Page 21 of Dirty
“I wasn’t going to steal your truck, Fix. You took the keys with you, for god’s sake.”
“You look like a girl who knows how to rig a hot wire. Now come on. And play nice. The guys in these rural rest stops usually have about fifteen weapons strapped to their bodies, they’re bored, and they have itchy trigger fingers. One doe-eyed, please-help-me-kind-sir look from you, and they’ll be pumping me full of buckshot.”
I felt a little unsteady as I slid out of the truck, straight into Fix’s arms. His fingers curved around my sides, pressing lightly into my ribs, and I could feel the warmth of his body radiating right through my jacket. “I don’t need help, thank you,” I hissed, trying to wriggle free of his grasp. He shoved me, stepping forward at the same time, so that my back was butted up against the side of the truck and his chest was flush against mine, my body pinned between the vehicle and his solid, strong, muscle-packed form. I gasped, trying to catch my breath. Trying to figure out which was stronger—Felix Marcosa, or the Ford I was leaning up against.
“Are you listening?” he growled, leaning in so that our faces were mere inches apart.
“And why would I care if you’re riddled with buckshot?”
“Because. You don’t hate me. You’re trying to avoid the thought altogether, but you actually quite like me, Sera. And you’re not at all sorry about the guy I left on the ground back there in Liberty Fields. You know you’re not. He was a rapist and likely a murderer, too. He was a violent man, who reveled in the misery and the suffering of others, and I can tell…you’ve seen your fair share of people like him.” He reached up and slowly ran his fingers along the edge of my jaw, along the slightly puckered line of my scar, and a jolt of ice rushed through my veins. I whipped my head to the side, removing myself from his touch, shuddering at the very idea that someone, anyone, had just dared to touch such a secret, hidden, vulnerable part of me with their fingertipsandtheir words.
“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” I snapped, slamming my palms flat against his chest, pushing him firmly enough that he had to take a step back. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me, my past, what I’m thinking or what I like. You’re grasping at straws, trying to convince yourself that I’m safe. That I’m not going to tell anyone what you did. And if that’s what needs to happen in order for you to let me go, then I’m all for it. But please…please don’t try and convincemeof anything. I’m not that simple to figure out, Fix. You’ll never see inside me. You’ll never piece the fractured pieces ofmeback together long enough to make a whole picture, so don’t even try.”
My heart was galloping away from me as I slid around him and made my way across the forecourt. I didn’t look back. Underfoot, the ground was buckled and broken, huge ruptures in the concrete creating a giant spider’s web of cracks. Weeds had shot up from the earth beneath, ankle high, knee high in places, and I couldn’t help thinking it: Amy and I were so similar to those weeds. We’d been born beneath a pile of shit so high that it seemed impossible we’d ever make anything of ourselves, but somehow, between the cracks, we’d managed to push our way through, fighting, and we’d survived. We were still weeds, though. We’d never be anything more.
“Can I help you, miss?” The guy behind the counter, armed to the teeth as Fix predicted, was actually an old woman. Her weapon of choice were a pair of knitting needles. She was probably someone’s grandma, and she smelled of talcum powder and gentle, sickly sweet smell of someone who might just die any moment now. Her cardigan was three sizes too big for her. I could see the balled up wad of tissue stuffed up the her right sleeve a mile away. Why did the elderly always insist on keeping tissue to hand at all times? And why was a pocket or a bag not good enough? Why did it have to be up the sleeve?
“I’m just gonna look around for a second, if that’s okay?” I said softly. My temper was still flying high, but there was no sense in lashing out at the poor old girl behind the counter, knitting what looked like baby clothes. I paced up and down the aisles, eyes scanning over the products stacked on the shelves but not really seeing anything. The strip lighting overhead hummed and spat, the light itself flaring and dimming, flickering epileptically—the first signal in any bad horror movie that things were about to get fucked up. I picked up a can of Pringles, wondering how I’d use the tube of chips as a means of self-defense, and that’s when the door opened and Fix sauntered in, flicking his hair back out of his face like some sort of goddamned demi god. The old woman behind the counter stilled, her needles ceasing their rapid-fire clack, clack, clacking, and she just stared at him like she couldn’t believe her eyes. Truly, I felt sorry for her. Her accent was thick and local. She’d probably never left this shitty, dull, backwater, and she’d almost certainly never seen a man like Fix before. Not in the flesh, at least. The men around here were beer swilling, overweight, and belligerent, no doubt—of the opinion that brushing their hair or their teeth would make them a ‘pansy’ and half a man in the eyes of his guffawing peers. Gross.
Fix, on the other hand, looked like he’d just stepped out of a TV screen and accidentally stumbled inside the gas station while trying to find his way back to the Oscars. “Good…good evening?” the old woman said. She sounded confused, as if she didn’t really know what time of day it was anymore, or if the eveningwasany good.
Fix flashed her a smile that could easily have stopped the old woman’s heart; miraculously, she survived the experience. “I’d like to pay for pump number four, please,” he purred. “And whatever my friend has decided she’d like.”
I slapped the can of Pringles and a bottle of water down on the counter, arching an eyebrow at Fix. “Friend?”
He gave me a rueful smile, then shrugged his right shoulder before wrapping his arm around me. “You’re right. Sorry, Angel.” He gave the old woman a conspiratorial flash of his teeth, his eyes wrinkling ever so slightly at the corners. “She’s my girlfriend. We’re going to a wedding, y’know. I’m meeting the family for the first time.”
“Oh, well don’t you be nervous,” she said, wagging her finger at him. “Manners. That’s all you need to make a good impression. You seem like a charming young man, and you, my dear, seem like a lovely young lady, as well. I’m sure your folks are going to be thrilled to meet your new beau.” She poked her tongue out in a really weird and awkward way, winking at me, and I couldn’t rein in the cringe that bunched my brow. If she saw my expression, she didn’t react to it, though. She accepted Fix’s cash, giggling like a little girl when he changed his mind at the last minute and decided to buy a lollipop. He tore the wrapper right off the candy and shoved it into his mouth there and then at the counter.
Two identical pink dots of embarrassment blossomed high on the old woman’s cheeks, and a fiendish smile tore across Fix’s own face. There appeared to be life in the old girl yet. Fix knew the sight of him sucking on that thing was having an effect on the cashier, and he was delighting in the attention. I mean, I couldn’t deny it—there was something damned distracting about a grown man sucking on a lollipop.Fix’s mouth was sheer perfection. His lips were full, and fuck me if they weren’t perfectly bitable. I’d learned that last night, when I’d fallen into bed with him without a clue who he really was. It was a good thing he didn’t cast me a sideways glance; he undoubtedly would have found identical flushed cheeks on me, too.
Grabbing the bag the old woman had placed my items into, I stormed out of the gas station, kicking myself for reacting. I’d made a host of remarkably stupid decisions in my life, but allowing Felix Marcosa to crawl his way under my skin wasn’t going to be one of them.
Back in the car, I climbed into the front seat of the truck instead of the back. Sitting next to Fix wasn’t high on my list of priorities, but at least I could watch him properly from the passenger seat. And if he tried anything, I had a better chance of seeing it coming.
Fix started the engine, then made a soft humming sound, pushing the lollipop into the side of his cheek. “You’re going to have to stop scowling at some point, Sera.”
“I’ll stop scowling when you get in this truck and drive off without me.”
He laughed, as if this amused him greatly. “Then you’re gonna develop some deep lines on that pretty forehead of yours, Angel.”
He tore out of the parking lot like the cops were already on our tail.
NINE
SIXSMITH
SERA
“This place is a fucking shit hole, girl. What have you been doing all day?”
I tried not to tremble. Sixsmith didn’t like it when we showed fear. He also didn’t like it when we showed any form of confidence, arrogance or defiance, so I trained my face into the blankest expression I could and rose from the chair where I’d been sitting at the scuffed dining table.
The kitchen wasn’t a mess. I’d spent three hours cleaning it, until the counter tops, regardless of the cracked and chipped tiles, were sparkling. The floor didn’t have a mark on it. The trash was empty. There wasn’t a dirty cup, plate, or bowl in sight, and yet I’d known it wouldn’t matter to my father. He always did this—came home steaming drunk in the middle of the night, when Cressida, the bar tender at the dive bar my father frequented every night, finally cut him off and refused to serve him anymore. He’d be pissed that he hadn’t been able to get that final beer he’d whined and pleaded for, and he’d come home and take it out on my sister and me. Tonight, I’d helped Amy with her homework and made sure she’d gone to bed early, though. Someone had to wait up to serve Sixsmith his dinner. That someone would bear the full brunt of his wrath, and it served no purpose for Sixsmith’s anger to fall on Amy’s shoulders, when mine were broad enough to take it, and had done so many times before.
My father stalked around the kitchen, his shoulder-length hair stringy with sweat, his eyes bloodshot and roving; he was searching for something. Something to punish me for. Yanking open the fridge door, he bent over, inspecting the contents inside.
“There’s no beer in here,” he snarled, straightening, then slamming the door closed. “I thought I told you to make sure this thing was fully stocked by the time I got back?” His mouth was twisted into an ugly sneer as he turned to look at me.
