9 Suffragette City
Suffragette City
Becky throws me a smile, and I mouth “thank you” for letting me use the diner’s phone.
Like everything else in BB’s, it’s retro—a bubble-gum-pink, wall-mounted model with a long spiral cord tethering the handset to the base and rotary dial that takes me several tries to figure out.
I send up a silent thanks that G-Lo’s is one of the three phone numbers I have memorized.
“What should I do?” I pivot toward the dining room, wrapping the curly cord around myself in the process.
G-Lo took the news of the Betty’s fate a lot better than my estranged boyfriend.
After making the walls in BB’s shake with his furious tantrum, Damian demanded I give him my exact location so he could come save me—an idea I shot down immediately.
I can only imagine how he’d react if he knew about Dash.
That I’d rather hitch a ride with a total stranger than allow my boyfriend to swoop in and rescue me should tell me all I need to know about our doomed relationship.
For the first time in maybe forever, I’m glad my phone died.
“I can’t stay here, camped out in a diner for a week like some weirdo, but what’s the alternative? Hop in the car with a guy I met five hours ago and hope he doesn’t throw me in a wood chipper somewhere? Would you take that chance?”
“Is he cute?” G-Lo whispers through the phone as if she knows people are listening. Knowing Jeanie, she is.
With a nervous tingle blooming in my stomach, I glance at Dash, squirming in our booth across the room while waiting for me to decide his fate. Behind the glasses, his eyes draw me in, making me forget to breathe. Cute doesn’t come close to describing him. “He’s not bad.”
“I could never turn down a cute boy.” G-Lo sighs like a teenage girl.
“What if he’s a serial killer? Ask her that !” Jeanie screams in the background. “They said Ted Bundy was cute, too, you know!”
“Hold on, Zoey.” G-Lo whispers something, but I can’t make out what. After a few seconds of hissing back and forth, G-Lo comes back on the line. “What does your gut tell you?”
“Her guts will be telling the police what she had for breakfast if she’s not careful!” Jeanie shrieks.
“No they won’t,” G-Lo snaps at Jeanie. “Now, that’s enough. Go smoke a bowl while I finish talking to your sister.”
I can’t tell if she’s trying to scold Jeanie or soothe her, but Jeanie’s voice gets fainter as she takes her tirade into another room.
“Don’t listen to Jeanie, she’s had way too much oxy and not nearly enough reefer. Take it from an old hippie who hitchhiked all the way across the country and back without so much as a scratch. Trust your instincts. Your gut won’t steer you wrong.” G-Lo rambles on as if dictating a self-help book.
“I don’t know.” Keeping Dash in my peripheral vision, I lean against the wall and gnaw on my thumbnail.
As if he senses me watching him, he glances my way and smiles.
Cringing on the inside, I smile back and wave like an awkward teenager. “I don’t think he’s a psycho, but I haven’t exactly had time to psychoanalyze him, so how can I be sure?”
I was wrong about Junior—and T. J.—but I don’t mention either of them to G-Lo. She already has more than enough evidence to doubt my survival skills in the wild.
“Ask him what color crayon he’d be,” she says.
I snort. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I have no idea, but they always ask that in interviews. I’m definitely blue ... with a swirl of chartreuse.”
I choke back a laugh. “I’m not trying to hire him. I’m trying to make sure he won’t kill me and wear my skin as a suit.”
“Then you should steer clear if he says he’s scarlet or crimson ... too close to blood.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Life is an adventure, Zoey, but it isn’t without risk.” G-Lo rattles off her fortune cookie wisdom without a drop of sarcasm. “What if you took a picture of him beside his car? You could get his license plate in the photo and send it to me.”
“My phone died. Remember?”
“Oh, right. Does what’s-his-name have a phone?”
“Dash?” I roll my eyes. “Barely ... but yes, I guess that’s pretty much all it does—call and text.” I remember the lens on the back. “Oh! It has a camera.”
“Good! Grab it and call me so I can trace his number.”
“You can do that?” I spin around again, tangling myself in the pink phone cord until the spiral is pulled taut.
“No, but I used to sleep with a private investigator in Cincinnati. The sonofabitch owes me one.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Last time I stayed over, I found an empty tube of wild cherry lube, a purple dildo, and a picture of his mother beside his bed.”
“G-Lo!” I’m half a second from shoving my fingers into my ears and singing lalala, I can’t hear you .
“Tell me about it! It was my lube!” She bursts out laughing, and it takes her several moments to collect herself again. “Send me a text from Dash’s phone—don’t forget to get his license plate number in the photo—and I’ll get Cecil to run it.”
I nod, sneaking another peek at Dash. “What do I do until then?”
“Did you pack the anti-rape undies?”
Her question catches me off guard, and I hesitate for an instant. “I did.”
“Good. Put those on. They’ll give you peace of mind, if nothing else.”
They’re more likely to give me a wicked case of diaper rash ... or a yeast infection.
“If you say so.” I pull the heavy underwear from my tote and stuff them into the front pocket of my hoodie before anyone sees them.
“This could be the biggest adventure of your life, Zoey. Don’t fight it. Enjoy the ride!”
“All I want to do is spread Mom’s ashes and come home.” The lie stings on the way out. Despite everything that’s happened, I want the adventure.
“You’ll see.”
Her voice surrounds me like a hug, and I close my eyes, imagining her bony arms wrapping around me. “What about Jeanie?”
“Don’t worry about Jeanie. She’s so high, come tomorrow she’ll think she dreamed the whole thing.” She barks out a laugh. “And don’t worry about the car, either. The Betty will be fine. Trust me, I’ve run over worse things than a damn armadillo.”
I don’t even want to know.
After promising to call her as soon as I charge my phone, and to text her from Dash’s phone before setting one foot inside his car, we say our goodbyes. The instant I hang up, Dash is out of his seat and heading my way.
“What did she say?” He adjusts his glasses and gazes down at me.
“If I take a picture of you beside your car with the plate visible and text it to her from your phone, you probably won’t kill me.”
He nods, a mask of cool indifference on his flawless face. “That’s a fair assessment. It would completely ruin my alibi. I’d be an idiot to kill you after that.”
“Right.” I listen for my gut to send me some sort of sign. Other than a sharp twinge in my bladder, the only message I’m getting is that Dash is really hot up close.
“So we’re doing this?” he asks.
I nod, and his whole face lights up.
Unbelievably hot up close.
Still grinning ear to ear, he walks backward toward the counter. “I’ll order us burgers for the road—extra onion, right?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have—”
“You can Venmo me after you charge your phone.”
“Oh, um, Dash?” I wrap a finger around a loose string dangling from the bottom of my shorts, gripping it for dear life.
“Yeah?”
“If you were a crayon, what color would you be?”
His brow furrows and he cocks his head, but his smile stays in place. “What a strange thing to ask.”
I hold my breath, eagerly awaiting his reply.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Way too many colors to choose from.”
“Right.” I exhale, twisting the string into a knot before releasing it. “So many colors.”
While Dash orders food I can’t afford, I duck into the deserted ladies’ room to put on G-Lo’s anti-rape underwear.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
After relieving my bladder for what could be the last time in who knows how long, I fish the striped undies from my hoodie pocket and give them a few vigorous shakes in the tiny stall, cracking them like a whip the way Mom always did before pulling on new pantyhose.
Then, with my bare feet resting on top of my shoes to avoid the puddle of what I hope isn’t pee surrounding the base of the toilet like a moat, I begin the weirdest game of solo Twister ever played.
I step into the first snug leg hole, then shift my weight and shove my other foot through the second hole before tugging the garment from my shins to my knees.
“Damn, these are tight,” I mutter. At least one size too small. Maybe two.
Gripping the waistband until my knuckles whiten, I drag the European knickers over my knees, huffing and grunting while wriggling them up my thighs. Almost there. Just a few more inches. Damn it.
Shimmying down a freaking drainpipe naked would’ve been a hell of a lot easier.
A loud flush from the next stall echoes through the small restroom.
Then someone clears their throat. “Excuse me?”
With the unforgiving boy shorts wedged just below my crotch, I freeze in place and choke back a laugh. “Yes?”
“Could you pass me some paper?” the timid voice whispers. “This stall is completely out.”
Instead of earning my sympathy, her panicked voice sends me over the edge. With the fingers of both hands wedged into my waistband, I laugh. “I’m sorry. I ... my hands are occupied at the moment.”
After a few seconds of silence, she clears her throat again. “I-I’ll wait.”
Once I’ve vacuum sealed myself into what basically amounts to Spanx-on-steroids, I pass what’s left of the TP roll to the lady in the next stall and finish dressing.
Dash is wearing a fresh shirt and a big smile when I step out of the restroom a few minutes later. “Ready to roll?”
“What’s all that?” I ask, catching a whiff of french fries.
In his left hand, he balances a drink carrier with four large cups, while his right hand clutches the extra-large white paper bag resting on his right hip. He rolls his eyes. “Lunch.”
“For what army?”
He laughs. “Just us.”
“How much do you think I can eat?”