Badlands (Hqn) Page 12
She sipped water from the canteen. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious.”
“You’re going to wheelbarrow me down the track like a pile of rocks?”
“You and Cruz.”
“I’m too heavy.”
He studied her slender figure appreciatively. “You’re not heavy at all, and pushing a wheelbarrow is a piece of cake. Easier than carrying you, or even carrying Cruz on my shoulders. I only have to balance the weight.”
She squinted at him, evaluating his sincerity.
“Scout’s honor,” he said.
“You’re not a Scout.”
“Can I be a Scout?” Cruz asked.
“We’ll see,” Penny said, taking a seat in the bin. She gripped the edges, feeling silly. “Try it with just me first.”
Owen guided her along the track without difficulty.
Cruz hopped in with her, sitting on her lap. They stayed in the middle so it wouldn’t tip. “How’s your arm?” she asked, glancing at the bandage.
“It’s all right.”
She held on for the ride, too exhausted to protest. His increased breathing pattern indicated that the task wasn’t as undemanding as he’d claimed. He smelled like sweat and blood. As the sun dipped below the horizon, she grew drowsy.
At least it wasn’t hot anymore. Over the space of an hour, the night air had become mild and pleasant. She sang songs to Cruz to stay awake. If she slumped over, she might fall over the side of the wheelbarrow and take a hard tumble into the gorge.
When they reached the first tunnel, Owen paused. It looked dark and spooky inside. Warning signs were posted at regular intervals along the tracks. This was an unmaintained railway. No safety inspector had declared the route passable, and no rescue crew would come to their aide if it collapsed.
Owen turned on the flashlight and handed it to Cruz. “Hold it steady, okay?”
“Okay.”
They couldn’t go around the tunnel, so this risk was unavoidable. Heart racing with anxiety, she hugged Cruz tighter as they entered the dark passage. It smelled of damp wood and rust and something unpleasant, like cobwebs or rat droppings. Her imagination conjured bats on the ceiling, and spiders the size of mice scuttling along the tracks. She couldn’t see beyond the weak beam of light. Her feet dangled over the edge of the wheelbarrow. About halfway through, she felt a sharp pain in her calf, like a bite.
Gasping, she brought her leg up to inspect it. The discomfort increased as her muscle seized, hard as a rock.
“What’s wrong?” Owen asked.
“Leg cramp,” she said between clenched teeth.
He pushed them through the end of the tunnel quickly. Once they were out, he put down the handles and massaged her calf. She extended her leg, tears squeezing from the corners of her eyes. It hurt more than a regular cramp, and lasted longer. Cruz hugged her tight, worried. Finally the spasm eased.
“Drink some water,” Owen said.
She lifted the canteen to her lips and drank, letting the cool water ease her parched throat. Fearing they’d run out, she’d been taking small sips all day. Saving water for Cruz. In retrospect, that hadn’t been smart. Muscle cramps were a sign of heatstroke, along with light-headedness and nausea.
If she started vomiting, she’d only get more dehydrated.
Owen picked up the pace after that. He seemed to want to get as far down the tracks as possible before they stopped to rest. She didn’t blame him for preferring to travel under a blanket of night. She wished she could contribute, but she couldn’t even stay alert. Her limbs were heavy like sand, her eyes grainy from lack of sleep.
The railway gorge was surreal in the moonlight. Although the tracks were smooth and flat, they crossed through tunnels and skirted steep cliffs. Falling off the edge would mean certain death. Between canyons, there were wooden bridgelike structures Owen called trestles. There were no safety rails, just a braided steel cord.
He paused when they came to a section of abandoned railcars. They loomed in the dark next to the tracks, too huge to be moved. Penny had seen rusted cars and junkyards before, but not on this scale. It was almost beyond comprehension, like the Salton Sea. This barren wasteland killed everything it touched. Even the most immense, powerful structures were useless here, reduced to nothing.
Owen pushed the wheelbarrow off the tracks and hid it behind the railcar before they ventured inside. He checked the interior for signs of life, directing the flashlight beneath the rows of seats. There was an open area in the back of the car, where someone had collected a pile of torn seat cushions.
Deeming it safe, Owen led Penny to the cushions. He gripped her elbow, as if afraid she’d pass out on the way there. She could barely walk. When he lowered her to the cushions, she moaned with relief.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“For what?”
She was too tired to answer.
“I’m going to check the other cars for supplies,” he said.
“Can I come with you?” Cruz asked.
Owen looked to Penny for permission.
“Okay,” she said, closing her eyes. She was overly protective of Cruz, rarely leaving him alone or letting him out of her sight. He didn’t go anywhere without her, but she trusted Owen with their lives.
Before they’d left the car, she was asleep.
* * *
JANELLE PARKED NEAR the club’s front entrance, hoping the manager wouldn’t notice.
She wasn’t supposed to take the best parking spots, but she preferred to stay close. She didn’t like walking past drunken creeps in the wee hours of the night. Now she feared an intruder would climb through her broken window and wait for her.
She needed another job. Badly.
Before she’d transferred from Indio Community College to a “real” university in San Bernadino, she’d held down two jobs. She’d worked afternoons as a massage therapist—no happy endings—at a fancy resort. But the extra commute and more demanding classes had meant she had to quit the weekday gig. She couldn’t do both, and she earned twice the money in half the time dancing.
The business wasn’t as lucrative as it used to be, either. The best clubs in L.A. paid really well, but many of their girls were professional dancers or aspiring actresses, young and fresh and beautiful. In Coachella, a sprawling industrial city near Palm Springs, the women were like Janelle. Single moms and washed-up tramps, making their way the only way they knew how. Since the recession hit, she was lucky to pocket a few hundred dollars a night. Less on Sunday, but she was required to cover some slow shifts.
Grabbing her bag, she locked up her car even though the plastic-covered window wouldn’t deter theft. Her bag was heavy, full of makeup and outfits. She hurried across the hot parking lot and into the dark recesses of the club. Vixen was a tacky place with flashing strobe lights and red neon, faux leather and mirrored walls. The familiar stench of booze, cigarettes and male sweat hit her nostrils even as a blast of cool air ruffled her hair.
She nodded at the bartender and headed to the back, where the girls got ready. They kept the side entrance locked now. Last year, Tiffany’s estranged husband had walked in with a gun. He’d held her hostage for several hours, claiming he was going to kill himself if she didn’t come back home. The police had finally talked him down with a sandwich and a six-pack. He’d had an axe, a shovel and a map of the badlands in the back of his truck, belying his claim that he meant to commit suicide. He’d be in prison for a while.
Vixen wasn’t an upscale establishment, but neither was it a sleazy dive. They served alcohol, so the girls went topless only. The customers couldn’t touch, not even in the VIP room. These rules were strictly enforced by the bouncer and owner, Chuck Finch. He was a Hells Angels type of guy with a gray ponytail and a thick mustache. He’d married one of his dancers twenty years ago, and he treated the others well.
His brother, Kevin, wasn’t as nice. He managed the club and often took in girls who gave him sexual favors.
Janelle couldn’t do anything about that, so she ignored it. She didn’t have to suck Kevin’s dick or anyone else’s. They kept her on because she was a good performer and the customers liked her.
She’d agreed to cover two shifts today, early and late. On slow afternoons, she served more drinks than lap dances. The girls could either work as independent contractors or earn an hourly wage plus tips. Janelle had chosen the second, which meant she had to move her ass even when she wasn’t on stage. During the hectic evening shifts, she didn’t waitress because Kevin wanted her to be available for VIPs.
Tossing her bag down at an empty makeup station, she said hello to the other girls, Tiffany and Ginger.
“You look like I feel,” Tiffany said.
Janelle grimaced at her own reflection. “You must feel like shit.”
“I’ll do your hair after I finish mine,” she offered.
“Thanks. I’m running late.”
Instead of rushing to get ready, she fidgeted with her cell phone, sending Owen a text message. Maybe he could call Shane and find out what was going on. She wanted to see if he’d talk to Jamie, too.
Owen had been the positive male role model in her son’s life. Sometimes it broke her heart to see them together. He bore such a strong resemblance to Shane. They were nothing alike on the inside, praise Jesus. Owen might not be able to give Jamie any advice about sex. He was so shy and reserved, she’d wondered if he was a virgin.
Last summer, Tiffany had stopped by while Owen was throwing the football to Jamie. “Who is that?” she’d asked.
“Jamie’s uncle.”
“Hook me up with him.”
Owen had seemed interested—all men liked Tiffany—so Janelle had made the arrangements. Tiffany had been through a lot, and she deserved a nice guy. Janelle hoped they’d hit it off, but they’d only gone on one date. When Janelle asked how it had gone, Tiffany had claimed she didn’t kiss and tell, which was a lie. Tiffany usually dished all the details. For some reason, she stayed mum about Owen.
If he wasn’t Jamie’s uncle, Janelle might have tried to flirt with him herself. He was boy-next-door handsome, tall and lean and hard-muscled. She didn’t care about hurting Shane, but Jamie loved Owen, and her son needed a decent man in his life. Janelle wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize their relationship.
After she donned her waitress outfit, black satin shorts and a pink spandex top, she slathered on makeup. Tiffany teased her hair into a fluffy mane. For the next few hours, she alternated between serving drinks and dancing.
It was a busy night, so she left the floor early. During a solo number, she noticed a man sitting alone at a corner table. He wasn’t in the mandatory tip area by the stage, where she normally focused her attention. She didn’t cater to outliers, who wanted to look without tipping. Even her awareness of the front row was muted by the invisible wall she put up. They saw her as an object. She saw them the same way. Not as individuals with unique traits, but as wallet holders with bills of different denominations.
This man was watching her. His broad shoulders hunched forward as his eyes followed her across the stage. Something about him made her stomach coil with tension. He reminded her of Shane, in size and physical presence, if not looks.
She tried to pretend he wasn’t there. Just another face in the crowd.
After her set was finished, she hurried backstage to cover up. “Table five wants a VIP,” Kevin said, jerking his thumb at her.
For some reason, Janelle hesitated. She could refuse to perform this service, but she rarely exercised that right. Private dances were part of the job. The only time she ever said no was when the guy was sick or unwilling, being dragged to the VIP area by his buddies. The guy at table five had just arrived. He appeared stone-cold sober.
“He asked for you,” Kevin said.
She nodded, letting out a slow breath. There was no point in getting fully dressed, but she put on a bra top and vinyl skirt over her sparkly G-string. The customers always wanted to see her take something off. Heart pounding with trepidation, she strode to table five. In the early days, she might have downed a shot of tequila first. Alcohol numbed her senses, but falling off stage was a real hazard in high heels, and no one tipped a sloppy dancer. As she’d gotten used to stripping for strangers, she’d learned to disassociate from her body.
The man at table five watched her approach, smiling a little. He had coal-black hair and cold blue eyes.
“Hey, there, big guy,” she said, fluttering her lashes. It was her typical greeting, and fitting in his case. In addition to being large, he was attractive and well-built. His T-shirt stretched across a powerful chest. “You ready for a dance?”
“How much is it?”
“Twenty a song.”
“I’ll pay ten.”
A haggler. This kind of behavior raised red flags. It indicated he wanted to test her limits, to get more bang for his buck. “Twenty’s the bare minimum, sugar.”
“Will you make it worth my while?”
“I’ll give you a good dance.”
“Nude?”
She shook her head, letting her earrings jangle. Even topless dancing was prohibited in private rooms at clubs that served alcohol. That rule wasn’t enforced, however, and all of the girls knew the customers tipped better if they saw the naughty bits.
He seemed disappointed that she had standards. Perhaps he preferred his women cheap and desperate.
“Should I come back later?” she asked.
“No,” he said, rising. “I can’t stay long.”
She slipped her arm into his, noting his height and strength as she escorted him to the VIP room. He paid Chuck, who stood by the beaded entrance, and they slipped inside. “Have a seat anywhere you like.”
He chose a black armchair in the back booth. They were all alone. The room had a security camera, and Chuck checked in routinely, but Janelle didn’t feel safe here. She never would. Ten years in this business had taught her how fast a man could go from respectful to insulting, placid to angry, gentle to violent.
“Hands on the armrests,” she said, noting that he had tattooed knuckles and a spider’s web on his elbow.
He’d probably done time.
She wasn’t surprised or put off by that. The strip club was a place for outcasts. Maybe she’d picked up on his prison vibes and overreacted because of Shane. She was still a little hungover, her nerves on edge.
Trying to relax, she waited for the next song to start. He looked at least thirty, with a coarse complexion and scarred motorcycle boots. Maybe he was a trucker, or an oil rig worker. His clothes were clean. He was intimidating but not repugnant.
When the music started she sort of...floated up, and away. It was almost as if she was watching the scene from a distance. She became someone else. Her dancer-persona shimmied between his splayed legs and turned, brushing her bottom over his lap. She bent over and wiggled suggestively, aware that her sparkly thong barely covered her sex. Then she straightened, facing him again. Lifting her high-heeled foot to the top of the chair, near his shoulder, she unzipped her micro-mini and let it fall away. She pushed her breasts together and gyrated slowly, moving her hips to the beat. The flare of interest in his eyes, along with the bulge in his pants, told her he liked what he saw.
Almost done.
During the last twenty seconds, she dropped to her knees and simulated oral sex. Sometimes the sight of male arousal excited her. Dancer-girl’s cheeks flushed with heat. Her hair spread over his thighs, dragging across his fly. She pulled her bra down a little, revealing her breasts to the nipples. His hands clenched on the armrests.
Then the song was over.
Janelle rose, adjusting her top. She returned to her body in a flash, all business. After giving them both a moment to recover, she glanced at him. He seemed impressed and annoyed, as if he hadn’t expected to enjoy her performance enough to get frustrated by it.
And there was the rub of a good lap dance, no pun intended.
“Only if you blow me for real.”
She didn’t bother to say no. He was already on his feet, wincing as he dug into his pocket for a tip. Instead of handing the bill to her, he held it up jauntily. She knew this trick. If she reached for it, he’d pull away.
“Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
He caressed her face with the edge of the bill, touching her the only way he could. When she closed her hand around the money, he let go. “Maybe I’ll come back.”
She watched him walk away, hoping he wouldn’t return. If she wanted a scary, unsettling ex-con sniffing around her, she’d call Shane. The back of his shirt said Ace Demolition. As soon as he was gone, she glanced down at bill her in hand.
Five dollars.
Her pride came cheap these days.
CHAPTER TWELVE
OWEN DIDN’T FIND ANYTHING useful in the other railcars.
There were signs that other people had been inside. They’d left behind trash and graffiti, but no food or clothing. He headed back to the main car with Cruz, studying the deserted structures and silent tracks in the distance. Moonlight illuminated the area, pouring through the large windows of the train. It was a defendable space. He could guard the entrance while Penny and Cruz slept.
Owen decided to remove a few more cushions for them to rest on. He took out his knife and sliced one of the seat covers away, exposing the soft padding underneath.
“Can I help?” Cruz asked.
Owen had two knives now, Roach’s combat weapon and the pocketknife Penny had stolen from camp. He gave Cruz the pocketknife, showing him its features. It had a dull blade and a couple of other tools.
Cruz held it in his little fist and made a stabbing motion, puncturing the seat.
“Not like that,” Owen said, stilling his hand. “This blade doesn’t lock, so it can fold up and cut your fingers.” He showed Cruz how to hold the knife safely and to cut away from his body. With Owen’s guidance, Cruz separated a seat cover from the cushion, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then he did one on his own while Owen supervised.