roads patched with lumpy blacktop, and a few more affordable -- and more unsavory -- independent motels appeared. She was about to pull into one when she caught a headlight flash in her rearview mirror.
A black sedan was right behind her, flashing its brights!
Police? No flashing red-and-blue. One of Kostya's men? What could she do? The old Corolla could barely outrun a shopping cart.
Whoever it was, they were honking at her. Angela just kept going straight, hands death-gripped to the steering wheel, brain locked trying to manufacture options.
The sedan moved into the next lane and came up beside her. Horn still honking. Angela was afraid to look.
The light up ahead turned red. She pulled up to it, and the other car pulled up right next to her. She vaguely heard shouting. She had to look. Just a quick look. A glance.
The driver of the other car was yelling and pointing.
He didn't *look* like Russian Mafiya. But what did that mean? They weren't *all* burly scary-looking dudes. Dino wasn't really; Crisco definitely wasn't.
Another look. The driver was motioning for her to roll her window down. Angela suppressed the pointless instinct to run. She turned the crank and tried to look calm.
"Your tire is flat!"
Oh. Oh! "Thanks!"
The other car took off. The light was green. A car behind her gave a quick honk; Angela pulled through the intersection and moved to the right along the curb; she noticed the car's sluggish responses now. How long had she been driving on a flat?
There was just enough traffic and the road was just narrow enough that changing the tire right here wasn't a good idea. She crept ahead to the next driveway and pulled in -- an alleyway alongside a long building. She pulled all the way around back, next to a dumpster and a cluster of vending machines, before getting out for a look.
Sure enough, the left rear tire was completely flat. A cursory examination revealed a shiny screw stuck on the edge.
Well, shoot. I really don't need this...
Angela looked up. The building she'd parked behind was a motel. Between two vending machines was a walkway, through the building to the front side.
Well, Angela, you needed a motel. Here you are.
The girl reached back into the car for her handbag, then set off in search of the office.
No one behind the counter. Angela looked for a bell.
Suddenly a voice behind her. "Hi." She whirled around, startled.
Tall, skinny, scruffy white guy -- Angela's brain marked it 'skater' but maybe not. Did guys like this work for the Russians? Was he an undercover cop?
"Need a room?"
Calm down, Angela, he's just the motel clerk. The world is full of people who *aren't* out to get you.
"Y-yeah."
"We don't do by-the-hour." Why would... Oh. Did he think- "Thirty bucks a day. You won't find cheaper."
"Okay."
"Fill out the register, then I need to see ID."
ID? Something told Angela that wasn't a good idea. "I... I don't have it with me."
The clerk raised an eyebrow and took a good look at her. Angela was getting used to the way a man's eyes would drop a specific angle immediately, then wander down and up before making eye contact again. A part of her wondered if her feminine charms would get her a break. His smile said it would.
"You look innocent enough." Whatever that meant...
Angela fished out a twenty and a ten from the pocket in her handbag and laid them on the counter.
"I need a major credit card for a deposit. If you're paying cash, I need either a major credit card or a hundred dollar cash deposit."
A hundred! It was just a deposit, but still, that was everything she had. Wait, after the thirty, it was more than she had.
She was about to say something when the clerk waved a dismissive hand. "But for you, we'll waive that requirement. You just better not break anything," he said, affecting a momentary glare before breaking back into a smile.
Whew. "Thanks."
"My name's Chet," he said, offering a handshake. Angela accepted, forgetting about her tremors until their hands connected. "You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah, just... it's been a rough day, and I need to get some sleep." She saw him glance at the clock; it wasn't even noon yet.
"Well, it's an early check-in, but we've got the room. Just put down 12:30 on the register there, 'k?"
"Okay. Thanks." Angela took the pen; she couldn't get her hand steady enough to write.
"Here, let me do it for you," the clerk offered, taking the pen out of her hand. "Name?"
Name? What name? Hurry; wait too long and he'll know it's fake. "Uh, Becky. Robinson." Hmm. Better than nothing, but there *is* a connection; Miguel knew about Ricky and Becky, and might make the connection.
Of course, Miguel couldn't be everywhere.
"Nice to meet you, Becky. No car, right?"
"Um... it's around back. I hope that's okay."
"Make and model? License plate?"
"Do you have to put that?"
She saw a 'so it's like that, is it' look cross his face. She cursed herself for not just making something up -- though even if she made up the plate, how many old brown Corollas were there?
"Naw, that's fine." He finished scribbling, then reached under the counter and produced a key. "Come on, I'll show you to your room."
"Here it is, Room 9. Back corner -- about as quiet as it gets." He opened the door and waved her in ahead of him; she gave him a suspicious look, but he seemed innocent enough...
The room was small, and old, but it was pretty clean, and the carpet was that same hamburger-brown they'd had at the Nomadic Arms, which oddly had a comforting effect on the tired girl.
"Phone's on the nightstand there. Sorry there's no remote for the TV, and there's no cable, but Channel 4 comes in pretty clear. Just dial 0 if you need anything."
"Thanks again."
"No problem, Becky." He tossed her the key; it bounced off her shaky hands. "You need any help with bags or anything?"
"No, I'll be fine." She bent down to pick up the key; she she straightened back up he was still standing there in the doorway, looking at her. It was a look of mild curiosity, like he was just trying to figure her out. Angela was just thankful it wasn't more than that.
"Scuse me," she said, "I'm gonna go get a change of clothes."
"You know," the clerk said, moving out of her way and then following her, "you might want to move your car around front where somebody can keep an eye on it."
"I can't," Angela said, then found a better excuse than People Are Looking For Me. "I got a flat tire."
"Here," the clerk jumped into action, moving around to the trunk while Angela was still fishing clothes out of a plastic bag in the back seat. "I'll change it for you while you get changed."
His clever phrasing made her smile, even as she realized it might be a bit of a leading comment, like he was going to ask her out or something. Her brain was too tired to panic over what the Or Something could mean; anyway, he didn't have that vibe. "Yeah, okay." She opened the trunk for him.
One look at the tire and he was done. "Your spare's all rotten. Won't hold air." He pulled the jack out anyway. "Lemme get the tire off anyway. I know a guy works at O-Yeah Tires; maybe he can repair yours." He moved around to check the flat more closely. "I don't think he can fix that, but he's probably got a used tire he can sell you cheap."
At least the bad news came from someone who seemed willing to help fix it. The motel clerk reminded Angela of Dino Sinclair and the way he'd bailed her out on the side of the road. "Thanks."
"You go crash; I'll call up Chuck and see what he's got."
"Okay."
The hot shower felt really really good, though she had trouble holding onto the tiny bar of soap. The towels were too small, but she managed to get dry enough; her "porn(star)" tank top was only a little sticky. She stepped into clean underwear and collapsed on the bed, too tired to pull back the covers.
Sleep came fast but fitful. Disturbing thoughts and images gave no quarter.
Miguel's after you. The police are after you. Dino's after you. The Russian Mafiya is after you.
The car's a wreck. It'll never make it where you want to go. It'll get you caught.
Your big bust was a failure. All that effort, all that sacrifice, all for nothing.
Crisco got away with murder. He laughed at you. There's no telling what he could do. You can't stop him.
You're a mess. You can't even write your own name.
You let a man con you out of your mom's house.
What are you going to do for money? Where are you going to live?
What's going to go wrong next?
"Hey."
The voice scared Angela awake.
The motel clerk -- Chet -- was standing in her room.
"I knocked but you didn't answer."
It occurred to Angela that Chet was staring at her.
And that she wasn't wearing much.
Angela curled up. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, sorry," he said, though his gaze never wavered, "Tire's fixed -- replaced, actually. Practically new. Just twenty bucks."
Was that a good deal? Angela realized she had no idea -- but she could see what little money she had was going way too fast. Another tank of gas and another night in a motel and she was finished. Maybe she could find one of those roadside rest stops on the interstate and sleep in the car... if it didn't leave her stranded in the desert first.
"And I got you the other thing you needed." A plastic-wrapped ball of grey-white powder. "My ex was totally into this stuff until her mom caught her and got all Nazi on her; I thought I recognized the shakes."
Angela curled up, knees to chest; she wished he'd stop staring. Arms wrapped tightly around shins, but not tight enough to completely eliminate the tremors. She needed a dose too badly to be angry at Chet's presumption. "H-how much?"
"I know you're strapped for cash, I thought maybe we could work something else out."
There it was. Angela knew what he wanted to work out.
All she wanted to do was sleep -- without her own mind torturing her.
"Look," he said, "obviously I've made a mistake. I'll leave."
"No. Wait." His hand fell from the doorknob, but he didn't turn around for a long time. When he did, she thought she saw him holding down a smile.
"How much for just one?"
"One what?"
"One dose."
"You mean one line?"
"Maybe two." She hated this. Negotiating for a little sanity.
"I don't know. I mean, I don't know you. If I was to accept money, it would be considered dealing. If you were a cop or something, well, I'd be in really deep shit -- a lot deeper than just a possession charge." Why did everyone have to toy with her? Why were people so petty and mean?
"I'm not a cop," she pleaded. "I need it to... I use it for anxiety. I get nightmares. I just wanna sleep."
"Woah, baby, Becky, honey, don't cry." Was his concern genuine, or was he just messing with her some more? "I didn't know it was such a big deal. I mean, my girlfriend and I used to do it all the time. You know, a snort and a screw -- I mean... well, you know what I mean. I'm not such a bad guy, I just... well, you know, this shit ain't cheap, and ever since her mom made her quit the stuff, well, she doesn't like me being around her daughter anymore, ya know? It's kinda lonely workin' here. And you looked like you could use a friend."
Angela's head pounded. How could guys twist compassion and callousness together like that? She didn't know whether to yell at him or cry on his shoulder. Or both. "I'm not like that," she finally said.
"I see that now. I'm sorry."
"That's okay."
"Just answer me one question and I'll go."
"What?"
"Is there somebody looking for you?"
How could she answer that?
"I mean, hiding the car, payin' in cash, fake name, drug problem... is it your pimp?"
"No!"
"Sorry, just, the shoes in your bag..."
Oh shit! "You went through my bag? Who do you think you are?"
"Woah, sorry -- I just wanna know what I'm gettin' myself into."
"You're not getting *into* anything," Angela said defiantly, getting up off the bed, hoping it would encourage him to leave. Of course, it just gave him another chance to scope her out; knowing shyness would only empower him, she took a strong pose, hands on hips.
"Okay, but... I don't know if I can cover you. I mean, I don't know if it's a good idea."
God, he was exactly like Dino. Right down to being cute. Not that she'd ever tell *him* that.
He was staring at her... legs? "What?"
"You're getting bad."
She was; her knees were shuddering, and the room was starting to spin...
Suddenly she found herself in his arms, being picked up and laid gently on the bed. "You're really fucked up," he said, his voice gentle again.
Angela heard him opening up the baggie. "I said No." Actually, she hadn't said it, but she'd meant it.
"No charge."
"Thanks," she said through sudden spasms.
"Don't thank me; I just don't wanna have to babysit you all night."
That was too bad. Even if Chet was just an asshole trying to take advantage, Angela really didn't want to be alone.
"Here; take this." He handed her a rolled-up dollar bill; he'd arranged two chunky lines on the back of a Chinese Take-Out menu. "This should get you straightened up and flying right for a while."
Angela got about half of it up her nose on the first pass, her shivering hands spreading the rest around on the paper. Chet looked at the leftovers and then at Angela; "think that's enough?"
"Yeah." She wasn't sure, but she wasn't happy with herself for needing it in the first place, and didn't want to take any more than she had to. Besides, whether he was being a nice guy now or not, she couldn't help but think there'd be a price to pay eventually.
"All right." He took the makeshift straw and finished the job.
"Damn!" he shouted. "Sorry. I forgot how quick it can hit. I don't do it much, I'm more of a toker."
It did hit quick; Angela felt a smooth lavender rush fill up her head, then slowly drain out through her toes. The girl fell back on the bed, breathing deeply, enjoying the immediate calm clarity Glitter gave her.
Chet laid down next to her, matching her breath for breath. Angela felt next to her and grabbed his hand, squeezing, happily feeling her shakiness subside.
After a few minutes, Angela suddenly rolled onto her side, leaned forward and kissed Chet on the cheek. "Thanks!" she smiled, and laid back again.
"Okay, I'm gonna go now," Chet sighed. "You sure nobody's looking for you?"
A flash of panic jolted through the girl. "Don't go," she said, tugging on his hand. It wasn't panic, exactly; more like... loneliness. She felt *content* lying here with him; she didn't want that feeling to end.
"What, you wanna, um...?"
"No. Just lay here with me for a while."
"All right, but scoot up so we can use the pillows."
Angela heard a thump-thump on the floor -- his shoes -- and a jingling sound before she felt him lay down by her side again. Just getting a little more comfortable, she thought; that's good, means he'll stay a while...
Angela turned over to face her new companion, letting her arm drape over his now-bare chest. She nestled her head against his shoulder. The sound of his breathing was soothing background to the gel-like calm the Glitter was giving her; she sighed softly as her knee slid forward onto his thigh.
After a while, his breathing seemed to stiffen a bit. "Shhh," she cooed. His tension was encroaching on her mood.
"Come on, baby," he whispered. "Just a little." He pulled her hand toward his crotch; she pulled back to rest it on his stomach. Her breathing became shallow; she was trying not to cry. She was on Glitter, why was she sad?
"Okay. I won't push you anymore. I'll be right back." He started to get up; on a frightened impulse she clamped her arm hard around him to keep him from leaving. "Come on, let go. I gotta go do something."
"Stay just a little longer. Until I go to sleep."
"I can't. I gotta... well, I gotta take care of a little problem."
For a nice guy, he sure was a bastard. Fine...
"You don't have to go," she whispered. "I'll... I'll do it." Her hand slid lower, into the tented space around his erect cock...
"Mmmm, yeahhhh baby, that's niiiice..."
Her hand began to stroke up and down slowly, first just rubbing, then encircling Chet's prick. At first mechanical, she began to loosen up when she felt his frustration fade. He was still tense, but it was a good tension.
His hand, trapped at her side, began to shift. Elbow raised at an awkward angle, capturing her breast in the crook of his elbow, his hand had moved high enough to let his fingers begin tracing up one side of the front panel of her panties and then down the other. Angela shifted her hips, pushing one leg back and bringing the other further on top of his. Chet's hand put the improved access to good use, brushing ever so gently against her labia...
"Oooooohmm," the girl whimpered. Her hand began pumping his cock more vigorously. His fingers responded, hooking around and squirming underneath her panties from the side, dipping into the warm wetness and spreading it upward. When he brushed her clit she bucked involuntarily.
"Stop." His other hand stilled hers.
"Why?"
"Hold on." She heard cellophane crinkle and tear. A moment later, the hand between her legs tugged upward. "Come on."
"No," she replied, resisting his gesture. "I want you on top," she whispered.
Chet was eager to please.
The shifting bed stirred Angela. Chet was leaving. "Gotta watch the office," he explained. But that was okay. She felt... relaxed. And he'd still be around.
"Stuff's on the nightstand if you need more. Be careful with it, okay?"
"Okay."
Angela thought maybe she should get going. Her car was fixed, it was getting dark... the longer she stuck around, the better the chances that someone would find her.
But she was still basically broke. And she still didn't have any idea where she'd go or what she'd do when she got there. And a couple of hours of sleep was hardly enough.
Angela took a deep breath and sighed. It would be okay. After The Willows, Rubio wouldn't expect her to be in a place like this. Anyway, it was just for one night. Tomorrow things would be clearer. Tomorrow she could find a place to make some quick cash, some place Miguel wouldn't think of, and then she could disappear to some far away place where nobody was looking for her.
It wasn't much of a plan, but once the Glitter kicked in, it was enough.
Becky settled in against the cold window, feet tucked up on the seat, jacket wrapped around her like a blanket. The middle-aged woman in the seat next to her had passed out ten minutes ago. Her mouth smelled like something had crawled in her mouth and died, but at least the trip wouldn't be spent defending against grab-ass, like Becky'd done on that church group trip to Hearst Castle two years ago.
They were out on the interstate now, just before the state line. Oak Valley was still over twelve hours away. Flying was certainly faster -- just an hour and a half -- but it was easier to take the bus than to figure out how to get on a plane without using her real name. The War On Terror made airport security inconveniently tight, but nobody cared who got on a bus, probably because buses never stopped near anything worth blowing up.
But she didn't really mind the long ride or the weird people. Just a small part of the big plan. And it was actually kind of fun.
Out the window just ahead, one last cluster of too many lights punched a tacky hole in the darkness, a desperate-looking shrine to bad luck standing guard at the state line.
A billboard announced the casino's presence -- as if such a thing was necessary in the middle of the desert.
Becky read the billboard's come-on as they passed it:
Last Chance to WIN!
Becky closed her eyes, smiling as she thought of what lay ahead. Her *first* chance -- to do something on her own, to truly be herself, to show the world what she could accomplish. To show Ricky she was worth it.
When she opened her eyes again, the casino was gone.
Out the window, there was nothing but blackness draped over desert.