6. Trina
SIX
TRINA
A wasteland. Two red plains that pinch the open road into the size of a needle. I’m not sure where we are. We might not even be in Oklahoma anymore. I don’t know.
The sun is coming up, and though the AC is cranking, a bead of sweat crawls down my back. That might have less to do with the temperature and more to do with the physical reaction I’m having to Crash.
He smells good, like tobacco and sage and a musky smell from… I don’t know what. It’s definitely not helping my attention break away from him: his face, his body, his large hands holding the wheel.
Things shiver in the distance. Tumbleweed. Water. Or just a strange haze.
There’s nothing out here.
Nothing but us.
Last night we slept in the car. I was nervous, but so tired from all the driving I didn’t even care. After helping me put down my seat, he handed me a Pendleton blanket and then took care of himself. I had to toss and turn to get comfortable, but Crash just folded his arms, put his hat over his eyes and went right to sleep.
We were out in the wilderness under a canopy of the brightest stars I’d ever seen. The air was cool and smelled of wild things. Crash had parked against a rock formation to keep out some of the dust, but I didn’t even notice it, I was just so happy not to be in my room in Tippalonga.
The moon was full, giving me plenty of light to watch my rescuer from under my lashes. Crash slept still as the dead. His broad chest rose and fell, and I wondered what it would be like to put my head there and listen to his heartbeat. And then I wondered where the hell that extremely inappropriate thought even came from.
In the end I turned around, shut my eyes and pictured signing up for classes at that college Mamie was supposed to move near to. La…Lo… What was the name?
Why couldn’t I remember it? Why couldn’t I remember anything ?
Just take it one day at a time… Slowly I drifted back to sleep.
In the morning, more driving.
It took us forty minutes to leave Black Mesa, and we stopped at a gas station to refuel. I had to pee in the cramped toilet, which was disgusting to say the least. I am certain that was urine on the door handle and the thing inside the mop bucket definitely looked alive.
When I got out, Crash was across the store getting coffee. He stood head and shoulders above all the displays. I was walking over to suggest to the clerk that he put more effort into cleaning the facilities when a man in a leather jacket stepped in front of me.
“Hey precious,” the man said.
Road-dust covered him head to toe. His boots were even dirtier than Crash’s. My eyes tracked the unsavory images stamped across his raggedy leather jacket. The biggest one said WHITE DEFENDERS.
“You just passing through, gorgeous?”
“I — excuse me…”
“Where are you going?”
He put his arm around my waist. A shock raced through my body. He smelled like burned sugar and cigarettes. And motor oil. I froze, saying nothing as he continued to touch me.
I just froze.
I’d thrown men off before. Reverend Wilson. Even Crash, when he was trying to see my watch. But this was different. I couldn’t move. Flashes of the Reverend breathing on me, running his hand up under my modest dress, bolted across my mind like wild horses. Suddenly I stood on one side of a wide canyon, watching the moment happen on the other.
“You look familiar. You live around here?”
I made a small, convulsive movement. It seemed to take every ounce of strength I had. He easily jerked me back by my arm.
“I’m still talking to you, darlin’.” He laughed, his long hair touching my cheek. “You look like that Wheeler boy, you know that? You his big sister or something?”
I fought through the lump in my throat to scream, say something, do anything. Why wouldn’t my body listen? What was happening to me?
“We don’t really like your kind around here, but I’m nice.” He pinched my waist. “Come on, say something, don’t be shy.”
“Let go of me,” I managed. “Or I’ll scream.”
“You’ll scream for me?” He smiled at my pathetic threat, and then actually grabbed my ass. “Look, I have good shit at my place — liquor, drugs, whatever you want. You can shake that pussy in my face all night, chocolate. Let me suck out the cream.”
And then a shadow literally darkened the aisle. The man jumped back like I was on fire and then all hell broke loose.
Crash shoved me aside, grabbed the biker by the collar on his jacket and jerked him onto his tiptoes like he weighed nothing at all. The man scrabbled for his waist, but Crash already had his gun pressed deep into the man’s stomach. It all happened in the literal blink of an eye, and of course I went and spilled an entire tray of Mike & Ikes on the floor.
“Repeat that,” Crash ordered the man in a quiet voice.
When the man said nothing, Crash barked, “Trina?”
“H-he said he wanted me to shake my private parts in his face and suck out the cream.”
Crash went red as a cranberry and started shoving the man towards the doors. I looked around for the worker but couldn’t see him. At the door, Crash set the man down and spun him so fast I barely caught it between one blink and another. He tossed the biker down on the concrete outside like a sack of potatoes and then booted the man so hard in the stomach he threw up.
You could have heard a pin drop.
“TRINA!” Crash called in an aggravated tone.
“I’m coming,” I snapped, still trying to pick up the Mike & Ike’s.
“NOW!”
“You can leave it, Miss,” the worker said to me, magically appearing. “I was going to throw those out, anyway.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Crash growled at me when we were back in the car. “And what’s with the Mike & Ike’s?”
“What’s wrong with me ?” I said shrilly. Was he blaming me for attracting that horrible man’s attention?
“Why didn’t you throw him off? Next time, run. Fight. Don’t just stand there. This is the second time I watched you just take a beating.”
“I know that!” I shouted raggedly.
He saw my expression and his tone eased up. “When you get out to California, take some self-defense classes. Or better yet, a gun.”
“I will never own a gun,” I told him. “Much less shoot somebody.”
Crash’s jaw was still working, fury written all over his face. “I hope I broke his goddamned ribcage.”
I shrank away from him.
“Trina. Hey.”
“What?” I mumbled.
“Look at me. You’re okay. He’s gone. You can stop breathing like a freight train.”
“I am not breathing like a freight train.”
He chucked under my chin. “You were brave enough to stand up to that dirty preacher. You can stand up to anybody out here. Win, lose, or draw, you stand on ten toes and fight. Understand?”
“I understand. I know that. I just froze.” I shuddered.
“That happens,” Crash said. “Just don’t make it a habit.”
So here we are. Sitting in the car. Watching the road. I see flat red emptiness, but my mind is full of what just happened. Of course Crash is right — I should have stood up for myself. Why did I freeze like that?
“Take the lid off for me darlin’,” Crash says, passing me the coffee he managed to grab while he was whupping ass.
I frown at the cup in my hands. “Did you pay for this?”
“Did you pay for those Mike & Ike’s?”
I pry the lid off carefully. “Stealing is wrong, by the way. I was given those Mike & Ike’s.”
“Oh yeah? That turd working there saw the whole thing and did nothing. He’ll figure out my free coffee.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to lose his job. Or maybe he was scared.”
“You’re not a coward,” says Crash bluntly. “So don’t defend them.”
My face goes hot.
Crash takes a sip. “That’s the stuff,” he says in blank relief.
“It really tastes good?” I ask curiously. Reverend Wilson had decreed that women are not supposed to take any caffeinated substances. Not even sweet tea. I never tried coffee anyway but I know People of the World like Crash are obsessed with it.
“Try some,” he offers.
Why not? I’m not in the church anymore. I feel a sudden release of a great weight on my shoulders and a gut punch of sadness.
The coffee is bitter and terrible. I take another sip. And another. And another. “Wow. This is nasty stuff,” I gag. I take another drink, slowly. “I hate it.”
Crash’s lip twitches. “Have the rest. I got an energy drink.”
“No — you should have it.”
“Even if I didn’t pay for it?”
Laughing, I settle back in the seat, warming my hands on the coffee cup. The inside of Crash’s car is…different. He’s got about three different GPS readers on his dashboard, and when I ask what they’re for he says “nothing” which means it’s not my business.
“What did that man mean when he said ‘suck out my cream?’ ” I ask Crash. His steady control of the vehicle falters.
“Let’s not go there,” he says.
“Is it that bad?”
“No. It’s a good thing.” His ears turn red.
“So then why can’t you tell me?”
“For the love of God,” he says, and I drop it.
Our truce erodes. The farther we get from Tippalonga, the more he shuts down to me and keeps looking at the map, turning on the radio and turning it off, and occasionally muttering to himself. I take way too long to realize he’s just driving us in circles around our neighboring Cimarron County.
“Is there something you forgot in Tippalonga?” I ask him finally. It’s making me uneasy. I just want to get out of Oklahoma as soon as possible.
“Remember when I said I had business in your town?” he reminds me tersely. Under his breath: “Country boy…country roads…American make. Got to be. Half a million. Half a million, coins and small items...half a fucking million.”
It’s all nonsense to me.
If he’s so worried about money, it’s not like I’m asking him to work for free. All I’m asking is for safe transportation to California. I know Mamie will reward him for getting me there safely because she is rich and generous. Whatever his “job” is, it can’t be simpler than just driving me for a couple days to another state.
He needs money, clearly. I look at the raggedy hat he has on. His clothes aren’t new. The nicest thing he owns is this car, which is actually fast as a bullet, though it’s not the new model. It’s also a manual.
I don’t know if Crash has noticed the hole in his jeans or the fraying on his trucker hat. He loves those clothes overmuch, Mamie would say.
Thanks to him, my clothes are new. But I don’t love them. I’m wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants like I’m going to the most boring pajama party ever.
Last night we drove three hours east into Guymon, which Crash said has the only Walmart for a hundred and seventy-five miles. I asked him how he knew that and he said he knows where every Walmart is. I asked him why that would be something to know and he said lots of people sleep in Walmart parking lots. I said so what, and then he told me stop asking questions.
Mama would be dead in her grave before she ever saw me in Walmart clothes, which are for poor people. I gently suggested stopping at The Gap or perhaps Ann Taylor. A vein jumped up in his neck and he said this wasn’t New York Fashion Week. I promised him that Mamie would reimburse whatever he spent on my clothes, and he said he doubted it. So I entered Walmart for the first time in my life.
It was spectacular. So many things. Crash ruined this novel experience by refusing to get me any clothes that weren’t three sizes too big. He ground his teeth when I insisted on hand cream and normal cream, as if they’re the same. Concealer was out of the question and I didn’t dare ask for a hair straightener.
I was afraid to mention hair products at all, but to my surprise, he brought it up first.
He walked close to me the whole time, glaring at anybody who looked our way. Mostly other men. When we passed the Hair Care isle he suddenly asked, “Do you need any of this stuff?”
“Just some oil and a little leave-in,” I replied, surprised. “I don’t like chemical treatments and I’m funny about smells. That’s why my hair is a mess.”
“A mess?” He repeated.
“Yeah. You know, all over the place.” I pulled on a curl and his eyes followed my finger.
“So your hair does that…naturally?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Okay.” His gaze stayed on me a little longer than usual and he said, “Get whatever you want.”
He bought random things. A charger, some apples, and a book, which he was all secretive about for some reason. Then we drove all the way back out to Cimarron.
I stare at the deserted road, the sagebrush and tumbleweed rolling on endlessly. All my life I lived knowing exactly what the next day would bring. Now the future is a big wide mystery.
This species is sexually dimorphic, with males being larger than the females. Their breeding cycles affect migration patterns, with some traveling as far as Mongolia —
“How long is this book?” I ask Crash irritably. Instead of the gospel radio like I suggested, he’s playing some boring audiobook about pelicans. If that’s the type of stuff he likes, I don’t know why he was all shady about the other book from Walmart.
“Nineteen hours,” he replies. “We’re just getting to the good part. Is it bothering you?”
“No,” I lie. “I just love pelicans. My favorite bird, in fact.”
He shuts the audiobook off. “Well, how about we play a game. It’s called Questions.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Question One: is your family gonna come looking for you? Call the police on me?”
I scowl. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I left. And you don’t leave our church.”
“Sounds like a cult.”
“It’s not a cult,” I snap.
“Give up the corn. I want the whole story.”
“Mama said I had to marry Reverend Wilson. His family has a big name in our town.”
“I figured that much.”
“The Reverend said God gave him a vision about marrying me. So I had to.”
Crash shifts his long legs, probably gone stiff from all that driving. “I didn’t think Okies were too keen on the racial mixing. Especially the ones with more money and religion than sense.”
“I was the valedictorian at my highschool, for your information,” I say testily. “I came first in the Tippalonga quilting bee, Miss Tippalonga 2019, and I won a blue ribbon for my Turk’s Turban Squashes at the state fair.”
“Impressive.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I say, hating his sarcasm. Of course, I know the Reverend’s interest in me had nothing to do with my quilts or my squashes, but the implication that I wasn’t worthy of it annoys me for some stupid reason. “The Whiteleafs are a respectable family.”
“Respectable. Marrying you to that creature -– that’s respectable?”
“Just because I’m black — ”
“Now hold on a minute,” Crash interrupts sharply. “I wasn’t saying I got a problem. I just heard in Oklahoma…Hell, nevermind.”
“Tippalonga is nothing like Virginia,” I say stiffly. “It’s a great place to live. We even have our own country club!”
“Of course. I’m so sorry.”
“Oklahoma is more advanced than you think.”
“True,” Crash muses. “Forty-ninth in education. I thought it would be last.”
“You are so rude .”
“I’m just teasing, darlin’. You can tease me back. Call me a redneck if it makes you feel better.”
“It’s my turn now. I have a question .”
“Shoot.”
I think about his gun, his GPS readers and all his talk about “the job” he’s doing out here that apparently means we have to be circling Cimarron for hours on end.
“What exactly are you doing in Oklahoma? And is it legal?”
“Nope,” he says after a pause, his good humor disappearing. He does not elaborate.
“So you’re breaking the law?” I probe.
“That’s what ‘doing something illegal’ means.”
“Well, I don’t want to break the law!” I inhale. “I’m not going down with you. I didn’t agree to that. You can’t break the law if you’re with me.”
“You’re more than welcome to hop off,” he says. “See, there’s a greyhound bus station off this exit, in fact. You can ride it all the way to Los Angeles from here. But you see that building with all the barbed wire -– the one that looks real scary and depressing?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a federal penitentiary. A prison. You won’t be the only one headed west.”
I feel cold. “They let prisoners ride the bus?”
“Former prisoners,” Crash corrects. “It’s a long ride to California from here, Trina. Overnights, random searches, one porta-john they don’t even fucking clean…” He shakes his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “You know what? Forget everything I just said. It’s a great time on the Greyhound bus. Nothing but Jesus and tambourines. How about it?”
“Hilarious.” I hunker low. He flicks off the indicator and the exit flies past us.
I think of Mamie. She must be going crazy, wondering where I am.
Unless nobody told her I was gone.
“So who’s in California?” Crash asks, like he’s reading my mind.
“My grandmother. I call her Mamie.”
“She’s alright?”
“She’s nothing like my family. Her daddy, my grandfather, was like a local hero. He was Sheriff for thirty years. Everybody wanted to marry Mamie back in the day.”
“Pretty, was she?”
“Very.” I’ve seen pictures of Mamie and even my mother can’t compare.
“Must run in the family.”
I blush. “I don’t know about that.”
“I beg to differ,” says Crash. He clears his throat. “So, what does she do for a living? Or, what did she do?”
“She had my daddy out of wedlock,” I recount. “But when she was older, she married an oil executive. Her second husband worked in finance. Then her third husband — ”
“I get the picture. She’s minted.”
I shrug. “Apart from that, she paints and does martial arts.”
“How often do you see her?”
“Not often at all.”
A year ago she started begging me to visit her. She said I had to get away from my family and the church. But I wasn’t sure. Mama had always filled my ears with poison about Mamie. Saying she killed her husbands, that her riches came from the devil. I was torn. I loved Mamie and she had never hurt me. But what if Mama was right?
Then everything with the Reverend started happening. And it seemed like the choice was made for me. I allowed the choice to be made for me. I was blind and dumb. Lord, I was so dumb.
I blink quickly. No more tears. I’m safe now, and moving forward with my life. I know Mamie will forgive my weakness. Her love has never felt conditional.
“How about some music?” Crash suggests.
I perk up. “The Christian station is–”
“I meant good music.”
I know what he means. Hell no. “I don’t want to hear that sinful–”
A giant hand pushes buttons on the radio, and the voice of James Earldeen comes blaring out over mine. Overruled.
A couple hours later Crash pulls off down a different exit and takes a phonecall in the parking lot of MacDonalds.
I press my ear to the window and hear him cursing. “You said this would be a fast job. You didn’t tell me there was a kid involved.”
I take my ear off the window.
I don’t want to know.
And I don’t feel good.
I feel like a stranger in a strange land. Nothing is right with God out here. So much sin and waywardness. I see road signs that might as well be in another language. EXXOTIC CLUB NEXT EXIT. PETTING ZOO. BOB’S BAIT. JESUS IS WATCHING YOU. BLUE THUNDER CASINO.
When Crash comes back to the car, he looks even grumpier than usual. He leans back in the seat and rubs his eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Something I left in Tippalonga.”
When he reaches for the GPS, I stare at his large, hard shoulders. His man-smell washes over me again and with it the overwhelming heat that races through my whole body. Crash smells like something hot and wild.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Crash stares out the window, thinking. I leave him to it until he suddenly says my name.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you call your grandmother and let her know we’re coming? And maybe let her know this taxi service ain’t free while you’re at it.”
“Um,” I say. He won’t like this. Not at all.
“What?”
“I, uh, don’t have Mamie’s phone number memorized,” I confess.
He stares at me and says slowly, “Alright.”
“Yeah. Um— I forgot to mention it.”
“Well. That complicates things, don’t it?” He’s mad. Pissed.
“So we’ll get to L.A and find her. How hard can it be?”
“Do you know how big L.A. is?”
“Of course,” I say defensively. “But it can’t be much bigger than OKC. We’ll find her. I have faith.”
He curses and reaches for a cigarette. There’s a strong wind, and he can’t light it. His dark hair blows everywhere. Finally, the flame catches on the end and he drags on it hard. The circles under his eyes look like bruises. “I thought you were valedictorian,” he says.
“And I thought cigarettes kill you,” is my lame comeback.
“Trina, if you don’t give me a lead there’s no way I can take you anywhere.”
I don’t even know what to say. If Crash doesn’t help me I’m on my own. I offered him money and I don’t know what else I have—
Yes.
Yes, I do know.
And you know what?
I think Crash knows, too.
And you know what else?
I think I know he would take me to California, if he did. If I let him.
For a fact, he would.
Do it, I think wildly. Make a move on me.
I stare at his chest. He’s breathing hard, over me. His hands come up almost as if to touch me. And I do nothing. I stand there, willing for it happen.
He pulls away, adjusting his belt. I hear him curse under his breath. Him almost touching me and the hot melting urge between my legs seem to be related.
“Let’s find a place to sleep,” he says.
“Okay.”
We end up driving for hours. Why? Because every motel only has one bed available and this information seems to send Crash into a worse and worse mood. We try three different places before Crash accepts defeat.
The place is in Cimmarron County — with one bed.
And it’s three hours from Tippalonga. That’s three hours too close for me. We’re going in circles.
But there’s not much I can do. Crash won’t let me leave his sight and I’m not ready to jump ship just yet. If he doesn’t help me I need to go with Plan B, which is infinitely scarier.
There might be more men like the Biker out on the road. Worse men. I think that’s what Crash is afraid of. After the biker guy he watches me like a hawk in public places.
How can I get to California without Crash?
Sell the engagement ring. Get a car. True I have an old license and the last time I drove one was senior year of high school, to the grocery store. But it’s an option.
“Crash, I’d like to get some money today. For myself.”
“I’m not an ATM, Trina.”
“I have money,” I tell him. I think of how best to say it. “But I need to withdraw it.”
“What’s your bank?”
“Um, the pawn shop.”
“Okay,” he says, looking up from his computer, which seems comically small next to his giant frame. He seems to accept this. “I’ll take you after you give me some more details on this grandmother. Think. What do you remember? Anything will help.”
“Her name is Arabella Johnson.”
He starts typing furiously. “Good,” he says. “Well, that’s a –- ”
“But she changed her name a few years ago,” I interrupt.
He scowls. “To what?”
“ ‘Moonlight’ something. Since her last husband died she’s into pagan things. Her last name is a Hindu goddess.” I shake my head. “It’s such a shame but I hope God forgives her.”
“I’m sure he’ll find it in his heart,” says Crash. “Any other details? Date of birth, maybe?”
“November 4th, 1952. No, ’53. Maybe ’54…”
I sound like a fool. This is so bad.
“I honestly don’t know,” I tell Crash, totally embarrassed.
“ Any idea where in L.A she might stay at?”
“I need some more time,” I admit weakly.
“Well that’s a huge help,” he says.
“Sorry.”
I watch the big strong muscles of his back as he bends over the desk to make another note.
I never really mixed with men my age who weren’t in the church. Since I didn’t go to college, and I was engaged to the Reverend, options were limited when it came to the opposite sex.
Sex before marriage is a sin, so I avoided men for my own purity and protection. Of course I was always around them in church, but I really kept to myself most of the time, busy in my garden.
And now I’m in a motel room with Crash, a man I just met two days ago.
He’s exactly how I picture King David from the Bible, with that dark curly hair and brown eyes and tanned skin.
I remind myself that these thoughts are sinful.
“Crash?”
He looks up. His eyes are actually green, not brown. With the longest eyelashes ever.
“What?”
“Are you Italian?”
“No.” He turns back to his map.
“What are you–”
“I’m busy, Trina.”
Well.
I sigh and flop back on the bed. I’m bored as a devil, but at least this motel is comfortable. Better than the last one. And nobody can find us here, so far from Tippalonga. Nobody knows where I am.
Something draws tight in my chest. Nobody knows where I am. For the very first time in my life, I’m completely alone.
I could be dead. Would Mama even care if I was? She always treated me like a burden— somebody to take the heat off herself when Papa was in a rage. As for my father, he mostly ignored me. His orders were always given to me through Mama — and ironclad.
My older brother Jermaine and I don’t talk. Growing up he did anything he wanted. He was a menace and made my life hell. He used to hit me and spit on me. I was so happy when he married that white girl and moved to Little Rock.
Out of my whole family I’ll really only miss my cousin Cynthia and her son Levi, whose birthday is in three days. I wonder if I’ll ever see them again.
When somebody leaves the church, it’s forever.
To distract myself, I flick through the channels and stop on a program called UNSOLVED MYSTERIES.
“Have you ever heard of this?” I ask Crash. The scary title sequence sends goosebumps up my arms. I wasn’t allowed to watch TV unless it was church related. But I used to watch horror movies at my friend Gina’s house sometimes before she left town.
Crash leans back in his chair to catch the TV screen. “Unsolved Mysteries…My wife watches that,” he comments.
I forget how to breathe. The word feels like a blow. He’s got a wife ?
Disappointment rocks me. Of course, a man as handsome as Crash would have a wife. Probably kids. I bet his wife is a blonde southern belle who can fit a size two. I just know that’s his type. Bitter green jealousy surges in me and I’m glad he isn’t looking at my face.
I wonder what being Crash’s wife is like. She can kiss him any time she wants. Maybe he pushes her lips with his thumb the same way he does to me.
Maybe…maybe he does more than that.
Stop it.
After an hour or so Crash gets up from his computer and stretches noisily, raising the hem of his shirt. I try not to look, to be modest, but my eyes are drawn to the flatness of his stomach and his firm abs, the loose button on his jeans. I still can’t believe I’m sharing a room with a strange man. I can’t believe this is my life.
I swallow hard. The worst things come into my mind whenever I look at Crash.
He rolls out his shoulders and winces.
“What’s wrong?”
“Back,” he grunts.
And I don’t know what possesses me to say, “Do you want me to rub it?”
In choir, we massaged each other’s backs before rehearsal. It’s an innocent suggestion. Maybe, a little bit, I want to know what Crash feels like. What would it be like to touch those hard firm muscles.
He looks at me like I just offered him a cup of dirty dishwater, then abruptly goes into the bathroom and slams the door.
Embarrassed, I stretch out on the bed. Unsolved Mysteries runs in the background but I’m tuned to every sound coming from the bathroom.
Shhhhhhhhhhhh– he’s turned on the shower. He’ll be in there a while.
Naked.
Stop. Stop.
I force my attention back to the TV, but the distraction isn’t much better. My mind wanders back to dark places. Dark places like the basement they kept this poor woman on the TV in for twenty years.
John Wallace fathered three children with Mary Lou, all born in the basement, the narrator says in his creepy voice, like he’s just so happy about it.
Ugh.
I shut off the program, my skin crawling. The world is a scary place. The devil is lurking everywhere. You can’t trust anybody.
Can you trust Crash?
Maybe he’s just waiting for the right time to drag me into the desert and murder me with a staple gun.
My eye lands on his leather bag.
Crash has a gun. I know that — and I know it doesn’t leave his sight. In fact, he just brought it into the bathroom with him. I guess he doesn’t need a staple gun to kill me. He’s got a regular gun-gun.
Suddenly I’m climbing off the bed. If I’m going to trust this man to take me to California I need to know more, for my own protection.
It’s an ordinary-looking weekender bag made of leather. I spy a maker’s stamp with a cardinal and the initials “CW” entwined with its feet.
Cardinals, again…
I kneel down and unzip the bag slowly, listening out for sounds of the shower running. If he catches me digging through his things he’ll fry me up, but I can move fast when I need to.
I dig through the insides. There’s a zippered pouch containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream and an electric razor. A bottle of prescription antibiotics made out to CRASH JAMES WALKER, expired.
Oh, and handcuffs.
I swallow hard, remembering he put cuffs on the Reverend back in Tippalonga. What kind of man walks around with two pairs of handcuffs in his bag?
What if he uses them on me?
I dig deeper. Underwear– more gray T shirts– an extra pair of jeans.
Wow. That was so worth it.
My fingers touch something hard and flat. Score. It’s the book he got from Walmart that he doing the most to hide.
I know it’s wrong to go through people’s things, but I’m reading it.
I get a hold of one corner, but when I try pulling the book out of the bag a shower of tiny little beads flies out and explodes all over the floor.
What the hell— is that… birdseed ?
Yep. This crazy man has a whole pack of “Budgie’s Favorite” cozied up with his drawers.
The shower shuts off.
Shoot!
Instead of trying to pick up the little bitty seeds by hand I set my luggage — a reusable Walmart bag — on top of the mess. I move his duffel to the side at the exact moment the bathroom door opens. I jump like a kangaroo back into bed and pretend like I’ve been listening to this poor woman Mary Lou the whole time.
Crash is fresh out of the shower, one of his towels slung around his neck. (He brought his own towels. With the state of the place, I can’t blame him). Water drips from his curly hair, staining the collar of the gray T-shirt.
“Did you move my bag?” he says.
Busted.
“What?” I play dumb.
“I told you not to touch nothing.”
“I didn’t touch anything . And did you even wash yourself? That was like, thirty seconds.”
I turn back to the TV innocently. He’s still staring at me. Lord forgive me I’m not going to look at his boxers again.
“Listen. I’m headed out,” says Crash. I hold my breath. If he looks down he might notice the mess of birdseed and the book stuffed under my bed. But he only takes out a pair of new jeans from the bag and replaces it.
“Fuck,” he mutters as the birdseed spills everywhere– again.
“Going out?” I repeat, relieved that the mess he just made can cover my tracks. “Where are you going?”
“Just checking out the town,” he replies.
“Okay. Uh huh.”
He straightens up and fastens his holster to his belt. The man gets dressed at the speed of light. “Don’t do anything dumb. I’ll be back in two hours.”
I’ll be fine. Nobody knows where I am. Not the Reverend, not my family, not anybody. I’m hours away from Tippalonga, in the middle of nowhere.
Actually, that makes me feel worse.
“It’s just a couple hours,” he says, watching me. “I’ll be back. Promise.”
“Okay.”
Crash frowns, then goes over to the desk and to my surprise hands me his cellphone. “Use this if you need anything. My number’s on it.”
“How am I supposed to call you with your cellphone?”
“I have another one, genius. This is my burner.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe while I’m gone you can try to recall more about this Mamie person. That would definitely be helpful.”
“Yes, I’ll try.”
“Don’t open that door for anybody while I’m gone. This town is suspect.”
And on that cheerful note he slams out the door.
From the window I see Crash’s car pull out of the parking lot, and as soon as it does I get the book out from under the bed.
CELIBACY FOR THE MODERN MAN by Joel Fraser .
I stare at the neat white letters printed over a picture of a calm lake. Well. I wasn’t expecting…that.
What’s crazy is I know the author. Joel Fraser runs a megachurch in Texas and he attends the Reverend’s service sometimes.
And I know what celibate means.
Cultivate discipline, raise your standards and avoid temptation: the modern man’s guide to spiritual freedom.
Okay.
Intercourse is about the joy of procreation, a sacred act between man and woman. But in this age of self gratification and sin, many men are driven from the right path...
I skip ahead to the chapter titled AVOIDING TEMPTATION .
One of my clients was often away from home on business trips. During his stay in hotel rooms, he would frequent the pornography channels on the hotel TV all night long. Hotel rooms are indeed a place many feel comfortable exploring their darkest urges. Eventually, watching pornography was not enough. My client began hiring escorts, which led to his wife discovering his sex addiction. If he had merely controlled his urges and devoted the time to conscious prayer, he would still be happily married today.
I put the book back where I found it.
What does that mean? Well, it means Crash has given up intimate relations. Or he’s thinking about it. But why? He has a wife. He doesn’t need to worry about sin, since intercourse within a marriage is perfectly good with God.
Jealousy clots up inside me. What a bitch. Does she even love him? Is she denying him sex? Is that why he’s reading Fraser’s book? Because he’s starving for a woman? He doesn’t deserve that.
I find myself pulling out Crash’s bag again and rifling through the whole thing all over again. His clothes and birdseed and other random stuff spill all over the mattress. Maybe he has a picture of her. Some other clue. Something. I’m shaking so hard I drop half the stuff on the floor.
Stop.
I pull myself out of my anger, take a deep breath.
He who hurries in his footsteps, errs.
Clean up this mess and stop acting crazy. You don’t know this woman and you don’t know Crash.
Slowly I stuff the clothes back in the bag. What do I know about Crash? He might be a Catholic, an idol-worshipping heathen, but he is clearly a man of strong faith.
For a man to give up sex, it means a lot, since they are naturally driven to the temptation of carnal pleasure. And sacrifice is a holy act– that’s why Jesus died for our sins. Maybe Crash has given up pleasure to petition God for a special intervention.
Maybe I had him all wrong. He might be rude, but he’s an honorable man. The fact that he appeared at a most fortuitous time and saved me from marrying the Reverend just proves he was sent by God.
But if he’s faithfully married, why doesn’t he wear a wedding ring?It’s a mystery. And none of my business.
While putting everything back my gaze falls on the TV remote.
Outside, a car pulls into the parking lot. A bird sings. A plane flies overhead. I shudder.
He would frequent the pornography channels on the hotel TV all night long…
The door is locked. I shoved something under it, so even if he comes in with the key he’ll have to fight it open. I probably don’t have long until he comes back. I mean, I have no idea where Crash went, and even if he did take the car, this town isn’t that big. He could be back any minute. But a minute is all I need. Right? Right.
I pick up the remote, literally hearing myself breathe out loud. I’m so nervous. Well, here goes nothing.
R RATED CONTENT.
I slam down the OK button.
CONFIRM 18 AND ABOVE.
YES, I click, then fall back and cover my eyes.
Here it is. The worst thing I’ve ever done.
The camera zooms in on a blonde. She’s wearing hot pink panties and a bra that doesn’t even hold her titties in. Her butt is all over the screen.
“Please don’t give me a ticket,” she begs the cop.
And you know what’s crazy?
The “cop” looks like Crash.
He’s tall, tanned skin, with black curly hair. Crash is better looking, but this man could be his brother.
“Do you have any idea how fast you were going?” he barks at the stripper lady, bent over the front of her car.
“Uhhhh, I don’t know.” She rolls her eyes. “Pleeeease can you let me go?”
“I don’t think so.” He feels up her ass, grabbing and squeezing it. Mine is bigger. He’d have to use both hands with mine. The man’s eyes cloud with lust and he starts rubbing her private parts through her little, little panties.
And then—
SLAP!
He hits her. On the behind.
“Ohhhh,” the woman moans, and smiles. Like she enjoyed it.
“You like that, don’t you?” he says. “Slut.”
I shut the TV off.
But only for a minute.
Nothing happened. You didn’t see anything. You sinned, but not that bad.
I roll over in the bed. The pillow smells like him. There’s just something about the way Crash smells that makes me go crazy. Like when I wore his clothes that first night he brought me to the motel in Tippalonga.
A few minutes later, I reach for the remote.
A different video is playing. It’s a different man, and a Black girl.
They’re sitting on a couch.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, stroking her silk-pressed hair. “Can you do something for me?”
She giggles and straddles his lap. “Like what?”
If I dressed like that, what would Crash say? What would he think?
“Fuck…So fucking sexy.”
“Wow,” she whispers, cupping the bulge in his pants. “And you’re so big.”
“Can you handle it?” he smirks, moving her hair off her shoulder.
She giggles and he pulls down the straps of her dress. Her breasts pop out, right into his face. They’re large…but mine are bigger.
“Fuck. Bring those fucking tits over here.”
“Mmm…yes baby.”
“Good girl…” With a grunt the man cups one in his hand and guides her nipple into his greedy mouth. He sucks it hard, making her groan and say his name. Her hands bury in his hair. I watch this woman lose all control, shaking and rubbing herself all over the man, panting like it’s the best thing in the world.
The man pops her titty out of his mouth and she guides the other one to his lips. His tongue laps at her, both hands now squeezing all up on her butt. Then in one quick move he tips her over his lap so her butt is pushing up. “You got all this ass ready for me?” he growls, shoving a hand under her dress to squeeze her there, hard . “I’ll make you come so hard.”
Come where? I think.
“Yes,” she moans.
She’s grinding herself on his lap, shameless as a cat in heat.
And I can’t look away.
God forgive me, but I can’t.