I left the keys hanging in the lock when I got home and walked straight to the closed-off master bedroom. After wasting two evenings and half a weekend searching for the documents Mr. Amos had asked me to find, I’d rid the room of cans and bottles, bagged up an ass-ton of odds and ends and pointless documents, and pulled the door shut on the rest. The old man had amassed piles of statements, bills, and junk mail mixed with mildewing stacks of Field & Stream, Car and Driver, and the Hustler mags I’d stolen and stuck beneath my mattress until I discovered the Internet and real girls. His closet and dresser were crammed full of clothes that should all be trashed. Ditto the bedding. Shit—and the soiled mattress. No fucking way I was allowing Pearl Frank to lie down on that.
Pissed at myself for putting off this chore, I wished I could set fire to the whole room like I had that damned recliner. But that chair had been worthless, and this room meant freedom to Pearl. I pulled the keys from the door, grabbed a box of heavy-duty trash bags from the garage, and started separating useful from useless.
Four hours later and an ass-ton of black bags stacked at the end of the driveway—where they’d sit until garbage pickup Tuesday—I heard back from Pearl. We’d agreed that she should have dinner with her parents and hope her mom did an about-face, but where parents were concerned, I never held my breath.
Pearl: No change. Thomas seems opposed to her ultimatum, but he won’t contradict it. Boyce - that car doesn’t belong to me. Neither does my phone. I’ve never felt so stupid and na?ve.
Me: You didn’t see this coming. Stop blaming yourself. Do they know you’re leaving? Will they take your car away?
Pearl: I’ll tell them tomorrow. I’ve packed my clothes and plan to ask them to leave my phone on long enough for me to get my own, but if I’m determined to be self-sufficient, I can’t justify taking the car. I can walk the few blocks to class from your place, and I’ll have to find a job nearby. Guess I’ll be doing lots of walking.
Me: We’ll work something out.
Pearl: Are you sure about this? I’ll pay you rent once I have a paycheck.
Me: The hell you will. Like I told you earlier, I would do this for Maxfield or any of my close friends. It’s less than three months and you’re a tiny thing. You won’t bother me none.
With those lying words, I pictured her shampoo and bodywash and razor in my shower, bras and panties hanging over the rod, her in a towel, blow-drying that mass of dark hair in my bathroom… Goddammit. She would bother the hell out of me. Just not how she was thinking.
Pearl: Okay. I’ll come over after class tomorrow. What time do you finish up? I’ll need a ride back to your place after I leave my car at home. At their place, I mean.
Pearl: I didn’t think I’d graduate college and be immediately homeless, haha. ?
Me: You’re not homeless. Just a little transient. ?
Pearl: I don’t know how to thank you.
Me: No need. Just take it and go do your thing.
Pearl: See you tomorrow. Goodnight.
Me: Yep. Nite.
I texted Thompson about using his truck to haul the disgusting mattress to the dump tomorrow and he responded: NP I’ll git er done without asking why. Shouldn’t take more than a week to get a new one in there. In the meantime, Pearl would sleep in my bed, and I’d lie wide-awake on the sofa, struggling not to visualize her sweet little body curled up in my sheets, her soft mouth falling open with an eager sigh when I stroked a hand over her hip to pull her closer, her sleepy eyes blinking slowly as I woke her to a need that I would fill.
I was fucked. I was so, so fucked.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
I was up until two a.m. cleaning the bathroom after battling that goddamned mattress out the front door in the middle of the night. My neighbor, Mrs. Echols, eighty if she was a day, flipped on the floodlight at the corner of her place—blinding me momentarily—and glared out her bedroom window, clutching her robe to her chin. I propped the mattress against the side of the trailer and saluted, and she snatched the curtain closed.
After a quick shower, I fell into bed and slept like the dead until the alarm went off at six. Not the best day to face on four hours of sleep, because I’d forgotten all about my surly probationary employee until she wheeled into the bay where I was testing fluid levels as part of a tune-up. Her father walked up behind her, sizing me up with all the friendliness of a rabid dog. Jesus Christ.
Despite the fact that I felt like I was hungover and wished they’d just turn around and leave, I wiped my hand on a rag and stuck it out. “Mr. Adams? Boyce Wynn.”
He shook as firmly as his kid had last week. “Philip Adams. I understand you’ve offered Samantha a job.”
“Dad,” she growled and he grimaced.
“Sam, I mean.”
I nodded toward the scowling kid in the chair. “We’ve agreed on a one-week trial to see how we get on before I extend an actual job offer.”
“And she’ll be paid for the trial week?”
“Dad.”
I ignored her and nodded once. “Of course.”
He pursed his lips, looking around the shop as if inspecting it for safety hazards—which he probably was. “She’s brought her lunch. When should I be back to pick her up?”
“Oh my God, Dad. I said I’d call you.”
Philip Adams had to be the most even-tempered guy in town. His daughter wasn’t going to find that kind of patience here. I’d park her at the end of the drive in two shakes and call him myself if she mouthed off to me like that.
“Two or so should be fine today, if that’s convenient.” That was when Pearl’s class ended, though at the moment I doubted Sam and I would make it to two.
“I’ll be back at two, Sam.” He patted her rigid shoulder and glanced around once more. “Unless you need me sooner.”
She sighed like she was barely surviving the embarrassment he was causing her, and he nodded once and walked back to his truck, probably used to her shit because he had to be.
When he was gone, I said, “Hope you don’t mean to treat my customers to a helping of that attitude or this job’ll be over right quick.”
Her short, spiky hair looked lethal, but it underscored how small her head was and made her almost appear vulnerable. “What attitude?” Until she opened her mouth.
“Really?”
She stared at the hands fisted in her lap for a long moment. “He doesn’t want me working. He doesn’t think I’m capable of doing anything on my own. Like at all.”
“So he’s protective.”
“Overprotective, you mean.”
“There’re worse things.” When her lips parted—no doubt to argue the point, I held up a hand, thinking about Pearl. “But it’s good to learn to do for yourself. Otherwise they’ll keep doing for you. And you don’t seem to want that.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
She glanced around the shop, her silence dialing her back to vulnerable. “So I’m here,” she said. “What do you have for me to do? I’ve been working on cars since I was ten. I’m real good at diagnostics and replacing fuel lines and—”
“Keep your shorts on. If you’re lucky, I might let you help replace a battery by the end of the week. For now, I need the tools along the back wall organized.”
She gasped as if I’d insulted her ancestry. “Seriously?”
I cocked an eyebrow at her and said nothing, and after a minute or two she harrumphed like she was a Mrs. Echols clone and wheeled to the back wall. Good freaking Christ. Between waiting for Samantha Adams to vamoose and waiting for Pearl to show, six hours felt like a hundred.