A Hand of Spades

Chapter 2. Lucky Motors

I've been sitting in the car for over an hour, trying to figure out my next move. I keep a pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment for emergencies; this qualifies. I smoke one out the driver's side window while a plan takes form in my mind, watching my grey exhales vanish into the air.

There is one thing I know for certain: I'm not going back inside to ask Hoyt of all people for a lift home.

It had to have been him that slashed my tires, or one of his sleazebag lackeys.

I need new tires. That's going to cost me.

I know Hoyt wants me to become desperate enough to ask him for a favour, but I didn't think he'd cheat at his own game - at least, not again. 

When he and his guys initially approached me about paying for his services, I refused. I didn't understand who it was I really needed protection from. The windows of our trailer were conveniently smashed in a few days later. Blister had nightmares for ages afterwards, so I agreed to pay to keep him from doing something more drastic. He hiked the fee up two years ago, and it became impossible to make enough money working at the diner. Hoyt told me I'd make more working at his club, forcing my hand.

Now it's clear he's tired of playing cat and mouse. Almost all the girls at the club have been stuck beneath him to pay their fees at one point. He likes that part, I think, breaking us down.

Maybe if I give in, it won't be so bad.

I chew nervously on a fingernail, trying to beat back the images my mind is conjuring. Hoyt is in his early forties, with a head of box dyed black hair that has gone sparse near his crown. He often reeks of cigars and an aggressively peppery cologne. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown from either lust or coke use.

Once; I could manage it once. Angie had told all the girls he made quick work of bending her over the desk in his upstairs office. It had been done in minutes. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it's worth it.

No.

If I lay down now, Hoyt will make this a habit. He'll worm his way into our lives further. After he has me push drugs, he'll go for Blister the second that he can, have her dancing at the Stella by eighteen; or worse.

I still have the rest of the day to fix this.

The nearest garage is only a few miles away. I've seen it on my drives to and from work. I wrack my brain trying to think of the name of it, but it doesn't matter. All I need to do is get there, and fast, before my car becomes completely undrivable. I shoot one last glare at Hoyt's unoccupied office window and then I pull away from the Stella, turning out onto the country road.

There isn't much to see in Throckmorton County, and it's obvious the further you get away from the downtown area. You'd half expect a tumbleweed to blow across your path. The landscape is all stretches of ranchland and wild, untamed fields. If you drive seven hours further West, the ground dries out completely and you'll hit New Mexico.

On days like this, it's hard not to dream of picking up Blister and busting out of this County like we're Thelma and Louise. When I was her age, I wanted to move to New York. I thought I'd live like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, but life got in the way. These days, my dreams don't have enough wind to even get us out of Texas. I hardly know what Blister dreams of, so rare and brief are our interactions these days.

When she was little, all she'd wanted was to go to Disneyland. She talked about it endlessly. We'd never had the money, and Mom said it was a scam; a waste of time. If I had to guess what occupied Blister's mind these days I'd lean towards books or Tik Tok or - god forbid - boys.