Chapter 6
SIX
AMELIA
“Listen, I’m not a forensic psychiatrist. All I’m saying is that I don’t think we’re doing the world any favors by naming the worst possible human beings these names that sound desirable to psychopaths. If we’d gone with ‘The Tiny Peened Rapist with ED’ I think the Golden State Killer might’ve stopped right in his damn tracks before any murders were committed. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted to risk another victim embarrassing him by talking about his tiny fucking button mushroom below the belt. But instead, the media glorified him with some name that gives him a sense of accomplishment. He doesn’t deserve that. No murderer should be memorialized on a pedestal or cast in bronze.”
Jynx’s husky voice would’ve been ideal for a career in a smoky burlesque lounge, warming up the crowd, introducing the cast. Her face, body, and effortless charisma could’ve made her a star on the center of that stage, if you ask me. But she chose to pursue telling the stories of survivors, shining light on some of the most gruesome parts of society in an effort to enlighten and empower a generation against becoming victims.
The way her throaty tone floats through my Sprinter van, filling the small space—even as it’s immobilized outside the only auto shop in Smoky Heights—sets an entire mood on its own, and I’m thankful she chose this route instead of any others.
“And I’m just saying, Vixens, if they were publicly shamed instead of awarded these fucked up names that almost celebrate their derangements, maybe fewer psychopaths would have aspirations of getting their own name. If they thought their legacy might be ‘The Cuck Who Had a Foot Fetish’ rather than the Eerie Eradicator, maybe they wouldn’t be so quick to transition from experimenting on roadkill to killing human beings.”
“Hear fucking hear!” I shout back to Jynx, like she can hear me all the way through the vortex of time and space, from Smoky Heights to NYC, now to the years ago when this was recorded.
I started listening to Vengeful Vixens when an episode from season four shot her to the number one podcast in the country, and then I just kept listening straight through, so now I’m circling back to season one, catching up on all of her earlier episodes I’ve missed out on till now, while I wait for her new season to come out. I can’t believe I was living my life, traveling the country with Van Gogh, for years without knowing she existed. She is an icon.
I mean, she’s really got a point. Why do these horrific acts of unnecessary violence get awarded names that inspire fear in the population, and give the most vile among us hard-ons for their own claim to fame?
The Beast of Chicago, Jack the Ripper, the Bladed Butcher. The Santa Slayer. A shudder rips through me. These men, their horrid acts, don’t deserve recognition.
The survivors are the ones we should be celebrating.
As Jynx starts to read off ads from sponsors of the show, I turn in my van, hands on my hips, a breeze on my bare tits.
It’s been a few days that I’ve been back home in Van Gogh. After I accepted the estimate from Wyatt, he graciously agreed to move the van out into his parking lot where he said I could stay, up until he needed to actually swap out the engine and he’ll need the van back.
It’s been enough time that I’ve gotten my bearings in this little town. Not long enough for the pull toward Weston to chill the heck out and flush itself out of my system.
With the way he’s overtaken my thoughts since I landed in this small town, it might take getting laid by a rock star—maybe Josh, the singer of my favorite band, New York Ave (or even better, a sandwich with him and the bassist, Blondie)—and leaving town for my next fresh start for that to happen.
But damn, is it good to be back home. There’s not much that makes me feel safe, but this small van, these walls that have traveled coast to coast with me, they’ve done it.
In my private world, where I’m stashed with everything I need and I never stay in one place long, I’m able to maintain the boundaries and secrecy I need to feel safe.
Got to run out to do my laundry today, a cute little laundromat downtown called Smoky Suds, which is a little confusing because I’m pretty sure the bar I passed on my way had the same exact name. I asked Rory, who was the one who dropped me off on her lunch break and picked me up again at the end of the day, and she just laughed and said it’s being addressed.
Now I’m stuck with my least favorite part of laundry, the part where I have to fold it and put it back away in the drawers beneath my bed in the back of the van. Crawling around under there creeps me out. Which is probably why I’m mostly just staring at the piles of folded crop tees, athletic shorts, skimpy underwear, and the one sweatshirt I own.
Listening to true crime podcasts helps pass the time, keep my mind entertained while I confront the worst task of first world human existence. Washing it isn’t that bad. Drying it isn’t that bad. But putting it away? Yeesh. When you only have a small capsule wardrobe and have to do laundry more than most, I’m going to go out on a limb and say you grow to hate it even quicker. Or maybe that’s just one of my many personality deficiencies speaking.
Today is one of those days where throwing myself in the dryer on a steam cycle sounds better than dealing with this pile staring back at me. But, hey, that’s just my pessimist half talking. I can buck up, knock this out, and get back to my favorite hobby. Watching Weston work on his car like a creeper who hasn’t gotten laid in way too long. There’s some inspiration for me.
Thanks to analysis paralysis, I still haven’t decided which crop tee to wear tonight, hence the slight breeze on my nips.
At least I can still live in my van, even if I can’t drive her. The battery packs still work just fine, and Wyatt’s been kind enough to let me plug in as needed and even refill my water tanks from his shop. He’s a gruff sorta guy, maybe not as much of a dick as I originally thought. Nice where it counts, I guess.
Not like the other Grady, who’s nice in all the ways and then some. I fight a chill in the room, but my nipples still perk up anyway.
I swear, this set of tits was worth every penny just for the nipples that are always looking up. They might actually be where I get my optimism from.
Sure, it started off as a way to not look so slight, so delicate, give me a little more shape and curve and feel a little bit fiercer, but they’ve come to be one of my favorite parts of myself. That, and the other embellishment I gave them.
My laptop chimes with the familiar electronic beep of an incoming email, and I pause the podcast just as Jynx comes back from the ad break to check it. Hopefully it’s my damn employer coming back with the increase in workload I asked for so I have a way to cover the repairs Van Gogh needs.
It was all I could do not to vomit on the spot when Wyatt showed me that estimate. Had to use my years of stone-faced composure that keeps strangers—the only type of people I get to have in my life—at bay and nod, like he isn’t asking for ten times my monthly disposable income to get Van Gogh moving again.
This is why we keep savings, I hear the loving voice of my mother in my head, teaching me a life lesson in my early teen years when our only car broke down and we had to sacrifice a few meals to pay the bill, so she could still get to work at the diner and sneak some food out of the kitchen for the two of us at the end of each shift so we didn’t have to go completely without that month.
“I tried, Mom.” I say the words out loud, as my thoughts so often are.
There just hasn’t been enough work for a while to add to savings and send money back home. Plus, I had to dip into my sad little savings a few too many times when I had to stay at a campground because some snobby tourist called the cops to complain about my van being parked out at the beach. Or one of the big chain stores where they don’t allow overnight vehicles anymore.
Or that time my signal cut out and I couldn’t find my way to the stop I had planned when a road was washed out, so I pulled over in a neighborhood for the night and someone called in a complaint. I download the maps for my routes ahead of time these days but can’t go back and change the past.
If I could, I’d go a lot further back than not finding a better place to park that night. Draining my measly savings account is far from the worst thing to happen to me.
I plop down on the bed, breasts bouncing with the rest of me as I do, laptop on my thighs to check it out.
It’s not more work.
It’s something better. It might not pay in money, but it warms my insides in ways material things—even food—can’t. Reminds me why I stay strong, of my purpose, why I survived as long as I have, and why sharing anything I can do without from my pay is worth it, even when it means struggling in times like this.
Hello my sweet angel,
It’s so good to hear from you. Thank you for writing!
I tried to email you last week, but silly me, I used your last address by mistake. I tried to find this one, but I think it disappeared from my inbox or something. You know me and technology.
What’s this about a hiccup? Are you okay? Are you safe? Let me know if I can help in some way.
I planted pinks, yellows, and red tulips this year. Should be another month or so before they’re blooming, but of course I’ll send you pictures.
Not much new here. Yes, it’s chilly. I’ve got to stay bundled up not just on the way to and from work, but sometimes even in the diner. Jeff likes to say keeping it a few degrees colder in the cafe makes people spend more money, but I think it’s more than a few degrees, and it just keeps the staff shivering. He’s probably losing more in dropped plates and orders that have to be remade because our fingers have gone numb than people can possibly be spending. I know heat is expensive, but surely customers would pay a few cents more to be comfortable while they eat?
Anyway, don’t mind me, I’m just happy the snowy season is all but gone. That last storm, I was pretty sure we were going to get snow inside the cafe there for a minute! Haha! But don’t worry, Minnesota will be sunny and beautiful again in no time, and my poor fingers are already nearly thawed.
I can’t wait to hear about your latest adventures and where you are now or what you’re up to! Looking forward to my next postcard.
Meeting up with you for New Year’s would mean the world to me, sweetheart. But only if it’s safe for you. But as long as we’re dreaming, if we could go anywhere, I’d say let’s meet in Hawaii. Or maybe Norway. Anywhere we could spend time together would be heaven for me, even McDonald’s.
Miss you always. Love you longer.
Mom
My chest pinches, my heart constricting tight, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to stop the stinging in them from turning into more.
A familiar sort of rage courses through me for just a moment, hatred for the men in my life who put us in this position, followed by a desolate resignation that this is the status quo now. My mom, stuck where she is, kept in place by her past, with no hope for her future. And me, on the run, doing my best to hide from that same past, while never allowing anyone new in because history has proven that isn’t an option for me.
This is as good as it gets for someone with karma like mine. When countless lives are ruined because of you, you can’t expect a life of rainbows and butterflies in return.
I get to find my escape in the open road, a new place to explore, or a new body to find release with. Except there won’t be any of those for me, at least not for the next few weeks.
Well, there is one body that’s been on my mind lately, and speak of the devil… I know curiosity killed the cat, but what’s so great about life anyway if I can’t indulge in what makes it worthwhile when given the chance?
He’s been at the shop most nights, working on that hot rod of his, and my plans for tonight include sneaking a peek to get my daily dose of eye candy and spank bank fodder.
Setting my laptop to the side where it’s safe and I can reply to her later, when I’m in a better mood, I army crawl to the back window and pull the covering up just enough for an eyeball to see through it. The bay doors are open, but I can’t make out any shapes moving around inside. Either Wyatt is still here, working out of sight in his office, or Weston is in the back, beneath the hood of that car he’s obsessed with.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been keeping an eye on him when I can these past few nights. Finding excuses to set up a folding chair outside my door “to get some sun” (even after dark, when there’s only one kind of Vitamin D available) and watch his muscles flex as he toils in the beam of the work lights set up in the garage. Or working outside so I can get a bit of fresh air (mostly motor oil and gas fumes), computer on my lap as I work a hell of a lot slower than usual, distracted by the view, and the occasional flirty lines thrown my way.
Hey, if there’s one thing I’ve learned through my hardships, it’s that you’ve gotta take pleasure where you can find it, in the simplest of things. Like admiring the male form in all its glory when you’re presented with the chance.
With a sigh of acceptance—looks like my plans tonight include nothing but laundry after all—I press play on the podcast and resume my heated exchange with the host who can’t hear me.
“Going through your suggestions on social media, thank you, Vixens, for chipping in with your ideas of better names for real-life villains, here we go. The Flaccid, Tiny Penised Pervert. FTPP. That one’s got a nice ring to it.”
I cheer, like it’s a live audience show, as the suggestions get even more ridiculous. Laughing through her tears, Jynx tries to sober up again before wrapping up the segment. “Stop empowering horrible men, that’s all I’m saying. I hope the FBI is listening.”
Biting the bullet, I drop down to my knees and crawl underneath the bed, pulling out the drawer from the very back of my storage space so I can put my lesser worn clothes back into it. It’s like a sound vacuum down there, like an interactive exhibit I saw at a museum as a child, with my father, back in better times, if you can call it that. Nothing but blackness, not even the sound of my podcast makes it through. It’s freaky being that alone with just my thoughts and demons, and I back out rapidly, jumping back up and rejoining the conversation.
“I bet the FBI is listening,” I murmur in response to the last thing I heard from her to my empty van. “I hope they’re taking notes too. Might be able to save some lives.”
“So what do you say, Vixens? Are we going to put up with more of this?”
“NO!” I shout, unbridled passion in my voice.
The door to my van slides open and I turn around, shrieking in surprise, only to see a very shocked Weston there, staring at my chest, rapt, jaw dropped, chin practically to his collarbone.
That fifty-degree air is mighty chilly on my bare skin, even if the way he’s taking me in will keep me warm for many nights to come. The draft from the open door caresses my skin almost as strongly as his gaze does, the heat in his stare warring with the chill, and my flesh erupts in goosebumps. After a few seconds that feel like hours, I regain my senses about the same instant he does.
“Fuck!” He slams his hands over both eyes, like he didn’t just gawk at my half-naked form long enough to be able to commission an accurate police sketch in perfect detail of every freckle on my upper body.
Let’s put it another way. If my body ever needs to be identified, Weston would probably recognize my tits before my face at the coroner’s office.
“Well don’t just stand there!” I huff, covering my freezing skin with my palms and turning my back on him. “Come in and close the door.”
He huffs out some sort of confused sound, but I hear the heavy footfalls and feel the van rock with the motion before the side door slides and latches closed.
“Are you okay?” he asks, still sounding stunned.
I grab a shirt from one of the piles on the bed at random and yank it on over my head, letting it fall into place, the cut-off edge ending just below the bottoms of my breasts.
“Clearly.”
I shut the podcast off, leaving the van quietly humming with electricity, nothing but the awkward silence and raging hormones in the air now.
Turning around to face him again, I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him, brows raised in self-defense mode. I don’t get a chance to form questions or accusations, because he lets out a sound like a growl before I can speak, shock still all over his face.
“You have your nipple pierced.” There’s no judgment in the statement. Surprise, yes. But mostly, it’s just awe, appreciation, and wonder.
“Did you win some sort of award on observation as a Boy Scout?”
He shakes his head back and forth slowly, tongue dragging over his lower lip as he keeps those heated eyes focused on my face, with some effort. “Naw, darlin’. That’s a skill I’ve been saving just for you. One of many. Should we do some cramming so I can pass the pop quiz later?”
His eyes drag down my face, jaw, and neck with a palpable pressure on my skin, awakening my nerve endings as he goes.
I drop my hands instinctively, putting them on the backs of my hips as he takes in the sight of me in this shirt. How little of me it covers, and what he can still see through it.
“Hottest tits I ever fuckin saw. Hands down.”
“I’ll add it to my award collection,” I deadpan, pointing to a shelf behind me like it’s full of trophies and plaques of my many achievements, not every measly thing I own, stowed for travel.
Weston still stands in the space in front of my door, hand to his jaw, still seemingly mesmerized.
“Did you break in just to drool at me? You’re going to leave a puddle if you keep staring.”
I’m past the point of worrying for my physical safety around this guy. My mental fortifications might need some work around him, he makes me want things that aren’t safe for me, but physically I know I’m in no danger with him.
Call it experience, or a woman’s intuition, maybe it’s my Pisces gifts, or the males I was around in my younger years. Whatever you want to chalk it up to, I can sense when a guy has danger below the surface, and in my few encounters with this man, I can already tell you that he ain’t it.
Could I see him throwing down with an asshole who overstepped some boundaries once or twice? Sure. But he’s not one of these guys with anger issues seething beneath the surface, waiting for someone to take them out on.
So whatever he came here for tonight, it was wholesome enough. I’m not getting creeper vibes from him.
Quite the opposite.
I wish he’d be a little less respectful of me with all that fire in his eyes. I’d like to see how it burns when he sets it free.
That yearning is back, boiling my blood and making my cells sing with something unfamiliar. A desire so strong I can only blame the fact that I missed my chance to hook up in the last few cities I stopped over in. I’m overdue for human contact, the exchange of pleasure, and my body is demanding I pay, with interest.
“I didn’t break in,” he finally answers, forcing his eyes back onto mine. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer, and then I heard you yelling ‘NO!’ and thought maybe you needed help.”
Did I yell that? It’s possible. I have a lot of conversations with myself, or the podcasts I listen to. But right now my memory is failing me, the way his eyes burned for me etched permanently into my brain, the only thing it wants to focus on. But I need him to know I’m just fine without his help.
“For the record, it’s never safe to open a random woman’s door without her permission. Especially mine.”
A small voice in my head wonders why I didn’t lock it. Why I didn’t feel the constant pressure I’m used to putting on myself to protect myself at all hours of the day, no matter how harmless my environment appears. What part of me felt safe here, outside of this garage, in this small town?
“Noted.” He nods once, dark blond hair flopping with the movement. “So you were, just…talking to Van Gogh? I thought that whole talking to your van thing was just a joke.”
“Oh no, it’s very serious. She and I discuss everything.”
His mouth twitches, amusement leaking through his expression, but I have a point to make here.
“I don’t need protecting. You’re lucky I didn’t mace you.”
“Your tits did the trick,” he says, with another dip of his head. “I was frozen in place, my eyes are still burning with that picture. Hell, you could’ve knocked me over with an exhale, I wasn’t going anywhere. All yours to do with what you’d like, darlin’. Shit, you could mace me now if you want, it’d still be worth it.”
I roll my eyes and let out a flutter of a sigh, trying not to smile at how thick he’s laying it on. “Been a while since you’ve seen a pair that weren’t on your phone, huh?”
His dark green eyes twinkle with mischief before he answers me. “Nah, just never seen a pair that gorgeous, that’s all. Forgive my manners, I wasn’t expecting that welcome. I just stopped by because my brother needed me to check something on a part real quick. But now…” His voice trails off, those eyes lingering on my face, drawing me deeper into his every word. “I feel like I have this unfair advantage in that I’ve seen what you’re working with, but you haven’t seen mine.”
I’m not sure if eyes can really bulge, the way they do in cartoons, but I think mine make a concerted effort at it, and I’m surprised to feel my cheeks heat at the implication. My voice is steady, however, when I retaliate.
“Calm down, Boy Scout. No need to whip out your python just so you can call us even. They’re boobs. I’ll be fine living with the knowledge you’ve seen them. I’ve been through worse.”
Weston puts a hand on his chest, and I try not to notice the way the tendons flex in his forearm and hand as he does. “But I don’t think I can live with the disparity of having been gifted that vision from the titty gods and not repaying you in some way. It feels like the universe is out of balance.”
“If you wanna make a contribution to the hidden folder in my Photos app, at least do me the honor of good lighting.”
His mouth tilts up in a filthy smirk, and his lips might as well be pressed against my skin for the ways I can feel that look.
“You want a keepsake, darlin’, say the word and we can get this photo shoot started.”
My hand flies to my chest as a laugh bubbles out of me. “You’re really sure of yourself, aren’t you, Boy Scout?”
“You seem to know what you’re working with.” Those glittering eyes flash down to my chest, barely covered, before he shrugs one shoulder. “I know my strengths too.”
“And here I thought your arms and that pretty face were what you had to offer.”
“Hell, darlin’, you ain’t seen anything yet.” His teeth catch the corner of his lip in another delicious smirk and dammit if my thighs don’t clench in response. The man has such a wholesome way about him, but then those filthy undertones come out, and my head just spins in his presence. It’s an unfair combination, really.
“All right, Boy Scout. Show me what you’re working with. But I gotta warn you, if nothing is pierced, I will be disappointed, and the universe will still be misaligned.”
One palm grabs the hem of his shirt and fists in the material.
My eyes are glued to it, and I know this moment should be comical, this should be ridiculous, it started as a joke and I should be laughing at him, but somehow the air has become so thin in the van that all humor has evaporated with my sense of self preservation.
My curiosity has got the best of me now, or maybe that’s just my libido that’s calling the shots.
Mouth dry, lips parted, I watch a bit too intently as he grips the material of his white tee and begins to pull it up, slowly, like I’m going to tip him if he does it right.
Full disclosure, I don’t think there’s a wrong way this man can do something right now, unless he stops.
In fact, there’s a good chance this preview is going to turn into a full feature film. One where Van Gogh sees things she’s never seen before. Me, on my back on this mattress, legs split like a hung jury, this man in between them, making the van rock harder than NYA when they play a sold out show.
His other hand travels down his abdomen, over his shirt, until the tips of his fingers meet the start of his pants. Weston slips a thumb beneath the waistband and pulls down, away from the shirt that’s slinking up, up, up too slowly for me to possibly see enough.
“Tell me when to stop,” he says in a low voice.
My eyes find his, defiant in my silence, and then crawl down his body as slowly as his did on mine. The way he soaked in my bare skin shamelessly, I pay it forward, doubled. I watch as his left hand brings that shirt higher, revealing inch by inch of tanned, toned skin covering more abs than I can count as my breath whooshes out of me.
Is he for real? Who does he think he is, a fitness influencer? Nobody needs that many abs.
Why does he bother painting when he could sell shots of his muscles and never have to do a day of physical labor again? Better yet, maybe he could offer body shots off of that stomach?
One hand pulls down further on his pants, and a dangerous dusting of soft hair makes my lips part with a gasp of a breath I’m praying he couldn’t hear. I might as well have moaned “fuck me.”
This would be a good time to wipe my mouth in case any drool is getting out, but I’m too distracted. That hand with the shirt finally, finally clears his stomach, showing me his defined pecs—not a piercing in sight, and I’m almost glad. It would’ve been a desecration of his creator’s will to do anything other than worship that chest with my own body.
The muscles beneath the golden skin that force my eyes to follow the hard lines down, down, across his chiseled abs, those indentations at his hips, to the rest of him he’s so clearly willing to show me.
“Are we even?” His voice has dropped dangerously low, to a timbre that makes me shiver as it scrapes across my skin. “I saw your chest, you saw mine. Or would you like to have the upper hand here?”
My eyes are locked on his right hand, the way it’s dragging the waistband further down than I thought he’d go.
“It’s your call, darlin’.” He pulls my eyes back up to his, but my mouth is too dry to speak up.
This is a game of chicken where there are no losers if he just doesn’t stop the show.
I won’t call him on his bluff if he doesn’t call me on mine.
Proving how well he intuits me already, Weston takes the hint, hears the silent plea—maybe he smells the change in my chemical makeup, the way I’m ready for him, all bets are off, fuck my normal rules, I’ll bend them all to appease this growing need that blazes to life inside me every time I’m around him.
With his shirt held high, there’s nothing blocking my view from his entire lower abdomen, as he pulls the pants lower, lower, until I can see the base of much more than I showed him.
The stem of what would surely be the best ride of my life, given the chance.
My stomach drops into my core, thighs tightening, inner muscles clenching at the thickness I see there, the hint of what continues far, far below what I can see, if that girth is any indication of the length.
Is it my time to leave town yet?
Do I even need to wait for my last night?
This pull between us is intoxicating, a heavy presence in the van that makes the air thick as we stare one another down. I’m so desperate to explore it, I can probably talk myself into giving in now, instead of waiting until my van and I are ready to keep moving.
A visceral memory as a keepsake of this adorable town, the kind people in it, and the hottest man I’ve ever seen seems like a worthwhile compromise to my ordinarily stringent rules. Besides, I’ve avoided emotional attachment all this time. It should be no problem to keep my heart out of this equation, just like with all the other one-night stands, even if I am stuck here for another few weeks after the hookup.
Hooking up with him would surely be worth any awkwardness that lingered after the orgasms have faded.
My imagination runs wild with what Weston looks like beneath the remaining clothes, what he looks like hard and ready. How he’d look as he’s entering me, and that’s when my knees start to buckle.
I drop backward onto the bed, not entirely a conscious move, but fuck it. I’m ready to break some of my rules and take it there. Finish what his hands and both our eyes have started.
But the knock at the door might as well be the wet rag tossed over the budding flame. Or maybe an entire bucket of cool water, judging from the look on Weston’s face as he drops his shirt and yanks his pants back up in less than a blink when he hears Wyatt’s voice on the other side.
“Amelia, are you in there?”
The roar of the flame between us turns into a sizzle and douses out completely with a lackluster hiss.