4. Lukewarm Noodles
Fluorescent overhead lights flood the functional kitchen. The Glock thuds against the countertop as I set it down and root around in the cabinets, snagging a pack of ramen and some crackers. Tits fills the black metal-framed doorway and pauses. The space between my shoulders itches, and I”m unsure if she is assessing me or the gun. I usually don”t mind a voyeur, but the night”s events have me on edge.
Forcing a deep breath, I let the tension seep from my body. I lace my tone with faux familiarity and charm. ”What”s your name, sugar? Bet it”s something nice to match that pretty face. Can I guess? How about Diamond? Cherry? Oh, I know, Blossom? Candy?”
”Those are stripper names,” she retorts flatly.
I toss her an unwrapped cup of ramen, and she snatches it from the air. I motion toward the sink. ”Well, now, that”s unfair to every genuine Cherry or Barbie I”ve ever met. But I suppose I have known a few strippers in my time.”
”Apparently, not very well if all you know are their stage names.”
Snarky ass woman.
My lips purse as I smother my laughter. She crosses the gray-flecked tile and turns on the arching silver tap. Tipping my head to the side, I check her out from behind as she waits for the water to get hot. Even in her slender state, my new girl is curvy. If I can get about twenty pounds on her, she will have an ass that can”t quit.
”Microwave is over there.” I nod once she turns the tap off.
Her head follows the motion. ”I saw it. You”re not supposed to microwave Styrofoam.”
Tipping my head back, I narrow my eyes at her. ”Says who?”
She rolls the cup in her hands and points to the words ”Do Not Microwave” printed in bold letters down the side. Sucking my teeth, I snort. ”Never seen that before. Must be new.”
She glances around before walking over to the table. “You don”t have much going on in here.” A soft clicking fills the air, and I glance down. Muddy colors stain her wet Converse and flared-bottom jeans. With each step, the soggy shoestrings dance on the tiles, the worn fabric pulling away from the soles, revealing a pinky toe tipped in chipped blue polish.
”Yeah, well, I don”t need much. I”ll be back.”
Crossing the blue-carpeted hallway, I refuse to think of her shoes or the wads of clothes in the other room. I swallow deeply. Placing the Glock”s heavy weight into the wooden desk drawer, I let out a sigh. Post-adrenaline fatigue washes over me, as well as gratitude that I didn”t find a show floor full of neo-Nazis. We all have to go sometime, but damn, not like that. Not over a quick fuck in a bathroom.
My eyes snag on my reflection in the mirror and cringe. My dark hair flips in different directions, its natural waves begging to take over. What”s truly tragic is how my mustache isn”t lying right and the heavy five o”clock shadow visible beneath the dark circles that grace my eyes. The shirt and pants I passed out in are incredibly wrinkled. I probably smell like booze and Wednesday”s pussy, too.Fuck, it”s no wonder she screamed.
”Are you going to microwave those noodles or not?” I call from the bedroom office. Slipping into a pair of black men”s lounge pants, I toss around the idea of going without a shirt. I”ve seen her topless. Nipple for nipple is fair, but it might be over the top for tonight. I opt for a light-blue shirt, drag a brush through my hair, and fix my mustache. Much better.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather not get cancer.”
”You”re not getting cancer from a single cup of noodles, for fuck”s sake.” I grab a few smaller shirts from the back of the cheap plastic roller racks, a couple of pairs of socks, and a pair of stretchy gym shorts. A fresh pack of smokes crinkles as I shove it into my pocket.
”Why does it matter if the noodles are hot or not? You”re not the one eating them,” she calls back across the hallway.
My eyes lift to the ceiling as I shake my head. ”Fine, have it your way. Lukewarm noodles it is.” I can give her my lukewarm noodle if she is going to insist. Chuckling, I cross the hallway back into the kitchen.
She sits at the white plastic folding table, stirring the contents of the Styrofoam cup, the package of crackers already open. Her guarded eyes meet mine. ”What”s so funny?”
”Hmmm? Oh, nothing. Here.” I lay down the clothing, patting the top of the pile. ”Something for you to sleep in. These should be long on you. It gets cold on the show floor.”
She looks at the clothes suspiciously before reaching out and fingering the fabric. ”They’re very soft.”
”Yeah, I”m not into cheap fabrics. Too scratchy.”
Her gaze dips to the noodles as her hands fall into her lap. ”Thank you for not shooting me. Also, for not calling the police and for the food.” Her head tips a little as she looks at the solid-colored Ts. ”The clothes, too. Sorry I was a bitch earlier. You didn”t… uh… catch me at my best.” She offers me a lopsided smile in what I’m assuming to be a feeble attempt at a joke. But I”ll be damned if it isn’t the saddest half-smile I”ve ever seen.
My finger taps on the table. ”One, I don”t care for the word bitch. So don”t call yourself that. Two, no need to apologize. No one is at their best at two am or when they’re breaking in. Or when they’re sneaking around the place with a gun. Three, are you ever going to tell me your name?”
”Why don”t you like ‘bitch’?”
A prickling sensation rushes along my body as she skips over my question, and my lungs expand as I dig deep for patience. I release the tension. Again. Boy, we aren’t getting anywhere fast. “I”ve met bitches, and you don”t strike me as one.” Yet. “Don”t get distracted. What. Is. Your. Name?”
She squirms in her chair, rocking side to side. ”Carmella.”
I snort. ”Who has a stripper name now? Come on, tell me your real name.”
”Carmella is not a stripper”s name. It”s my name.”
”Carmella. Caramel. It”s basically a step or two above Candy.”
”It means garden or growth,” she bites back, wrapping her hands around the noodles. ”Not candy.”
I lift my finger accusatorially. ”You know, you’re an argumentative little shit.”
Her mouth drops open as her eyes narrow. ”Me? You”re the one insisting my name isn”t my name.”
I drop the topic, not willing to go ”round with her. My hopes for a cooperative and eager-to-please sales associate dwindle. Emotions roil in her narrowed, stormy eyes. Resting my forearms on the table, I spread my fingers across the chilly, gritty surface. Cool air from the overhead vent flows across my skin; I take a moment to let it soothe my heated annoyance.
”Okay.” My lips curl up as I give her one of my most charming smiles. ”How old are you?”
Carmella bites the inside of her cheek, eyes cutting to the door behind me. ”Twenty-one.”
”Yeah, if I were going to lie about my age, I’d be twenty-one, too,” I quip.
Ashy-blonde brows pull down into a hostile glare. Arching an eyebrow, I wait. Carmella”s jaw flexes as her arms fold across her chest, resulting in pronounced boobage. I do the polite thing and look without glancing down since we are business associates now.
“I’m twenty-one,” she says steadily, holding my gaze.
“I see. You’re really going to stick with that.”
One small, sharp nod is all she gives me.
Sighing, I lean back in my chair and regard her, still without looking down.
My survey doesn”t produce any clear answers. Carmella could be twenty-one. Youthful without being a young teen. Stubborn and temperamental. It could stem from being experienced enough not to be intimated. She could naturally be a hardheaded ass. It”s difficult to tell with drifters. What she may have seen or know of the world could translate into this confidence, or she could be stupidly na?ve. I need more information. It’s unfortunate that she doesn”t like to be questioned. We have that in common.
Silence fills the room, and a fresh cig calls my name.
The pack rustles as I dig it out of my pocket. Grabbing the plastic tab, I spin it around the small box, unwrapping the clear covering and crumpling it in my fist. The crinkling is violent in the quiet that sits between us.
Flipping the box upside down, I thump it against the table several times, packing the smokes. Carmella”s eyes slip around the room, landing on anything that isn”t me. Her noodles must be cold by now, as the water in the sink doesn’t get that hot. Brows lowered, I scoot to the edge of the plastic chair, lean into the table, and let my stare bear down on her. I stare hard, scrutinizing every detail. This time, I don”t try to hide my visual exploration of her tits, noting how her navy tank top lays over her hardened nipples or how she breathes a little heavier under my gaze. Her back stiffens, and I smirk.
Darkened by the sun, her skin is a lovely light-golden caramel color. I’m really starting to have a new appreciation for caramel. Paler lines of skin hide under the navy straps of her shirt. Her full lips twist as she shakes her head, refusing to rise to my baiting. Her wavy, dingey-blonde baby hairs flutter with the movement before settling to frame her face. A dainty nose sits above her full lips, and with those gray-blue eyes, she reminds me of a beachy, trashy Marilyn Monroe. Trailer-park hot.
An overwhelming urge to have her stick out her tongue hits me. I want to see it. Hot, pink, and wet. Fuck, she’s got a mouth made for licking porn theatre floors while some lame weirdo shoves his cock in her from behind. Hopefully, I’m that lame weirdo. I’d watch her take it. Fuck, I’d record it.The noises I’d get her to make. Oh, the fucking noises.
And yet, she ignores me.
Reaching between my legs, I adjust my raging hard on, staring her in the face. She doesn’t even flinch. Fucking nothing. God damn, I should teach her how to play poker. We could really clean house.
Carmella openly studies the black rubber runner around the base of the wall. Bet if I flashed her my joystick, that would get her attention. Tap-tap-tap, my foot rapidly fires against the floor, vibrating the table and making the noodles slosh in her cup.
I”m a charming guy, and a good-looking one, too. It”s why I have four ex-wives, but still, I”m not all charm. You”d think being six foot and having just pulled a gun on her not more than twenty minutes ago, she would be… sweeter. But here she sits, forcing us into silence.
I fucking hate silence.
Minutes tick by. The hum of the fridge fills the air. I”m counting the rise and fall of her chest. Every tick of that fucking clock in the other fucking room makes me feel as though I”m slowly being eaten alive by tiny fire ants. I bite the inside of my mouth, ripping off chunks of flesh, joining in on my internal destruction.
Carmella studies her chipped blue nail polish, scratching at the patches still clinging to pink beds. A tiny pile of sapphire-colored flakes stands out against the white table. When I cross my legs to slow down the vibrations, an itch forms in the middle of my back.
I”m slouched over, trying to itch the space in the middle of my back against the corner of the chair, when I notice Carmella frowning at my struggles. Her nose crinkles. Oh, now she wants to pay attention to me. She arches an unimpressed, golden, ashy brow. Rightening myself, I scowl at her.
Slapping my hands onto the pack of smokes, I scoop them up, flip open the lid, and push back the foil. Carmella”s drying wavy hair slips down over her shoulders as she sighs at the cold noodles. Rolling the white and orange stick between my fingers, I place it between my lips. Serves her right. She should have microwaved them instead of arguing.
Dragging my trusty Zippo from my pocket, I rub my thumb over the familiar raised metal lettering that reads, ”You want to flickel my pickle?” The worn image of a curved pickle graces the top of the metal lighter. I smile to myself. The damn thing has never ceased to make me laugh since I stole it from a gas station when I was sixteen. The old gal takes a couple of tries to start up, but I don”t mind, and she finally catches.
Hopefully, a few comforting draws and a dose of nicotine will help calm down the tent I”ve been making in my pants. The flame dances from the air conditioning, and I cup my hand to steady it. The cig catches, burns, and I take a long pull.
Leaning forward, I blow secondhand smoke directly into her face.
She shoots me a murderous look and waves her hand, swirling the smoke away. A dreamy haze permeates the air around us.
”Was that really necessary?” she snaps.
”I’m tired of this Mexican standoff. Go microwave your fucking noodles.”
She doesn”t answer but instead picks up her spork and stabs at the ramen. Silence begins to leak back in, and minutes pass as we watch her savagely chop the flesh-colored cold noodles into little bits. Alarm and concern deflate my hard-on.
I”m still determining how I ended up in a deadlock with her when my mind flicks back to our earlier conversation. Oh yeah, her age. Fuck it. Old enough.
I fold. ”Fine, have it your way. Your name is Carmella, and you are twenty-one. Are you happy?”
She shrugs. The little shit shrugs at me.
”Finish your noodles, damn,” I snap. She grins into her soup before looking up at me.
”So, what”s your name?”
I consider for a half second while hitting my cig. ”I told you, it”s Luke.”
Her hair slips across her shoulder as she tips her head to the side, and a sweet mocking tone coats her words. ”Is it really, though?”
We lock eyes over the noodles, her steely grays to my dark browns. I don”t know if I should choke her or kiss her.
”Yes. It’s. Luke.” And while it might actually be Lucas, I prefer Luke. Lucas has a public record and several active lawsuits, and the internet makes hiding shit so complicated these days. I don”t want my new store pet looking me up, at least not before we get comfortable.
”How old are you, Luke?”
”I”m thirty-four.”
”Yeah, I would say that, too, if I looked as old as you.”
We”re fucking fighting now. ”Well, you must want me to go ahead and call the police, huh?” Stabbing my cigarette into the black ashtray that sits on the corner of the table closest to the wall, I stand.
”No! It”s just really annoying when people don”t believe you, isn’t it?” Angry eyes flash up at me.
”Yeah. Well, I apologize for not believing the stranger who talked around my questions. And broke into my business in the middle of the night.”
Her face flushes, redness creeping down her cheeks and neck. “This isn”t working. I”m going.” She stands.
Grabbing her wrist, I drag us both back down into our seats and shake my head. She twists and yanks out of my grasp, coiling her arms up against her chest. Eyes narrowed, she pins me with yet another glare. I hold up my hands. This is getting to be exhausting.
”It”s late, and we’ve established that neither of us is at our best,” I say. ”You can crash out on the show floor as long as all your things are put away before the customers come in. I don”t need people knowing I”m letting drifters sleep on the beds they want to purchase. This isn”t a shelter. Okay?”
Her slight wince cuts off my tirade. Gentling my voice, I ask, ”Do you have any more questions for me?”
She scoops up the circular noodle cup paper lid, rolling it up like a burrito. Apparently, I”m not the only one who fidgets.
”If I don’t like it, you’ll pay me what I’m owed and I can leave tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“And if I do like it, what about tomorrow night?” Her voice is soft and breathy. She has to feel small for asking. Her eyes flick around the practical kitchen, landing on anything but me as she waits for my answer.
The greedy part of me is delighted that she doesn’t seem to have anywhere else to go, but in that same breath, out crawls the desire to burn down every fucking home that ever made me and her feel unwanted and alone. Homes that became places I couldn”t run to. I wonder if she has anywhere like that.
Carmella pulls in on herself, making her skinny form even more delicate. Fuck, she reminds me of awful and beautiful things. I shake off the thoughts that threaten to derail me, skipping over mental black holes. This woman brings up too much emotion. I would”ve thought her caving in on herself was blatant manipulation if it wasn”t for the reluctance in her voice. That stubborn backbone she displayed earlier clearly demands she not show vulnerability, but needs sometimes outweigh pride. I”m too familiar with that as well. I take a drag and blow out the grief. Fuck.
It”s alright if she doesn”t have anywhere to go. She can find a home on this dick.
”You ever hear the saying cash, grass, or ass?” I ask. She nods, warily peeking up at me from her hunched frame. ”Well, you already said no ass, and I”m not interested in whatever cheap grass you”re carrying. So, I suggest making me some cash and earning a little for yourself. We”ll see about tomorrow night.”
”That”s fair.” Carmella tosses her hair back as the tension leaves her body. Her chest expands with a deep sigh, and she shoves the last two crackers into her mouth.
If she can show a little vulnerability, then so can I. ”Please go microwave your noodles. Don”t eat them cold. There’s no reason you have to. There’re mugs you can pour the soup into in the cabinet.”
We are quiet for longer than I”m comfortable with. Carmella”s eyes flick over my face, and it”s my turn to study the practical kitchen as a knot settles in my chest. I”ve got to do something about the decor in here. I fiddle with my pack of smokes.
The knot becomes a lump in my throat; I swallow it painfully. Fuck, Luke, get it together. You see worst shit than this all the time, for fuck’s sake. It”s got to be the booze and crash from the adrenaline. I”ve been partying too much the past couple of nights… weeks… months. Not enough fucking sleep. It”s never enough fucking sleep.
Carmella gets up, grabs a mug, and fills it before popping the cup into the microwave. The knot in my chest loosens, and I blow out a shaky breath.
My eyes wander over to the nearly empty cabinets she left standing open. I”ll get us some food after the store closes tomorrow. The microwave beeps, and she drags the hot cup out, scraping the glass plate.
She glances over at me. ”Thanks.” I nod.
Carmella bundles the empty cracker and noodle cup together before tossing them basketball-style into the trash. They sink home.
”Not bad,” I say coolly.
”I used to play in high school, mostly for fun.”
”I was going to say, you”re not tall.”
She gives me a feisty smile. ”Nope, but I was fast.”
The mental image of her vanishing half-naked into the mock kitchens flashes through my mind. Rubbing my forehead, I chuckle. ”Yeah, I guess you are.”
”Comes in handy when I”m running from a seventies movie star with a loaded gun.”
My brow furrows. ”What?”
”You look like the guy with the fast car, the one with the bird on the front? He picks up the runaway bride and loves beer or alcohol or something.” She takes a big gulp of the chopped, soggy noodle soup.
Delighted laughter bursts out of me. ”You mean Bert Reynolds? From Smokey and the Bandit?”
”Mmhmm,” she mumbles with a full mouth. ”That”s the guy. You look like him, but with shorter hair.”
”Well, that just tickles my pickle, sweetheart. But I”m better looking. Less round in the face, stronger jaw. A more modern Bert Reynolds. Did you like that movie? They were bootleggers. That”s where the alcohol plot comes from.”
”Yeah, I saw it once. He had a cool car.”
”Yeah?!” My eyebrows raise in mischievous glee. ”Honey, you are in for a treat, then, c”mon.”
When I motion for her to follow me to the back entrance, she drains the rest of the noodles. I check the outside camera monitors mounted on the wall just inside the hallway—too many close calls over the years. All clear.
Carmella’s voice lashes from behind me. ”I thought you said your cameras didn”t work.” Oops.
I grin over my shoulder at her. Hopefully, she”ll forgive me once she sees the car. I swing the back door open, and humidity rushes in. The rain has slowed to a soft drizzle, and wet asphalt and salt water tinge the air. The back lot shimmers, grainy and dark from the floodlight. And there, next to the door, sits my baby.
Carmella squeezes between me and the door, more curious than hesitant, and pops her head out. ”Holy shit, you have the car! You are just like him.” The delight in her voice is unmistakable. ”You ever avoid the cops in that? Probably not. It”s flashy.”
Technically yes, I have outrun a few five-Os in my day, but this eager beaver doesn”t need to know that. No joy rides in my baby. My running around days are behind me… Well, not really.
”Nah, no cops. I”m a good boy, and that isn”t the exact replica. His was black. Mine is red and a sixty-eight. His was from the seventies. What do you think?”
”It”s very cool. Can we go for a drive?”
I can”t see her face, smushed in the doorframe like we are, but she continues to stare at my baby.
”I”ll tell you what.” She looks back at me over her shoulder. Her hair is nearly dry now, and frizzy, dishwater blonde waves tumble down her back. ”If tomorrow goes well, we can probably take her for a drive. Would you like that?”
I actually get a genuinely excited smile and it”s infectious. My lips perk up as well.
I don”t know why I”m being so damn nice, especially after how riled up she got with me. But Carmella looks so tiny and sweet right now, like a little caramel drop in the trail mix I sometimes buy. She mostly seems adrift and hostile. I”m not much better, but it would be nice to have some company at home. She has no one, and I want to put my dick in her, so there is that. Didn”t think I”d be getting another girlfriend so soon after the divorce.
Carmella pulls away, probably due to my intense staring and the way I”m pressed against her in the doorway. She puts a couple of steps between us. I accept her retreat, knowing I”m not making her any more comfortable. The rain picks up, hammering the pavement, and another peal of thunder rolls across the sky.
I watch it sheet down over the back lot and let the door swing close, sealing out the rain slanting into my hallway.
She folds her arms across her braless chest. ”That could be fun. But I”m feeling pretty tired, and if it”s cool, I want to go to bed now.”
Stepping into the hallway, I give her my most charming smile and gesture to the open bedroom door. ”Sure, we can go to bed now.”
She follows the motion of my hand and jumps away from the bedroom office as if it bit her. ”You live here?” Carmella”s voice holds a note of alarm as she squeaks, ”Also, I meant sleep. Like sleep, sleep. As in, me out on the floor, and you… I guess in here.”
”What, you don”t mean sleep, sleep, sleep?” My eyebrows wiggle. ”Like the sleep that makes you sleepy?” A deep laugh rolls around my chest.
She glares at me again, but this one doesn”t land as harshly, not with her cheeks flushing pink.
I drop another stellar smile on her, the one I use to open wallets and get nuns to flash me their naughties. Carmella pauses awkwardly, her eyes flicking up and down my body. ”Goodnight.” She pivots and all but runs down the hallway to the show floor.
Well, it was worth a try. She didn’t even take the clothes.
Following her, I stop at the end of the hallway and peek around the corner.
”Goodnight,” I call after her. She turns, giving me hard eyes. That really just makes me want to bust out laughing, but I contain myself. Flipping off the showroom floor lights, I return to my bedroom.