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“How much do you know about my family?” she asks as we claim a high top. She has to stand close and talk loud over the techno-influenced country music blaring through the speakers. It’s a godawful nightmarish sound but the beat’s all right and if it means Melody gets closer, I don’t mind one bit.
“I know the basics,” I say, mouth to her ear. “Rich ranchers. Famous father. What else is there?”
“I mean, right now, what do you know about them right now?”
I frown at her for a second until I understand. “You want to know who’s running the place now that your dad is sick.” She tilts her head sideways and stares at me. “I’m not sure,” I admit and put a hand on her hip. She lets it stay there for one brief second before brushing it away.
Melody turns and stares out at the dance floor. She pulls at a lock of her hair, and I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I can tell she’s conflicted. Whatever’s going on in her mind, she’s wondering about heading home right now, asking herself if it’s worth the effort and pain, and all I need to do is stay here and wait. All I need to do is listen, and smile, and laugh, and flirt if I want, and nudge at the right moment.
Then she’ll tumble. And I’ll have her.
I’ve done this before. Not this exact thing—the jobs I do are never the same—but something like it. These rich folk, they come to me because I’m one of them, because I can speak their language and fit in at their country club parties, and I take advantage of it. I laugh and smile and tell jokes and know all the right people, and when it’s time to roll up my sleeves and do the things nobody else wants to do, I make it happen. I keep my mouth shut. I cash the checks and move on.
That’s been my whole life for years now. One job after the next. Always on the move, never settling down. A woman wants to prove her husband’s cheating but has nowhere else to go. A father needs to pawn his top-tier golf clubs to pay for his daughter’s rehab. A son needs his abusive asshole stepfather’s knees broken. A grandmother needs pills. On and on, their problems are all the same and all different, and they wear on me. They sit in me like rot. I take them on because I need their money, because my clothes and my car and everything about me is a lie, and they know it and I know it, but nobody cares. So long as the work gets done.
And in the rush and tumble of moving from one thing to the next, I never settle down and wonder who the hell War actually is and why I keep doing all this shit.
Melody’s not like them. She’s not one of the country club girls with perfect hair and straight teeth and all the right friends. She’s more like me—keeping her demons at bay with stories. With pretty lies. I have my own method for dealing with my past and my nightmares, my hunger. Melody’s another job, but she’s a good job at least. She’s a pretty job in those jeans, with that anger, with those eyes.
I hate the music, but I like the company.
She turns to me, arms crossed. “How much are they paying you?” she asks.
I almost laugh, but shake my head. “That’s confidential.”
“Don’t bullshit me. I know they’re giving you decent money. How long did it take you to track me down? Weeks, you said?”
“Weeks,” I confirm. “And my rate is competitive.”
She leans closer and jabs a finger in my chest. It’s almost seductive, except there’s a sharpness in her glare. “What’s a guy like you need withmoney?”
I give her a tight smile as a thousand little lies bubble to the surface. I’ve gotten this question in a dozen different forms over the years and my usual story comes quickly. “Who says I care about that? Who says I’m not doing this for fun?”
“Guys like you do coke and crash their expensive cars forfun. They don’t track down random girls.”
“This one does.”
“Come on. You’re in debt, right? You owe some shady people on some deal that fell through?”
“Not remotely.”
“Drugs? Women? Oh, I bet some girl stole everything you got. Did you fall in love with a jaded stripper with a heart of gold? Did you pay for her lung transplant and her new fake tits?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No, but I’m starting to fall for a tipsy horse trainer with a beautiful ass.”
Her cheeks turn red. “Come on. Give me something. Why did you take this job? What are you even doing here, War?”
I grab her finger and slowly move it away, bending her wrist back ever so slightly, just enough to put some pressure on the joint. Her teeth press together, but she doesn’t yelp. That impresses me the most. She takes the pain. “That’s my business,” I say.
I release her and she glares. “You knowmybusiness and now I want to know yours. Remember your little offer? One secret?”
I look away. “Offer’s off the table now.”
“How about this.” She gives me a wicked smile and moves close. “If you can ride the bull for ten seconds, I’ll tell you why I left home and why I don’t want to go back. But if you can’t, I want to know why you need money so badly.”
I press my lips together and look over at the big machine. A drunk girl’s holding on with both hands, squealing and laughing as it rocks back and forth, going really slow, the operator doing his best to make her ass and tits shake. It’s lewd and stupid and borderline gross but folks are laughing and having a good time, and hell, it doesn’t look that hard. Though when the girl is finally launched off and her boyfriend takes his turn, he lasts for barely four seconds before the bull wrenches him away. I get the feeling the bar doesn’t want dudes up there if they can help it.
“Ten seconds,” I say, considering, and decide to see how far I can push her. This may be a job, but at least I can have fun. “I don’t care why you ran away from home. You can keep that secret. If you’re going to get me to debase myself tonight, I want something else.”
