Page 35 of My UnTrue Love
Bill never could stand a bully, though, especially when they took aim at a woman. It reminded him of his pa. That was why he’d also developed the quiet and indirect habit of compiling reams of documentation on the crew’s many assorted fuck ups. Bill was real talented with gathering information. It was no trouble a’tall to assemble their safety violations, drunken antics, fights, abuse, environmental damages, and embezzlement into a spreadsheet with cross-referenced photos and lists of witnesses.
It was the least he could do to support women.
“That there is the prettiest pair of tits in the whole wide world.” Stew continued loudly. “I ain’t lyin.’”
He was lying. Bill knew for a fact this woman’s breastsweren’tthe prettiest in the world. That pair belonged to his own woman, who was unpacking back at home. He’d been mentally gloating about his new roommate all morning.
Clementine lived with him!
Coyotes did a lot of plotting. When they plotted hard enough, they tended to come out on top, because they were crafty sons of bitches. But every once in a while, a plot was such a runaway success that even a crafty son of a bitch like Bill was impressed by his own craftiness.
Clementinelivedwith him.
Bill had been scheming towards that goal for months. He’d even made sure his apartment was big enough to share. He hadn’t expected to get her out of Johnny’s place and into his own this fast, though. Clementine had fallen right into his grasp, like a ripe peach from a tree. Like she somehow thought the whole thing was her own idea.
Clementinelived withhim.
He’d laid the railroad track along the desolate side of the mountain, barely feeling the scorching heat, while his mind was fully occupied with his accomplishment. Now that work was wrapping up, he already had the rest of his day planned. He was going to go home, and shower, and the bathroom was going to smell like whatever blueberry-flapjack scented soap she used, and he was going to rub it all over his aching body, and think about Clem.
That was literally all he wanted to do for at least an hour. Maybe two.
“I always had a yen for blondes.” Wolly Doodle was an anthropomorphized grasshopper who spent most of his time sitting around, picking his teeth with carpet tacks. For some reason, that had qualified him to be promoted to foreman of the crew. “All five of my wives were blondes.”
“Me? I love a girl a fella can grab onto in bed.” Malcolm, his even more useless brother, gave a crude gesture with two of his four hands, illustrating his point.
The others laughed in appreciation for his wit.
It occurred to Bill --not for the first time-- that imbeciles shouldn’t be in charge of mass transportation systems. If his spreadsheet meticulously documenting their imbecilic, often illegal behavior somehow got mass-emailed to the women of the railroad…? And if the women then had the ammunition to get the imbeciles fired…? Well, it was nothing but Bill’s civic duty.
“Hey!” A male voice bellowed from farther down the line, near the dynamite storage shack. “Somebody’s tied a satyr to the railroad tracks!”
Oh yeah. Bill had half-forgotten about Dusty. The Kitchen’s loudmouth employee couldn’t treat women with respect, either. It was pert near an epidemic in Red River Valley.
“Is the satyr alive?” Someone else shouted.
“Hard to tell under all the fire ants.”
Billtsked. Desert fire ants were hellacious beasts. Sometimes they even went rabid. (Bill paid close attention to rabid things. It was a bit of a hobby.) Poor ol’ Dusty. That satyr was probablyrealsorry he’d upset Clem with his wolf-whistles and unwanted advances, right about now.
If only Bill could deal with Johnny so easily.
Sadly, Clem still had a bit of fondness for John, so notrulycatastrophic misfortune could befall him. Yet. Bill was a patient soul. He’d bide his time stirring up some less flesh-eating hardships for Johnny and just wait for that fella to sink himself.
Since the shower was still a ways off, Bill stuck his head under the stream of the portable pump, scrubbing the dirt off his neck. The water was ice cold, which gave him something to focus on besides sexist idiots.
Bill wished he had a better job, but he didn’t, so he did this one the best he could. More and more, he thought how nice it would be to just create music all day. Strum his guitar and listen to those notes in his head. Maybe even make some songs out of them.
That was impractical fancy, though. He had to hold down steady employment. Bill wasn’t working on the railroad to just pass the time away. He did it because the pay was good. Making sure that his stolen-mate stayed stolen was Bill’s one and only drive. He planned to show Clementine that he could be reliable and take care of her.
“Bill!”
His head snapped up, water droplets arching out from his wet hair. He whipped around, his eyes falling on Clem. She was headed his way, looking like a shimmering mirage in the barren landscape.
She wore a long gingham skirt, big hoop earrings, and a girly pink camisole. The shirt clung to her bouncing curves in ways that proved the existence of God. The strap of her oversized bag was looped around her body, crossing straight between her breasts like a ribbon on a birthday gift.
Well, shit.
Bill licked a drop of water from his top lip, his eyes transfixed. Stew thought too small.Everythingabout that girl was the prettiest thing in the whole wide world. Every single bit of her.
