Danger, Sweetheart

  “She took off before I could make sure she was okay. The way she was moving, she was probably okay.”

  “If you’re going to let people smack you, you might at least tend properly to the injury.” He waved the waitress over. “Could I get a clean washcloth and—”

  “Blake—”

  “—a bowl of water? And some ice?”

  “First off, they’re not bringing you bowls of water and cloths. This is not business class on a flight to Tokyo. Second, this happened two days ago. Anything you do now will be window dressing.”

  “And some duct tape for my brother’s mouth,” he finished, then turned to Rake. “If you sit still and take care of this, I’ll schedule the call to Mom for an hour later, so you can get a nap first.”

  “Awwww. You do care!”

  “Shut up.”

  “I feel safer already.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “Such big, strong arms! To go with your big, strong feet!”

  “I hope you get blood poisoning and die.”

  “No, you don’t.” Rake was positively radiating smugness. It was as sickening as it was (slightly, very slightly) amusing.

  “No,” Blake sighed, waiting for the bowl and the ice and the cloth, “I don’t.”

  Five

  Amtrak wasn’t horrible.

  Blake had expected to dislike a twenty-hour train ride through the vanilla-bland Midwest. Instead he had been pleasantly surprised; the countryside was beautiful, the food wasn’t dreadful, and the sleeper cars were equal parts efficient and interesting.

  After a pleasant night, he felt refreshed and ready to solve problems as the train slid into the station. He pulled down a bag for the thirtysomething redhead in the seat opposite his and automatically flirted back when she made appreciative noises. He counted the freckles sprayed across her nose while they chatted, and instantly thought of many more uses for a sleeper car. The slow glide, the gentle rocking back and forth while the cars wound their way through the countryside as he figured out where to touch and when, and how gently or … not gently. He walked with her off the train and bid her farewell, not a little reluctantly.

  Business first, he reminded himself as he found himself in Sweetheart, North Dakota.

  Well, not exactly. Amtrak didn’t go to Sweetheart, but the good people at Enterprise understood and were happy to rent him a sober, sensible vehicle with excellent gas mileage.

  Well, not exactly.

  “I don’t understand.” It was an hour later, and he was in a near-empty parking lot with an unstable stranger. He eyed the thing he was expected to drive with no small amount of trepidation. “This is not a car.”

  “Technically,” the unstable stranger agreed, “that’s correct. It’s a truck. A Supertruck!”

  The thing that wasn’t a car was the largest vehicle he had seen outside of a Greyhound bus. Tall (very tall; he would have to stretch to reach the handle)) and long (very long; he had never seen a truck with a four-door cab before), it was deep blue with a pattern of waves streaking the paint all along the side. On purpose, apparently, and doubtless to give observers the impression that, even parked, the Supertruck was a vehicle to be reckoned with.

  “You promised to rent me a car and I promised not to destroy it.” He dragged his horrified gaze from the Supertruck to look at the woman foisting said Supertruck on him. “Those were the terms of the contract we just signed. This”—he pointed, since she didn’t seem to be getting it—“is not a car.”

  “I thought you might like to take advantage of our free upgrade,” the out-of-college-maybe-a-month agent explained cheerfully, her “Hi, I’m Dara!” name tag twinkling in the early-morning sun. Despite her extreme youth, Blake was seriously considering seducing her solely to get a car upgrade (downgrade?). He ought to be ashamed. He tried not to be so coldhearted about his bedroom trysts. It was something Rake would have done (he’d once seduced the manager of the local fried chicken eatery for free wings, and when Blake pointed out he was whoring himself for chicken Rake just laughed at him). “And look! There’s a little bitty ladder, right here, to help you climb in.”

  Blake eyed the little bitty ladder with trepidation. “The wheels come up almost to my thighs.”

  “I know, right? Isn’t it the best?”

  “No.” He took a slow step back from the vehicle. It would never due to appear as if he was fleeing. He must not show fear! “I’d like a car now, please.”

  “Look, I can’t.” The overly cheerful attitude vanished, and in its place was an overly harassed attitude. “The Great Outdoors Band is in town and this is all I’ve got.”

  “Who? Never mind. Would you like to get a drink somewhere?”

  “It’s nine A.M.”

  “I’m aware of the time,” he replied grimly. “Listen, Dara, it doesn’t have to be drinks; I happen to be—” Stop. Stop, you heinous douche! Were you really about to blurt, I’m a big-city millionaire and not exactly hard on the eyes, please let me make love to you so I can drive a sedan? Wow, stay classy, Blake. He hated when his internal voice sounded like Rake. He forced a cough and tried again. “The thing is, this, ah, vehicle isn’t—”

  “And I didn’t charge you extra for the upgrade.”

  “I would hope not.“Then: “It’s not an upgrade.”

  “You should definitely gas up at least twice before you get there.”

  He gaped at her, impressed yet annoyed that a young woman barely of drinking age (if that) was dominating him so completely. Once more unto the breach. “Listen, forget about drinks. It may be possible you don’t understand what a contract is, so I’m going to take you through ours, step-by-step, until—”

  “Enjoy!” Exit Dara. Cue the agony of defeat.

  He sighed and tugged on the door handle, which was almost nipple high, then put a foot on the ladder and heaved himself inside. The Supertruck swallowed him and he managed to yank the door shut with a grunt. At once he felt like he was on top of the planet, staring down at everything else on earth. Was this how God felt? Did God, in fact, drive a Supertruck? Per the contract, which had been crumpled in his fist during his Dara wrangling, “Supertruck” wasn’t a description; it was what the thing was called. One word. He shuddered; he couldn’t help it.

  Never mind. He and the Supertruck had work to do. He started it, then began to familiarize himself with the instruments. Thanks to trysts with Ava, he’d seen the cockpit of an airplane, and the Supertruck’s was bewilderingly close to that. He leaned across the wide seat and managed—barely—to open the glove compartment and extract the manual. A quick skim, some prudent test-driving, and he would be in Sweetheart in no time. By lunch, at the latest.

  Fear not, Mom! The Supertruck and I are here to help. Now then, I can skip the index, I think, since time may be of the essence.… Chapter One: “Understanding Your Supertruck” …

  * * *

  The countryside was impressive. What little he had heard or read about the Midwest had left him with the impression that it was like a desert with grass and trees and very few people. Except in North Dakota, where there was only grass.

  Patently untrue. Grass, yes, trees, yes, even hills. Farms and small towns and big cities, trains and trucks and commuters and kids. The third time he had to stop for gas, he asked the attendant what the huge building shaped exactly like a carton of milk was. He got an eloquent look (How dumb are you, exactly?) and a reply (“Grain elevator.”) that wasn’t as helpful as the attendant no doubt believed. Still, the thought of a three-story carton of milk stuffed with grain was almost enough to make him chuckle.

  In short, he was pleasantly surprised by not only the abundance of greenery and farms but also the wildlife. He had never seen so much roadkill in his life. Deer, raccoons, skunks, possums, and once even a beaver: all were easy prey to cars and Supertrucks. He had slowed to observe a bald eagle with a six-foot wing span perched atop a dead fawn, enjoying breakfast. I have no idea how to feel about this. It’s my first live bald eagle.
Majestic bird! But it’s devouring a dead baby deer. Revolting bird!

  And in this way

  (someone hit a beaver? beaver, why were you even trying to cross the road? the lake is right behind you!)

  the time whipped by. He was almost sorry to pass the Welcome to Danger, Sweetheart! sign.

  He knew his mother was staying at the UR A Sweetheart! bed-and-breakfast (ugh), and the fact that she had family in town yet wasn’t welcome to stay with any of them would be addressed later, when he was sure he wouldn’t smack anyone.

  Thoughts of vengeance, however juvenile (“You were mean to my mommy”!), were for another time. Meanwhile, thanks to the good people at Google Maps, he found his mother’s temporary home in no time, a three-story rambling white Victorian perched on the east end of town.

  The outside of the B and B was standard, the de rigueur white with black roof and shutters to be expected. He was surprised it was so long—the few Victorians he had seen were tall, not wide. The UR A Sweetheart! (yes, complete with exclamation point) B and B was exceedingly wide, almost fat.

  He also hadn’t expected the sight of people in various somber-colored suits bustling back and forth. Some sort of fancy business-dress family reunion? Was the B and B under audit?

  One young woman in particular caught his gaze—though from this height ants could conceivably catch his gaze—because she wasn’t scurrying like the others. She was lurching like Frankenstein’s monster. It took him a few seconds to understand what he was seeing: she was staggering under a load of manila folders, each bulging with breeze-caught papers fluttering. She had caught her sensible heel on something and was trying not to pitch forward and be doomed to spending the rest of the week catching and refiling at least two reams’ worth of minutiae.

  Anxious to prove chivalry wasn’t just a collective hallucination from centuries back, he lunged for the door and leaped out. Well, not really. He fell out, forgetting he was driving a vehicle that required the use of a ladder to embark and disembark. The fall was so high that if he had planned he would have had time to do a full somersault on the way down. As it was, it was only high enough for him to do an unplanned half somersault.

  He felt the air leave his lungs in an explosive gasp, and everything from his shoulders to his knees went numb. “My coccyx,” he groaned, staring up at the gorgeous midwestern sky. He had the vague suspicion the clouds were laughing at him. They sounded like Rake. A chorus of cumulous Rakes.

  The gorgeous midwestern sky was blotted out by the woman, who had—quite without his help—righted herself and held on to every file. He gazed up at her like a stunned beetle. “My coccyx is numb,” he told the lovely stranger, and would have been appalled, except: ow.

  She snorted, a sound that should have been inelegant but was instead charming. “D’you want me to call a doc?”

  “Please don’t.” He shivered at explaining any of this to a physician. “I’m begging you.”

  “Well, at least let me help you up. You were diving out of your truck to help little old me, right? My hero!” She fluttered her eyelashes, which Blake hadn’t realized until that moment could be done sarcastically. “It’s the thought that counts, or something.” He grunted his agreement and proffered his wrist; she seized it. What followed was tugging and a series of grunts and groans until, after an impressively long time, she surrendered to the inevitable. “Get up, maybe?” she suggested.

  “Can’t. Numb coccyx: still in effect. What did you trip on?”

  “What don’t I trip on?” she said cheerfully. “If it’s on the planet somehow, I’ll trip. And, y’know, these didn’t help.”

  “These?”

  She swept her skirt suit beneath her and squatted beside him, somehow making it look graceful. Her small, close-set pale blue eyes seemed to almost sparkle at him. He knew they weren’t sparkling, not really. It was a phenomenon brought about by how the light caught her vitreous humour* and bounced off the retinas. “It’s my own fault. They seduced me,” she explained, as if what she was saying made sense to him, a stranger. “Wedge shoes are the ultimate in style and comfort, they said.” She pointed down at the offending brown wedges and puffed glossy bangs out of her eyes. “As comfortable as walking shoes, they said.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Them,” she replied darkly. “The devil’s messengers. Soulless creatures, all of ’em. The editorial staff of every single fashion magazine for women. Heads will roll!”

  Lovely and insane, an unfortunate combination.

  From a distance she had been pretty, which, now that they were face-to-face, did not do her justice. Shorter than he by several inches—he was fairly certain; they hadn’t been standing at the same time thus far—with deeply tanned skin and a sturdy, slender body. Her deep brown hair was cut short, curving about her high cheekbones, and her bangs ended just above dark eyebrows. She had a broad, clear forehead and a wide, pretty mouth. Native American, certainly. What else? The eyes, those light eyes …

  She grinned. “Trying to figure the mix?” He glanced away, embarrassed to be caught gaping like a teenager, and she laughed outright. “Irish and German on my dad’s side, and—”

  He tried not to interrupt her, tried to stop himself, but the thought had hit him and come right out of his mouth like he was Rake, or five. “You—” Are lovely. Are intriguing. Are carrying too many folders. “—have high cheekbones.” At some point in the festivities, she had carefully put the folders on the sidewalk. A prudent move.

  “It’s good that you told me that,” she replied, sounding perfectly serious, then shattering the illusion with a snicker. “Hadn’t ever noticed.”

  “I think my brain is also numb.”

  “You really shouldn’t leave the door open like that. You’re basically demanding to be made fun of. It’s entrapment!”

  “Please,” he replied. Please stay here and keep talking to me. Please don’t take two trips when you can barely manage one, because otherwise we’d never have met. Please tell me how a stranger’s smile makes me want to smile, too. Please. “Mock away if you like. My brother is one of the world’s greatest mockers and he’s been torturing me for years. You have no power over me.” Lie.

  What is wrong with me? We’ve only just met. It’s not even sexual—or not entirely. I just like hearing her voice and watching her eyes. Did I hit my head on the way down, too?

  She squatted again to help him, and this time as he grasped her small, cool hand he was able to rise to his feet. “Naw. Too easy. Don’t say, ‘That’s what she said.’”

  He snorted and managed—just—not to rub his coccyx. “What year do you think this is?”

  “Touché.” She bent to scoop the folders back into her arms, blocking him with her coccyx when he moved to help. “Nope. Confidential, sorry.”

  “Oh.” Do not leer at her lovely behind. Do not.

  “I’ve … you know.” She jerked her head toward the rambling white house. “Gotta get back to it.”

  “‘It’? Do you work here?”

  “No, it’s a temporary setup. The Great Outdoors Band is in town, so…”

  He should not, he thought as she trotted off after a parting smile, but he did. He liked how she said things that made no sense, then assumed he understood everything. It should have been annoying. It absolutely was not.

  He watched her until she went around the side of the house

  (a temporary setup, but she eschews the front door?)

  and then went to find his mother. If he’d known what was coming, he never would have left the driveway. If he’d known he’d just had the best part of his month, he never would have left the Supertruck.

  Six

  “Couldn’t help yourself and I blame myself. Took your offer to help and didn’t think about what it meant, what you’d do, and instead of actual help you went Martian and doomed this town!”

  Blake, fluent in four languages (including English), had no idea what his mother had just shouted. He tried to parse the se
ntences; surely the answer was in there somewhere. Couldn’t help yourself … blame myself. Active voice, suggesting current events in which I played a significant part. Think about what it meant: she had anticipated another outcome. Actual help … Martian? Several theories: 1) my mother is an alien, 2) my mother thinks I am an alien, 3) my mother is drunk at eleven A.M., 4) my mother has gone clinically insane, 5) this woman isn’t my mother; she is a hologram programmed by alien scientists to mimic my mother exactly, 6) if not alien scientists, then perhaps programmed by—

  A sharp crack! an inch from his left ear; his mother had crossed the room while he ruminated. The sound sent him rocketing back into his body and (unfortunately) back in his mother’s room.

  “Come back here right now,” she ordered. “No sneaking into your brain when I’m talking to you.”

  Talking? Then, the even more perplexed thought: sneaking?

  “I apologize. You were ranting?”

  “We were discussing your giant cock-up.”

  Blake blinked. My mother said “cock.” Yes, it was part of a hyphenated word, but she could have said “screwup.” Balls-up. Even fuckup. Any of those would have been fine. Perhaps not “balls.” What is happening? “I don’t understand.”

  “Exactly!”

  “You seemed—we only—you were besieged. On the phone, all those talks we had, you sounded…” Broken. Bereft. Lonely. “… overwhelmed.”

  “It was good of you to call,” she replied, calming. “You always called right back, no matter when you got my messages. You’re a good boy, when you’re not killing me with blood pressure spikes brought on by stress.”

  “I—” No. He had no follow-up to that. Best to stay quiet.

  His mother let out a short bark of a laugh. “And yes, overwhelmed, that’s putting it—are you saying I inferred I needed you to rush to my rescue?”