Problem Child, page 13
“Hot damn,” I whisper to myself as the men hop out of the vehicles and head inside together. On the hunt now, I follow.
There are several round tables in front of the bar, and most of the men at them are wearing the same gray coveralls. They must work for the wind power company, because unlike the gas workers these guys look nearly pristine. A little dust lingers on their shoes but that’s it.
I head straight for the bar and order a tequila sunrise because it just feels right in this place. The bartender is a thirty-something woman with short bleached hair, dark brown acne-scarred skin, and a flat stare. I watch her for a moment, curious whether she’s like me, seeing the world through cold eyes. But it’s hard to tell these days. Addicts seem nearly as icy as I am, but their ice is slushy and unstable, shifting underfoot.
She mixes my drink and hands it to me without a word. We don’t smile at each other. I order some fried cheese sticks off the bar menu, and then I settle onto a stool to spy.
The table to my left already has a pitcher of beer in the middle of it, and the men are lively and upbeat. That table is an American melting pot. A black man, two white guys, and another fellow who could be Bangladeshi. They’re laughing loudly about something, happy to be done with their workday.
The table to my right is quieter. Two white men wearing coveralls are nursing beer bottles, and a third man sits with them, a tumbler of whiskey in front of him. He was driving the last pickup that pulled in.
His short brown hair is mussed as if he’s stressed-out, and he’s wearing black slacks and a blue polo shirt with a wind turbine logo. He’s the boss, and the two guys with him aren’t thrilled they got stuck sitting there.
At a table on the other side of the room are two truck drivers. I recognize the Hispanic guy who was hauling one of the blades because I’d never forget that shaggy mullet anywhere. We’ve got a whole little wind industry convention here.
I take off my sweater to reveal the tight white T-shirt beneath it and get up to move toward the jukebox. As I pass the quieter table, I gasp. “Oh my God, are y’all with the windmill company?”
One of the men snorts derisively, but the boss smiles. He looks about thirty. Young to be in charge of a bunch of bigger, stronger guys. Dark circles age his eyes, and his teeth look a bit yellow. He’s probably a smoker and maybe an insomniac too.
“Yes, ma’am,” he offers politely. “That’s us. But they’re wind turbines, actually.”
“Turbines! Oh gosh, that’s right. I’m so silly. Turbines. Well, I just think they’re so pretty and pale against the blue sky. Do y’all put them up and everything?”
“We oversee installation when there’s one going up, yes. And we do maintenance and repairs, of course.”
“I saw the trucks outside. Don’t y’all just love your job? This is so exciting!” I bounce a little and watch three pairs of eyes dart toward my breasts. Well, one pair lingers more than darts, but the boss himself is far too polite to gawk. “Well,” I say with a coy smile, “I’ll let you get back to your drinks, but I might have some questions for you later.”
“Ask away,” he says. “I’m Derrick.”
When he holds out a hand, I take it between both of mine and gently squeeze. “That’s so sweet, Derrick. Thanks for being nice to me.” His cheeks flush just the tiniest bit.
I let his fingers slide out of mine, offering the slightest warm pressure as I bite my lip self-consciously and tip my smiling face away from his. As I continue toward the jukebox, there’s a moment of silence behind me, then some muffled snickering. I hear Derrick whisper something short and hard, but the snickers don’t stop.
The boss man isn’t an ideal target, because he may think of himself as setting a good example for his men, but he is my best bet for information. The other guys would be big on boasting and low on return.
As I formulate a way to pump him for information, I realize there’s another prize for the taking here. Derrick undoubtedly has some sort of universal key to the wind turbines, and a shock of hot excitement slices through me at the thought. I can get Derrick alone to question him about Morris Equipment and I can make my windmill dreams come true.
If anyone can give me a tour, it’s the boss man. And good examples aside, he might also be desperate to look like a big boy in front of his blue-collar employees by walking me out of here.
It works to my advantage that Derrick is only mildly good-looking and is a little on the short side. Maybe five-six. He wasn’t such a gentleman that he stood when I came over, so it’s hard to tell his exact height. Regardless, I doubt he gets much attention—or any attention at all—from random women in bars.
I put a slow sway into my ass as I walk, then lean over to look at the jukebox selection.
I don’t really like music, so I’m only making a show of it. Music is a tool used to outwardly express emotion or amplify the feelings we already have, so why would I care about it?
I tip my hips to the right and then to the left, my gaze sliding aimlessly over the rows of choices. But then I see a song I recognize! “Big Red Sun Blues” by Lucinda Williams. I liked to sing that song when it was too damn hot outside. How it managed to get so unbearably humid in this dry scrub prairieland was always a mystery to me.
Complaining about the heat ate up whole months of my life when I lived in Oklahoma. The tornado warnings were a relief whenever they came, because there was usually a cold front behind them.
I’m about to ask one of the men for change when I see an American Express sticker at eye level. Even jukeboxes take credit cards these days. How funny is that? I insert my card and choose my song and a few others. The background music dies down and “Big Red Sun Blues” fires up. Grinning, I sashay my way back to my barstool as the opening bars twang. I add a little wink for Derrick when I pass.
“Why don’t you sit here?” one of the men calls out. I hear a chair scrape on the floor and turn to see Derrick shaking his head, his mouth tight as the spare chair next to him slides farther out from the table. Just as Derrick is forcing his disapproving mouth into a flash of a smile for me, the other guy’s booted foot disappears back under his seat.
“Y’all are so sweet! Are you sure? I don’t want to interrupt or anything . . .” I glance uncertainly back to my stool, but the guy who shoved the chair out is nodding.
“Join us. Never hurts to look at a pretty face. We’ll buy you a drink, won’t we, boss?”
“Sure. Yeah. Of course.” He’s flustered, but he can’t say no to buying me a drink now that it’s been offered.
“Oh my gosh,” I croon. “Y’all are so nice!” I gather up my drink and sweater and plate and two napkins, all in an awkward bunch, and I swing my stuff onto their table, leaning too far over to show off the V-neck of my T-shirt. “Oh my gosh,” I repeat. “This is so fun.” I’m wearing a rose-pink bra that they can see through the material. I hope it makes them imagine the color of my nipples. That’s the whole point.
The point! Get it? Because they’re nipples.
Derrick raises a hand and calls for another round of drinks with too much volume and seriousness, as if he’s unaccustomed to making this kind of request.
“So I guess you’re not from around here?” I ask Derrick.
“No, we’re based south of Oklahoma City, though the blades are shipped up from Houston, of course. How about you?”
“I’m from over in Norman. Out here for my uncle’s funeral.”
“Aw, that’s too bad.”
“Yeah, I think a few drinks are in order. It’s all been a little stressful. Family stuff, you know? I’m just ready to wind down and forget about the whole thing.”
On cue, the drinks are plunked down on our table, and the three men all clink their glasses against mine. I quickly finish my first tequila sunrise and start on the next.
“I really do get so excited when I see those wind turbines!” I say. “Do you boys hear that a lot? I just love them so much.”
They all chuckle. “We don’t exactly have groupies,” Derrick says, but he sits up a little straighter as if his ego is plumping out.
I scoot closer to him. “It’s just so cool, though. And it’s so good for all of us. Those oil guys must hate you, flaunting the future right in front of them!”
More laughter. I slap Derrick’s arm and scold him for laughing at me. One man gets up to excuse himself, and the other quickly shifts his chair around so he can twist and talk to the other table. His boss is distracted now and he can make a slow escape.
“Are you all done working for the day?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, please call me Jane. You bought me a drink, after all. I should be friendly. And I’m finally starting to relax!” I roll my shoulders and sigh, and this time his eyes go to my breasts and linger for a drawn-out moment. It’s cold in here without my sweater, and I’ve got goose bumps in all the right places.
The chase is starting to turn me on, and the alcohol helps too. I let my knee rub against his and squeeze my thighs together to enjoy the lovely friction.
When the third guy returns from the bathroom, he helpfully drops into a chair at the other table. Derrick and I have privacy now. I rest my hand on his thin wrist, my fingertips sliding in slow millimeters. “Tell me everything about what you do. I’m just fascinated, Derrick.”
His shoulders widen as I watch, losing any hint of the burdens he carries, and Derrick starts to talk about himself. As cool as I think wind turbines are, I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying. All I can think about is how good I feel.
I’m in my element, a drink in hand among unsuspecting strangers. I’m working the room, working his ego, and I’m filled with pleasure and tequila. When Derrick laughs at something he said, I laugh along, crinkling my eyes with faux warmth. “You are so funny, Derrick, oh my God.”
“But it was true! He really thought he was going to get my job!”
“Hilarious. That’s such a great story.” I pull my hair up and shake my head. “Gosh, it’s getting warm in here. Are you warm?”
“Not particularly. It could be that tequila you’re drinking.”
“Oh my word, I bet my cheeks are pink as cherries.”
He grins, eyes sliding over my cheeks and then down to my exposed neck. “You’re a little flushed.”
“Oh boy, I have an idea.” I drop my hair and lean in quickly. “A naughty idea,” I whisper loudly, as if I have some sense of discretion but it’s been lubricated loose by the alcohol.
“Whoa, really?” He licks his lips. “What kind of idea?”
My hand slides over his wrist and up the inside of his forearm. “I want to see it.”
“Pardon?” His arm tenses beneath my stroking fingers as he blinks rapidly.
“A windmill. A wind turbine. Please? Will you show me? I want to see one so bad.”
He pulls back a little, eyes darting toward his men. “Oh, I can’t do that.”
“Really? Shoot. I thought you were in charge.”
“I am in charge.”
“Then that solves it. Who’s going to stop you?”
His eyes are nearly frantic now, jumping from the other table to my hand, then back to my mouth. “It’s not allowed.”
Now I lick my lips, wetting them so they’ll glisten in the dim lighting and make him think of so many things he shouldn’t think of. “What’s not allowed?” I purr.
“Unauthorized personnel.”
“Oh, but it’s just me. And it will be our secret. I can’t tell anyone I went somewhere alone with you, can I? What would they think? Picking up a strange man at a bar?” He smiles when I smile. “I couldn’t say a word if I wanted to. Take me to see one? I promise not to tell. Please, Derrick?”
His gaze is moving slower now. Touching on the other table before focusing on my face, my mouth, my desperate eyes. “It’s not allowed. I really shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, but . . . doesn’t that make it feel fun, though?”
“Fuck yes,” he mutters; then his eyes widen. “I’m so sorry. Excuse my language.” I can tell Derrick has been following the rules his whole life. He wants to do what he’s supposed to, and he always has. But what has all that gotten him? He has an education, he landed a good job, and he works hard. And now? Now he’s in charge of a bunch of men who think he’s a pussy. But here I am, making him feel like a man again.
“I’ve had such a bad day,” I sigh. “My uncle . . . It was a lot. It really reminded me of my dad when he . . .” I wave my hand like I’m shooing off the saddest of ghosts. “Ugh. I have to stop thinking about that. I just want to have a little fun, you know?”
“Yeah. I do know.”
I drain the rest of my drink and slump into a pout. “But I get it. I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to do. I’d feel so bad if I got you into trouble after you’ve been so sweet.”
“I . . .” He looks at the other table one more time. Those men. Those assholes. Having a blast over there, relieved they managed to ditch him, when he’s just here to work the same as they are.
I remove my hand from his arm, depriving him of my soft, warm skin. “And you’re right, of course, Derrick. It’s wrong, and I shouldn’t have asked.” I let my gaze wander toward the fun table to let him take in my disappointment along with my hard nipples. I smile briefly as if one of his employees has caught my eye.
Golly, what if one of them takes me up on this little field trip and reaps the rewards because Derrick was too much of a coward to seize the day? Just imagine the mockery that would ensue. More laughter. More disrespect. And more of this dreary life.
Derrick drains the last of his whiskey and sets his glass down hard. “I’m going to excuse myself to the men’s room and then I’ll settle the bill. Meet me outside in five.”
I turn a blinding smile on him. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, Derrick. This is going to be so much fun.”
“Yeah,” he says, reflecting my smile again, but this time his eyes are a little hard. I’ve backed him into a dark corner of his ego, and his adrenaline is pumping now. Let the games begin.
CHAPTER 14
“I’d better turn in,” I say in a too loud voice. “That’s my limit of tequila.”
Both Derrick and I stand, and I say goodbye to him before waving to the other men. I hear a couple of groans as I turn to leave, followed by a whispered “Jesus Christ, Derrick.” They can’t believe he’s letting a desperate drunk lady walk away unmolested.
I wait next to my car and check my messages. Still nothing from Brodie. I’ll drop by his house again tomorrow and knock together a few of his friends’ heads. Or I’ll bring a case of beer. Whichever.
I do find a text from Luke, however. He’s meeting a friend for a drink and then heading to his brother’s house for dinner. That’s the life he wants. Secure and cozy and warm. I hate that. Hate the idea of relaxing into life and waiting for death, like a big dumb cow who doesn’t know about the slaughterhouse waiting just over the hill.
But what do I want? This? Right now I’m exhilarated. Excited. I can’t wait for Derrick to walk out and whisk me away on an adventure. Anything could happen, and I’m ready for it all.
I’m not physically attracted to Derrick, but I want danger. I want power. Should I risk what I have with Luke for this moment? I don’t have a conscience, but I definitely have a good sense of self-preservation.
I don’t know what I’m doing in this relationship with Luke, and uncertainty is not a feeling I’m accustomed to or appreciate. Damn it.
Derrick finally emerges from the lounge. He looks around nervously, and when he spots me, he jerks back a little, surprised I actually waited. After waving me toward him, he makes a ninety-degree turn and heads toward one of the white pickup trucks decked out in “Oversize Load” signs. I stride fast and strong. The sun is still out, but it’s dipping toward the horizon, and I want to see everything before it gets dark.
“Yay!” I say as I hop into the passenger side of his truck.
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t. I swear. You don’t think they saw you?”
“If they did, I don’t think they’ll imagine I’m taking you to see a turbine.”
“No?” I ask cluelessly.
“No.”
He starts the big truck with a rumble, and I turn up the country music that’s already playing. I don’t know this song, and it sounds like filtered shit, but the noise makes me feel like I’m at a party. “Are you excited?” I ask.
Now that we’re alone and pulling away in the truck, his shoulders are relaxing from their brief foray into aggressiveness. “I am. Mind if I smoke?”
I wave an accepting hand, and he lights up a Camel. After his first couple of puffs, I reach out and snag it from him. Then I twist and rest my back against the truck door so I can face him as I take a long drag and watch him drive. He can’t help but glance down toward my spread legs when I rest a knee against the back of my seat.
“I recognize that logo,” I say as he pulls past the crane. “Morris Equipment.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s a local company, right? I think my cousin worked there. Didn’t it close?”
“I think so,” he confirms.
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Just heard they shut down about a month ago.”
“But you’re still using his equipment. Do you know him or something?”
He frowns a little, confused by my interest. “No, I don’t know him. He sold his gear off, I guess. We got this from another company.”
Damn. That’s the end of that. “That’s too bad,” I murmur.
“I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him,” Derrick says. “His brother is the lieutenant governor.”
I sit up a little straighter, bumping my head into the side window. “Who? Roy Morris?”
“Yeah. His brother is rich and politically powerful, so he’ll be just fine even without a lick of common sense. Those guys always land on their feet.”
Well, well, well, this is very intriguing. A powerful man who had contact with my missing niece? I tap the information into my phone and hit SEARCH. This girl is more interesting now. What has she gotten herself into? Is this Morris guy the reason she disappeared?
