Page 50 of When The Noise Stops

Lila

I woke up around eight. Ronny was buck-ass naked, bent over digging through a suitcase like the morning had wronged her.

It was not what I wanted to see first thing in the morning. "Girl, why? Like, I can see your whole coochie."

She rolled her eyes. "Get dressed," she said. "The black car is on the way. We are doing the flea in style."

I got up. I showered quickly.

The bruise on my arm had gone dull purple. I pulled a long-sleeve over it anyway. Jeans. Gold hoops. Lip gloss. Ronny flat-ironed her thirty-inch bust-down and ended up in black jeans and a long sleeve too. It was mid-fall, so the weather was chilly, even more so in Tallahassee.

Outside, the tents were empty. Bikes gone. There was a note under a rock on the picnic table in Tiny's handwriting. Back later. Don't burn the camp down.

"Good, they're gone. They won't be trying to ruin our fun," she laughed.

The car that pulled up did not belong on a gravel camp road. Black. Shiny. A driver who got out and opened the door.

We sat on leather that still smelled new. She poured herself a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and told the driver the flea market off 65th.

The market was already full of people when we arrived. You could smell the BBQ in the air. I looked over. Somebody selling ribs out of a trailer. Ronny headed for a jewelry stall and started the argument at a price of a herringbone chain. This was Ronny's therapy. She would buy junk like this and never use it or wear it. She was a lawyer, but on her birthday she asked me to cash out her Temu basket.

I watched them going at it, amused.

"That's plated," Ronny said.

"That's gold."

"That's plated and we both know it. Forty."

"Sixty-five."

"Forty-five and you stop looking at me like I stole something."

I left her there and drifted. A man at a record crate stopped me. "Looking for anything special?"

"I need something for a biker friend. Like a real one. Harley. War vet. Grumpy as hell."

"How old?"

"Thirty-eight."

"Classic rock?"

"I don't know what he listens to."

"But he's quiet. Big. Mean-looking. But he's not mean. If that helps."

The man smiled.

"I got something."

He pulled a record from the crate and set it on the portable player.

The guitar crackled through the little speaker. A man's voice came out singing about the road and the years and everything you leave behind.

I listened.

"What is this called?"