When I eventually calm down and the scary guy across from me falls asleep, I take a good look around. Ruby sits beside me, poking through her phone. Outside of the van all I can see are stretches of road and, every few miles or so, a farmhouse far away from the highway. Eventually we pull off of the highway and onto a deserted stretch of road with absolutely nothing visible for miles, save for the small gas station we pull into. The van doors open and the “Angel of Death” smiles at me. Not so much in a welcome way, more mischievous if I had to guess. For a second, I allow myself to consider how attractive I think he is. He’s just a few years older than me, not enough for my attraction to him to be wrong or creepy, but enough that I notice he’s all man. There is not a trace of boy left in him-- not in his body, not in the way he carries his large frame, and definitely not in the way he speaks.
“Anyone who has to piss, come with me,” he says and turns around. I fly out of the van and rush up to him. I haven’t thought of my bladder in hours, but once he mentions possible relief, the need is overwhelming. Ruby and the scary guy climb out of the van and walk behind us.
“Hey, Trigger,” a rough, masculine voice calls from behind us. The dark-haired “Angel of Death” comes to a stop and turns around. I follow his lead and assume by his response that he is called Trigger. What a curious name.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Where are you going with the kid?” the man asks. He’s tall and lanky with shaggy light brown hair and a scar that runs from his left eyebrow down to the tip of his ear. His face is set in a hard line, and annoyance radiates off of him. It takes me a moment to realize when he says “the kid” he means me. He doesn’t look like he can be so much older than me. Jerk.
“Around back,” Trigger smirks, but his buddy sees no humor in his comment. I flush in embarrassment. My father and his men made crude remarks often, but never in the presence of me or my aunt. I’ve haven’t been in a situation like this since high school, when the neighborhood boys had half a mind to hit on me.
“You’re not funny,” the guy says. Ruby scoffs and pushes Trigger then wheels around and shoots a look at the shaggy brunette.
“You,” she says to the man whose name I still don’t know, “fill up the tank.” Then she turns back to Trigger and slaps his arm. “I ought to rip your ear off for that comment, Ryan,” she says. So Trigger’s real name is Ryan. He’s still a mystery, but at least I have one other person’s name. I’m not about to call him a stupid name like Trigger if I can help it. Ruby sidles up to me as we reach the bathroom.
“Ignore them.” She smiles and ushers me in. “You’ll get used to the club, I promise.” I nod, but my curiosity piques.
“Who is that guy?” I ask. Ruby’s brow crinkles.
“Which one? We’re surrounded by a lot of guys, baby,” she says looking around at the men who have formed small groups, talking amongst themselves while they fill up more gas cans than I can count.
“The guy with the light brown hair.”
“That young punk is my kid,” she says and looks around again, her eyes landing on Ryan. She beckons him over. “His name is Ian. And this punk is Ryan, my step-son.” Ryan smiles at her and kisses her cheek.
“Don’t let her tell you nothing,” Ryan says, giving me a half smile. “She lies.” My mouth pops open and Ruby laughs loudly.
“See? A punk,” she says and jerks her thumb at him. “No respect.” I laugh at their easy relationship and shake my head. These people have a real bond. It doesn’t feel forced or manipulative like it sometimes does in the Mancuso household. And, for the first time since all of this began, I feel like maybe I’ll be okay—as long as I get to the bathroom, stat.
I rush into the bathroom, avoiding touching as much as possible. I’m not a germaophobe, but the filth level in here is off the charts. After I’ve emptied my bladder, I wash my hands. There is no soap, but I make do with what I have available to me. I can’t help but look at my face as I slosh the water over my hands. The image looking back at me is one step short of awful.
Normally, I consider myself a pretty enough young woman. I take pride in my appearance and put work into maintaining it. Gloria may be all about pushing the rules as far as she can, but still, both she and my mother always pushed me to look my best. “Men respond to pretty things,” my mother would say. “You want a good husband; you have to show you can be a good wife. And that includes putting your face on every day,” was another of my mother’s sayings. I can’t remember ever seeing her without makeup. Even when she was sick, she had Gloria apply her makeup for her every morning. Even on her deathbed she didn’t want to disappoint my father.