Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROXY
After that drunk asshole died, we decided to drive mostly at night, sleep during the day in rest stops or cheap motels that don't ask questions.
We eat at diners where the waitresses are too tired to remember faces, and move through the world like ghosts, present but not there, visible to a few, but forgettable.
Except we're not forgettable. Not really. We're just good at pretending to be.
A new town appears on the horizon around noon and it’s one of those places that exists only because a highway runs through it.
The kind of town people pass through on their way to somewhere better.
Colorado bleeding into New Mexico, the landscape all red rock and empty sky, and this little cluster of buildings that looks like it's been dying slowly for decades.
This is good.
I casually sit with one hand dangling out of the window as I suck on yet another lollipop, enjoying the cherry flavor that helps keep me still.
Dom's hand rests on my thigh as I drive, his thumb tracing lazy circles through the denim of my cut-off shorts. The touch is casual, but possessive and a constant when I’m driving.
He's always touching me now, whether it’s a hand on my neck, fingers tangled in my hair, or a palm pressed against the small of my back.
Owning me in small ways, over and over, like he needs the physical confirmation that I'm still real and there with him.
I understand the impulse as I do the same thing to him. Sometimes I feel like it was all a dream that I met him, and expect to wake up to being alone again.
"We need gas," I say, nodding toward the gauge.
"And food."
"Yeah."
Bananarama is playing low on the cassette deck, Cruel Summer, and the vibe suits the landscape. Everything out here feels like it's dissolving into dust and heat.
I pull into the gas station, the only one in town from what I can see. The pumps are old, the type where you have to prepay inside, and the building itself looks like it hasn't been updated since the eighties. Faded paint, cracked windows, a flickering neon sign that says OPEN.
Dom gets out first, his eyes scanning the area with that careful attention he always has. Looking for threats, cops, for exits, for anything that doesn't fit. I've watched him do this at every stop for the past week, and it never changes. He's always assessing, always ready for the unexpected.
It should make me nervous, but it makes me feel safe and reassured.
I grab my camera from the passenger seat, the old 35mm I've had since I was sixteen, and follow him inside.
The interior smells like stale, that old smell of deterioration. There's a woman behind the counter, maybe sixty, with bleached hair and tired eyes behind her large glasses. She doesn’t acknowledge us and continues to read what looks like a magazine.
"Pump three," Dom says, pulling cash from his wallet.
He always has cash. I don't know where it comes from and I haven't asked.
Just like he hasn't asked about the deposits that appear in my account every few weeks, the payments from the collectors who buy my work through encrypted channels.
We survive on the margins, both of us, and the specifics don't matter. What matters is that we keep moving.
While Dom pays, I wander to the back of the store, my camera hanging around my neck.
The light coming through the dirty windows is perfect, it’s unforgiving, showcasing the ruin of the building, casting everything into sharp effects.
I raise the camera and shoot the empty shelves, the dust motes floating in the air, the way the fluorescent lights flicker and hum.
Death doesn't always look like bodies. Sometimes it looks like this, places that are dying slowly, fading into nothing, forgotten by humanity.
"You taking pictures of my store?"
I lower the camera and turn. A man has appeared from a back room.
He’s tall, maybe fifty or older with a receding gray hairline, clothes that are covered in what looks like old food and coffee and teeth that have never seen a dentist. He also has those mean eyes that you would see on the TV shows when showing a suspect that was being hunted, the kind of eyes that linger too long, calculating what they can take.
I've seen eyes like that before, many times on the road.
Every town seems to have at least one creepy dude.
"Just the light," I say, keeping my voice neutral.
"That right?" He moves closer, and I can smell him instantly and I want to gag. It’s sweat, alcohol and something sour. "You one of those artsy types? Passing through?"
"I guess so."
"Where you headed?"
"Nowhere in particular."
His gaze drops to my chest, and hovers there. With tits this size it’s hard to hide them, so I accept them. Today I’m in a yellow tank and they look pretty fucking amazing. "Pretty girl like you shouldn't be traveling alone. It can be dangerous out here."
"I'm not alone."
"No?" He glances toward the front of the store, where Dom is still at the counter. "That your boyfriend?"
"Yes."
The word comes out harder than I intended, and his manner switches from chit chat to annoyance.
"He know you're back here talking to me?"
"I'm not talking to you. I'm leaving."
I move to step around him but he blocks my path. He’s not touching me, but close enough that the threat is clear. This isn’t his first time cornering a girl. Perv.
"Don't be rude," he says, his voice dropping lower. "I'm just being friendly."
I’ve learned that every guy that says that, means to be a disgusting pig who can’t accept the word ‘no’.
I’m pissed right now. My pulse kicks up, but I don't let it show.
I don't let him see the impatience or the anger that’s building.
Nor the way my hand is already reaching for the knife in my pocket, the one Dom gave me three days ago and made me promise to carry.
"Move," I say.
"Or what?"
"Or I'll make you."
He laughs, actually laughs, and reaches for my arm, but he doesn't get to reach me in time as Dom's hand closes around his wrist, stopping him mid-reach, and the man's laugh cuts off abruptly.
I didn't even hear Dom approach, didn't see him move, but like he has dropped from the sky, he's there, his grip tight enough that I can see the man's fingers turning white.
"She told you to move," Dom says, his voice flat and gravelly. Oh shit, that look does things to me.
The man tries to pull away, but Dom doesn't let go and continues to hold him there, his eyes locked on the man's face, and I can see the exact second the man realizes he's made a mistake.
"Hey, man, we can all get along fine, I was just…"
"Just what?" Dom's grip tightens. "Just threatening her? Blocking her path? Just being a piece of shit?"
"I wasn't."
"You were."
The woman from the counter appears, her eyes wide. "Carl, what the hell is going on?"
"Call the cops," Carl says, his voice strained. "This guy's assaulting me."
Dom releases him abruptly and Carl stumbles back, cradling his wrist. For a moment I think that's it, that we'll just leave, get back in the van, keep moving. But then Dom speaks again, his voice quiet and deadly.
"You do this often? Corner women in your store? See what you can get away with?"
Carl's face flushes red. "Look, I don't know what you think happened…”
"I don’t have to think, I saw it."
"Saw what? I didn't touch her."
"You were going to."
The certainty in Dom's voice makes me tremble from head to toe. He knows. Knows exactly what Carl is, what he does, what he would have done if Dom hadn't been here, and he's not going to let it go.
"We should leave," I say quietly, touching Dom's arm. He doesn't look at me or take his eyes off Carl.
"Yeah," he says finally. "We should."
But the way he says it, the promise in his voice, makes it clear this isn't over.
We eat at the diner across the street, the only other business that looks open. The waitress is young, maybe nineteen, with dark circles under her eyes and a nervous energy that makes my skin prickle. She seats us in a booth by the window and hands us menus without making eye contact.
"Coffee?" she asks.
"Please," I say.
She nods and scuttles away, and Dom leans back against the vinyl seat, his jaw tight.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Fine."
"Dom."
He looks at me then, and I see it, the irritance simmering just beneath the surface, the need to go back across the street and finish what he started.
"He's done it before," Dom says. "You could see it with the way he talked and acted. He's done it and he'll do it again."
"I agree. It makes me sick how many girls he must have harassed in the past."
"So we can't just leave."
We sit with those thoughts, knowing this now comes down to a choice. We could either get in the van and drive away, pretending this place doesn’t exist. Or we can stay and deal with shit, hoping that the police don’t catch up with us. Why am I even thinking about this? We both know the answer.
"No," I say quietly. "We can't leave yet."
His hand finds mine across the table, fingers lacing through mine, and the touch is grounding in a way I can no longer live without.
"You sure?" he asks.
"Yes."
The waitress returns with coffee and we order without really looking at the menu. Eggs, bacon and pancakes, the kind of food that tastes the same everywhere. She writes it down with shaking hands and I watch her carefully.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
She glances at me, startled. "What?"
"You seem nervous."
"I'm fine." But her eyes dart toward the window, toward the gas station across the street, and I understand.
"Carl give you trouble?" Dom asks, his voice gentle in a way I've never heard before.
The waitress's face goes pale. "Carl? What? I don’t…"
"It's okay, you don't have to tell us," I say. The poor girl looks on the verge of a panic attack. What is it with small towns and assholes?