A Complete Short Story

1

“Not sure if you can tell,” Suzanne Price said, “but I’m literally…I’m literally shaking right now.” She locked eyes with the elevated, red-cased phone beyond the steering wheel, and tucked some brown hair behind her ear.

It calmed her.

Or at least that’s what she wanted her audience to believe.

“So, I was in the parking lot, and I’m not even joking,” she tugged on the front of her purple V-neck work shirt, then stared at the dashboard. “I’m sorry, I, uh, I…let me show you.” She took the phone from the dash mount and aimed the lens at the back window. “You see it?” she asked, mimicking her mother’s southern drawl and focusing on the bright blue neon sign over the glass door entrance. The top half was cut off, obscured by the hatchback window. She opened the door, then held the phone outside to get a better shot. “The Side/Street Mart, or as I call it, The Side/Street Shithole, can be found on the corroded corner of Fountain Street and Washington Blvd. here in disgusting, downtown—”

She stopped herself from revealing the town, but made up for it by glancing at the passenger window as if something had pulled her focus. She re-fastened the phone to the dash mount, then scoured her surroundings. “Please tell me, you guys, heard that.”

That last part, like most of her rant, wasn’t true.

Her hotel, the luxurious Courtyard Bertling, was six blocks west. Too far to walk at night. Most of her clients rarely dropped that kind of cash. To be honest, most of them barely had savings or even an emergency fund. Damien was different. He wasn’t just going places; he’d already seen most of them. Lucky for her, he desired her company. She was eye candy. Not just for him, but the company. Unlucky for her, she was low-key falling in love, which was, understandably, against the rules.

Suzanne scoured the alley beyond the windshield, displaying her best guise of terror. She contemplated restarting the video. That last bit sounded and felt weird in hindsight.

“Sorry, y’all,” she forced a smile. “I’m a little outta sorts, just give me a moment here.”

She could edit this out, if necessary, and the other brain farts. Professionally edited videos trimmed with perfect lighting and no mistakes were still the norm, widely accepted by most content creators. Then again, an uninterrupted clip always felt more satisfying.

Today’s audience was different. They didn’t like scripts or staged bits. Nothing overtly religious, or sales-pitchy. They wanted raw footage, visceral moments, bite-sized wisdom, organic blips that resonated like a well-crafted joke. None of that classic ‘lost dog comes home’ or ‘boy meets girl, meet-cute’ nonsense. They wanted to see a blue-haired feminist explode at a town hall. They wanted the red-pill boys to scream ‘Christ is King’ at a panel of misguided, spiritually-broken whores. They wanted the religious freak out over a pride parade, or a politically incorrect 80s film clip followed by a reaction, or a clown-faced harlot twerk by the bench press and cry foul as she’s being kicked out.

Suzanne closed her eyes, took two long, dramatic breaths, peeked at her image through the foggy cracks in her eyelashes, then opened her eyes. Nineteen seconds had passed.

“Sorry, I don’t even know,” she clasped her hands in her lap, “it all happened so fast and so…I don’t know…where to start.”

That part was true. She was out of her element and trying to find her way back.

She was forty-one, but felt like she was in high school trying to recall lines for a play she’d spent weeks rehearsing only to forget them when she saw her crush, Curtis Faulkner, in the fourth row. “I know the place looks cute in that vintage, ghetto kind of way, but trust me, it’s run by a creep, a fucking animal who, who—sorry, I’m ranting—so there I was, standing in the parking lot, alone…with my two-year-old son, when this man came up behind me and—” she covered her face. “I’m sorry, I’m so anxious right now and—”

She dropped her hands, then exhaled hard. “As I was saying, this man, or douchebag if I’m being super honest, followed me outside into the parking lot. I didn’t see him, but could feel his eyes, you know, on me. I’d stop, then he’d stop. I’d start walking, then he’d start walking. But when I got to my car, he just kept going, getting closer and closer to me and my child, and, and, and at that moment, I started having, you know, flashbacks from all those late-night true crime shows. Anyways, he stopped about fifteen feet away, then said ‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ And, and, I just lost it. I was like ‘No, no, no, you do NOT come any closer! Do NOT approach me!’” Suzanne checked the sidewalk, then dropped the punchline. “It was the store’s owner. The owner!”

She palmed her chest and leaned into the fake accent.

“And like, it shifted,” she added, letting a genuine grin slip. “It really shifted the dynamic, and, of course, he got offended and was like ‘fuck you, lady! Fuck you!’ It was pathetic, terrifying, but also really empowering, you know? Oh, and,” she whispered, leaning in, “he did all of this in front of my kid who—Thank you God—has finally settled down.” She checked the rearview mirror and scrunched her lips at the empty backseat. She debated throwing out a random boy’s name to sell the story, but decided against it. “What’s that?” She asked, then nodded. “Of course, baby, go to sleep. The bad man’s gone, you’re safe now. Mommy’s here.”

That felt weird. Calling herself ‘mommy’ felt worse than saying, ‘ya’ll.’

She checked the red timer, then threw up a finger. “Question for the ladies. If a man finds you attractive, does that, by some predatory-man-code, give him the right to approach? Tell me in the comments.” She waved her hand away, then continued. “Anyways, I snapped, literally yelled ‘get out of my face or else I’m-a call the police.’ Like that’s what I literally said.”

She was saying ‘literally’ too much. She realized that midway through the ‘out of my face’ line, but let it slide. This was just a test-run anyway. If it didn’t launch, she’d delete it.

“And then, he called me an ugly whore and lunged at me.” She paused, then nodded, “Yep, the fucker lunged, like legit lunged at me.” She brushed hair out of her face, then pointed. “Here’s my point. Men, never approach a woman in a parking lot. And if they do, ladies, rattle the fuck out of him. I mean it. Scare him. Seriously. Give ‘em the most guttural yell you’ve got. And don’t be polite, really dig in. Men, at the core, are predators. And that’s a fact!” She looked at the rearview mirror, then counted to two. “Seriously, ladies. Make men fear you, make them uncomfortable. Keeps everyone safe. It’s a crazy world, ladies, do whatever you need to feel safe.”

Suzanne ended the video, then added a filter that heightened her cheekbones, softened the age spots, and darkened her neck fat. She studied the final screenshot and considered watching it as her thumb floated over the Publish button.

If she watched it, she’d critique it, become super self-conscious, and scrap the idea.

Publishing content without a re-watch tended to yield the best results for her anyway.   

She finalized the video, wrote a kitschy caption, and overwhelmed it with popular hashtags. #womansworld, #toxicmasculinity, and her favorite; #futureisfemale. She sat in silence, then took a coconut malt beverage from the sack in the passenger seat. She twisted off the cap, made a wish to the darkening pink sky, and published the video. After a long swig, she leaned into the headrest.

The phone dinged, citing a successful upload.

The streetlamps along Fountain Street flickered, then sprung to life.

Suzanne downed most of her drink in the second swig and tipped her forehead to the slowly ascending moon. She set the bottle in the cup holder and went to start the engine.

Click.

2

Eric Milton chucked his empty energy drink into the wastebasket, then habitually checked the mirrors along the back of the store. He started with the beer fridge and ended with the sodas. The clock over the restrooms read 7:42 pm. He did another quick scan of the floor, then started his 8 pm register check.

He started with the bills under the tray, and the two personal checks totaling $139.60. One penned by the very sweet (and antique) Rose Abernathy. Half pantry items, half cat food, soft and dry. The other check was signed Wendell Green. Honey whiskey, theater candy, vodka, and lottery tickets.

A decade earlier, Eric had, like most corner markets, stopped accepting checks. Everything had gone digital, so he figured he should adapt. Yet, the elderly folk who frequented his shop had trouble adapting with him. Debit, credit, touch-pay, all those tech advances didn’t jive with little old Rose. She tried to grasp it, but in the end, it felt like gibberish.

He calculated the total in his mind, then replaced the tray. He mumbled it under his breath over and over until he found a pen and a tiny yellow notepad. He tallied up the twenties, multiplied them accordingly, and added it to the sum. He was halfway into the tens when his phone buzzed. It was his wife, Allegra, sick with the flu, reminding him to bring home chicken broth and cough medicine. He read the message, nodded, and kept counting.

His twelve-year-old daughter, Nia, sat at a black table behind the counter, wrapped in an orange hoodie with a NASA patch on the left shoulder and a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles. She removed her earbuds and paused the video on her laptop, “Dad, can I take a break?”

Eric mouthed the number seven, then nodded. “Can I quiz you first?”

Nia shoved her workbook to the edge of the table. “Go for it.”

Eric finished the register check, then locked it with the key from his belt loop. He took the workbook and flipped ahead to a list of mock questions. “Are you ready?” Nia nodded. “Are you sure?” he asked, dramatically drawing it out like a boxing announcer clutching a microphone. “Are you ready to have your wits tested, your brain teased, your mind blown—”

“Dad.”

Eric smiled, then tapped the middle of the page. “Name the first official American state?”

“Delaware.”

“The first president to live in the White House?”

“John Adams.”

“Who is America (or the Americas) named after?”

Nia tapped her nose anxiously and sounded it out how it appeared in her head. “Amerigo Ves…Vespu…” Eric opened his mouth to give a hint, but she shut her eyes. “No, don’t tell me.” She snapped her fingers and pointed. “Amerigo Vespucci, Italy.”

“Nice,” Eric nodded. “First U.S. President under the Articles of Confederation? And when did he serve?”

“John Hanson. 1781 to 1782.”

Eric stopped. “You sure about that?”

Nia looked at him like he was stupid. “Yes.”

“You sure it wasn’t—”

“YES!”

“Good instincts,” Eric grinned, then combined two questions, “Elias Boudinot served from 1782 to 1783. Why only serve a single-year term?”

“Those were the rules according to Article IX of the Articles of Confederation.”

“Who was George Washington?”

“The first President under the U.S. Constitution.”

“Last question,” Eric said with a suspenseful glare, “Christopher Columbus. When did he set foot in what would later become the United States?”

Nia was ready. “Trick Question. He didn’t. Historians think it was Central/South America, possibly the Caribbean Islands. I’d argue the first was Leif Erikson in the 10^th century. Blown off course on a trek for Green—”

The front door swung open, and the bell sounded.

Suzanne stepped inside. “Hi, it’s me again. My van won’t start.”

Eric bumped fists with Nia. “Take fifteen, then Math.” Nia took her headphones and her pink-cased phone from a shelf under the register, then plopped back into her seat. Eric turned to Suzanne. “What’s the issue, Ma’am?”

“When I turn the key, it clicks, then nothing.”

“Bad battery.”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Want me to take a look?”

“Obviously.” Suzanne caught a glare from Nia, then pointed. “It’s the green one out front.”

Eric followed her outside. “Hey, Tyrell,” he said as the door swung open, “how’s your—” then it shut behind him. Nia’s eyebrows rose, then dropped when Tyrell Goodman, a friend of her dad’s, suddenly appeared in the entrance.

“She’s good, Milty,” Tyrell said, his dark-skinned, six-foot stature straddling the open door in blue Crocs, faded black jogging shorts and a green sweatshirt. “Family stuff, other than that, we good, we good.” He laughed at something Eric said, then saw Nia. He smiled, extended a fist, then stepped inside. “Hey, baby girl? You good?”

Nia smiled, then watched him go to the back fridge, towering over the shelves. “Mama’s sick, other than that, I’m good.”

Tyrell took a red sports bottle, then went into the candy aisle. “Yeah, that’s what your dad said.” He swiped a bag of gummies, some beef jerky and a bag of Funyuns.     

“She needs the rest. A couple more days, she’ll be back.”

“Oh, good,” he said, then approached the counter. “In fact—” He slipped on the tile floor, but caught himself. “You see that, baby girl? I almost wiped out in front of you.”

“Where?” Nia asked. Tyrell set the items on the counter and pointed at the spot. “Oh, yeah,” she remembered, “a toddler blew chunks there earlier. Dad must’ve put too much soap down. What do you think? Throw some salt on it?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Tyrell removed a small wad of cash from his sweatshirt. “When’s the old man gonna let you take over?”

Nia grinned. “What are you talking about? I already run the place.”

Tyrell grinned. “You are your mama’s child.”

“Thanks.” Nia rang him up and bagged the items.

Tyrell threw down a ten, said, “keep the rest,” then gave Nia a fist bump. “Stay alert, baby girl,” he said, taking his bag and pointing at Eric on the way out. Nia went into the backroom and returned with a yellow SLIPPERY floor sign. She set it by the slick spot, then watched Tyrell grin at something his dad said in the parking lot. Her gaze turned to the lady’s green minivan, and her grin slowly dissolved. She was protective of her father. He was a good man, trusting and honorable. Most people took him at face value and showed respect. According to her mother, many did not.

Nia returned to the table and plugged in her headphones. She scrolled her phone, chuckled at what she saw, then looked to the parking lot. Her dad was in the driver’s seat with the door open, a knee angled out. Suzanne stood nearby with her arms crossed.

The van’s rear lights flickered, went dark, flickered again, then went out.

Eric hopped out, and popped the hood as the lady climbed inside.

Nia kept scrolling. A male comedian with a microphone told jokes in front of a brick wall as wacky subtitles flashed. Nia enjoyed the punchline, watched the replay start, then swiped to the next one.

A brunette lady appeared, ranting in a vehicle.

“Not sure if you can tell,” she said, “but I’m literally…I’m literally shaking right now. So, I was in the parking lot, and I’m not even joking. I’m sorry, I, uh, I…let me show you.” The camera showed a familiar-looking sign over an equally familiar entrance. “You see it?”

Nia scrunched her brow when she made the connection.

“The Side/Street Mart, or as I call it, The Side/Street Shithole, can be found on the corroded corner of Fountain Street and Washington Blvd. here in disgusting, downtown—”

The door dinged. Eric held it open. “When did you last have the battery replaced?”

Suzanne stepped inside. “Never.”

“How long have you had the van?”

“Four, maybe five years.”

Nia paused the video. “Dad?”

Eric held a finger to Nia. “Corrosion usually means your battery is dying. Or dead already.”

“But…you said it could be cleaned.”

“Cleaning only works on good batteries.”

“Dad?” Nia asked again.

Eric looked at her. “Just a moment, sweetie.”

“What are my options?” Suzanne asked.

Eric returned to the counter. “I’m not a mechanic, but I’d say…get a new battery.”

“Great, okay, so where are your car batteries?”

“We don’t have any.”

Suzanne scrunched her face. “On the floor? Or at all?”

“We’ve got motor oil, flares, accessories. Other than that, there’s an auto parts shop about three miles west, on Plymouth. They’re open til ten.” He turned to Nia. “Yes, sweetheart?”

Nia presented her phone, but Suzanne reclaimed his attention. “And how do I get there?”

Eric shrugged. “You got car insurance?” The lady nodded. “Great, they’ll tow it.”

“For how much you think?”

Eric shrugged. “$75, I don’t know.”

Suzanne shook her head. “No, I can’t afford that right now.”

“You don’t have much of a choice, lady. Right now, it’s just a paperweight.”

“Do you know how to install a new battery?”

Eric nodded. “I do.”

“Great, you drive me to the auto shop. I buy a battery, maybe a charger just to be safe, then you bring me back, swap them out, and I’ll buy…” she trailed off, looking around, “forty or fifty dollars-worth of snacks and alcohol from you? How’s that?”

Eric shook his head. “I’m not leaving my daughter in the store by herself.”

“Who said anything about leaving her? She’ll ride along.”

Nia tugged on the hem of Eric’s long-sleeved t-shirt. “Dad, you really need to see this.”

“No.” Eric shook his head. “I’m not closing the shop.”

“I’m only asking for a ride to and from the auto place.”

“People, who love me, rely on me, so no.”

“I just told you I’d buy a shit-ton of snacks after we got back.”

“You think you’re the first to need a favor? What’s to keep you from driving off once the new battery is in?”

Suzanne was more surprised than offended. Eric had predicted right. That was exactly what she intended to do. She already had what she needed, so ‘accidentally’ barreling out into the street was pretty fucking on-point. 

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Eric continued. “We don’t own a car.”

Suzanne was dumbfounded. “You don’t own a car?”

“Call a cab or have it towed.” Eric turned to his daughter. “I’m sorry, Nia, what were—”

“You don’t have a car?” Suzanne asked, somewhat accusatory. “How? Why?”

“Don’t need one.”

“We walk everywhere, lady,” Nia chimed in, then handed an earbud to her father.

“You know how a car works, but you don’t own one? How? That doesn’t make sense.”

Eric removed the earbud. “Kinda like how you own a car, but don’t know how it works.”

Suzanne was taken aback. “So, you’re not gonna help me?”

“I already have, ma’am.” Eric faced Nia and studied the clip. “How long has this been up?”

“Ten minutes, I think. Twenty-three likes, seven comments.”

“And the comments? Are they bad?”

Nia looked through the front window. Suzanne was by her minivan, recording herself and gesticulating angrily in their direction.

3

“…and here’s the thing,” Suzanne ranted, judging the bags under her eyes and elevating the camera to a more flattering angle, “I get it, I’m emotional, but there’s something seriously off with this guy.” She shifted under the streetlights, then palmed her chest, hiding her cleavage while bumping up the drama. “The guy would rather jerk his dirk in a dead store than help a lady in need. But here’s what really hurts…” She paused, held her stare a tad too long, then finished the thought. “I don’t care how he treats me. I really don’t…but, but, but…” she stuttered, something she learned from daytime television, “my kid is off-limits and, and as a single mom, stranded in—”

“What’s his name?” It was Eric, by the door, both hands in his pockets.

Suzanne swiveled the camera, then felt a twinge of defeat stab her gut. “Excuse me?”

“Your son. What’s his name?”

“Uh…” she mumbled, watching him in the phone, “that’s private.”

“What’s his name? How old is he?”

Suzanne grinned. She considered ending the video, but her ego liked the storm. Anything he did from this point on could work in her favor if she played her cards right.

Eric looked at her rear window. “You don’t have a son, do you?”

“How dare you accuse me of something like that?”

“If you’ve got a kid, why didn’t I see him earlier when you were—”

“You snooped through my shit?” Suzanne retaliated with fervor. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you snoop through my van while I was inside the store?”

Eric remained calm. “You’re driving with a bad battery and—”

“That’s not the point, sir, okay, did you snoop through my van, yes or no?”

“Is that live?”

“You bet it’s live,” she lied. “Now, did you snoop through my shit, yes or no?”  

“Why don’t you ask your son?” Eric asked, shrugging. “I’ll wait.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Oh, okay, so your totally-real son slept through a van robbery perpetrated by the man who just sold you fucking wine coolers? Really? Are you that desperate for fame? You will knowingly slander a stranger for clicks?”

“This is a free country, sir, I can say whatever I want.”

“Sure, but you’re on private property.”

“No, it’s not, it’s commercial.”

Eric nodded. “Commercial property privately owned by me, so, respectfully, fuck off.”

“Remember earlier when I told you my car broke down and you refused to help?”

“Remember earlier when I said you had a corroded car battery and recommended you have it towed to the auto parts shop on Plymouth?” Eric checked his watch. “Still got time.”

Suzanne walked away, whispering to the camera. “So, what happened was—”

“You gonna call a tow truck?” Eric asked, interrupting. “Or should I call the cops?”

Suzanne let her rage rise. “It’s unbelievable, sir, how intimidated you are.”

Eric scrunched his brow. “You’re four-foot-six and you whine like a housecat. Sweetheart, my daughter is more terrifying than you, and she’s twelve.”

Suzanne widened her eyes. “How dare you?”

“Don’t care. Leave. Leave now.”

“You really are serious,” she grinned, overcompensating from embarrassment. “You are just…” she stopped, then passive-aggressively continued. “It’s hilarious, just hilarious how—”

“So, is that a yes to the tow truck? Or should I call the cops? Cause you’re just babbling.”

“Easy with the mansplaining! Okay?! Enough!!”

“What is that?”

“What?” Suzanne asked dramatically. “Oh, mansplaining? You’ve seriously never heard of mansplaining?” Eric shook his head.  “It’s what you’re doing right now, sir,” she said, taking her time, “condescendingly explaining something simple to a woman!”

Eric thought about it, then satisfyingly grinned. “I like that. That’s good.”

“It’s not endearing!” Suzanne shouted back. “It’s an insult!”

“It’s true, though.” Eric pointed to the street. “Anyways, are you gonna call a tow truck or will one of your seven fans do it for you?”

Suzanne found a new angle, then shielded the streetlamp glare with her palm. “I’ve asked this gentleman three times if he could jump my car—”

“Now I’m a gentleman?! You called me a predator in your last video.”

“I’ve asked this man three times for a quick jump to my car battery. He said no, so—”

“Stop lying.”

“—then I asked him if he could drive me to the auto shop himself and—”

“I don’t have a car! I already told you that!”

Suzanne ended the video, then faced Eric. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Eric stared at her. “Start over. You do NOT talk to me like that.”

“You really need to watch how—”

“Do NOT talk to me like that!”

Suzanne raised her phone. “When I post this, the entire world will see who you truly are.”

Eric remained stoic. “Do it.” Suzanne bit her tongue. Her last video contradicted the first, so she couldn’t release it without severe editing. Eric held her glare, then thumbed the air over his shoulder. A white security camera laced in black rubber and a green light blinked over the entrance. “I’d quit now while you are ahead.”

“And if I don’t?” Suzanne asked, her flirtatious side subtly rising. It wasn’t intentional, but it happened when men pushed back, which was rare these days. “You gonna show me who’s boss?” No response, not even a shift in stance. “Strong women threaten you, don’t they?”

Eric snorted loudly, stifling laughter. “You don’t know what you are doing.”

“Tell me where I’m wrong then.”

Eric gestured at her phone. “Start recording,” he said, then slipped both hands in his pocket.

Suzanne’s stomach dropped, then her brow dipped. She hadn’t expected that. Liars didn’t like being seen. Honest men didn’t care. “Don’t tell me what to do, okay? You’re not my…” she trailed off, then shook her head and crossed her arms.

“You’re not my…what?”

Suzanne held her tongue, then glared. “You’re threatened by me, aren’t you?”

“No, I feel pity for you, there’s a difference.”

Suzanne shoved Eric back toward the door. “I don’t need your pity, old man.”

“I’m pretty sure we’re the same age. The only difference is your pride. It’s made you blind to your own deception, that’s why you’re teetering on a mental breakdown and a possible lawsuit.”

“A lawsuit?” Suzanne’s ears perked. “On what grounds?”

“Damages for one. You accused me of sexual assault in your last vid—”

“Attempted!” she snapped, wagging her finger, “don’t, don’t, don’t exaggerate.”

“You slandered my name and my business.”

“I never said your name.”

“You didn’t have to. People know this place, they know me.”

Suzanne started recording, then aimed her phone. “So, you’re some big shot, huh? Is that why the rules don’t apply to you? Is that why you’re so chill around vulnerable women?”

“This is a small town, that’s all I’m saying.” Suzanne’s new grin pissed him off a little. She wanted him to lose it, wanted something to exploit. He remained calm, then smiled as if she were a spiraling infant. “Why you doing this? What’s wrong? Do you need attention? Because, trust me, sweetheart, this is the wrong way to get it.”

Suzanne almost ripped his head off for that one. Sweetheart, she thought, squinting at him.

Eric studied her stare, then crossed his arms. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he said, facing the camera lens. “I’ve got a battery charger in the back room. It’s ancient, but if I can find it, I’ll jump your car.”

Suzanne ended the video. “How fucking hard was that?”

Eric held her stare. “I’m not done. You’re gonna delete all the footage taken her, all of it, including the one currently streaming, everything.” Suzanne almost screamed, but bit her tongue before the words left. “And…you’re gonna apologize to my daughter.”

“For what? What did I do to her?”

“For one, lying about her dad on the internet.”

“Again, why are you so insecure?” Suzanne stepped back, felt her left heel roll on a chunk of gravel, grabbed air on the way down, then smacked the pavement with her tailbone. She cried out in pain, grunted through it—most of it shock—and looked at Eric, who stepped forward with a palm out to her. Suzanne smacked his hand away, then rolled onto her knees. “You know what? I’m done. I’m calling the cops.”

“Great.”

She typed 9-1-1 into the keypad, and showed it to Eric. “If I make this call, it’s over.”

Eric nodded. “Hope so.”

She hesitated. “And if I tell them you tried to force yourself on me, what’ll happen?”

“I’ll show Sheriff Laughlin the store footage. Inside and out.”

Suzanne didn’t believe him, but she didn’t have much of a choice. He never assaulted her, never touched her, aside from trying to help her up, he never initiated contact. In fact, he’d kept a healthy distance. She stowed her phone away, then went to the door. “Let’s do this, shall we?”

Eric blocked the entrance. “Apologize to my daughter and delete the videos first.”

Suzanne’s ego returned. “No, no. Not until you…apologize to me.”

“For what?”

“For…what do you think?”

Eric checked his watch, said “well, I tried,” then went inside the store. “Goodnight.”

Suzanne’s phone buzzed. It was Damien.  

Expo went long. Drinks with J. and X. now. Back around 12:45. Wear the blue nightie.

— D. G.

Suzanne started to reply, telling him the situation, then deleted it. She didn’t know Damien well. On their first date, he’d made it clear he hated being interrupted, especially when he was out with his associates. He also had a habit of turning his phone off.   

4

Nia removed an earbud and pushed her spectacles back. “Everything alright?”

Eric winked. “Golden. Now, where were we on the—?”

The door chimed behind him. It was Suzanne. “Okay, fine, you win. I’ll apologize.”

Eric faced her. “We have a deal?”

Suzanne reluctantly held up her palm. “I was out of line, and…I’m sorry…to both of you.”

Eric nodded. “Floor is yours, Nia,” he replied, then disappeared into the backroom.  

Suzanne placed her palms on the counter. The cheap sapphire rings on her left hand clicked against the wood countertop. It echoed like a pencil eraser tapping hollow dry wall. “What’s your name, cutie?”

Nia turned to Suzanne. “Why are you talking to me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a boy?”

Suzanne choked on the instinct to deny it, then cleared her throat. “What’s your name?”

“Uh…” Nia fought the urge to do what she did when teenagers from the apartment complex on Lucille would pop in to see what they could get away with. If her dad was on the floor, they’d drop by for a fountain soda or candy. Or just keep walking. If he wasn’t, they’d come in, act all buddy-buddy, then request cigarettes or travel-size liquor. It was always for an older brother or an exhausted father stranded elsewhere.

It never worked.

When they asked her name or anything in an over-the-top, cheerful, disarming tone, she’d lock eyes with them until the silence turned weird, then mumble something off-putting like “your soul smells delicious” or “Mama craves fresh blood.” If that didn’t work, she’d cock her head like a Marinette puppet, then hold her best demonic grin, wide and grimacing, until they left.    

“Is that it? Uh…?” Suzanne asked behind duck-lips, hamming it up like a children’s show host. “Don’t tell me that’s your name, little one.”

Nia paused. “Why’d you say all that stuff about my dad?”

Suzanne cackled, then tossed her hair. It wasn’t intentional, it was a habit, something she’d picked in junior high after Dory Martin, a ginger nerd with severe eczema, caught her glancing at his history test. He tried to call her out, but her flirtatious giggles diverted his intention.

Plus, it gave her time to think.

Nia’s eyebrows burrowed. “Why are you doing that?”

“Why am I doing what?”

“You’re flirting, stop it.”

Suzanne wanted to jolt the girl’s focus, confuse or distract her, but with what? She didn’t know magic or slight-of-hand tricks. She would’ve settled for a bad dad-joke if she knew any. She needed a segue, something to redirect the discussion, but was too slow. “Sweetie, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m not the one flirting with a twelve-year-old.”

Suzanne pulled her hands from the counter, then gripped her torso as the blood returned to her fingertips. “Listen, sweetheart, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“—talking about. You’re searching for things that aren’t there.”

“You said my dad tried to assault you when he didn’t.”

“There’s a little more to it than that.”

“You called him a creep and a fucking animal.”

“Language, girl, you’re—”

“You said he lunged at you.”

“You’re taking it out of context.”

Nia tapped her phone screen, then turned up the volume.

“I know the place looks cute,” Suzanne’s filmed voice blared, “in that vintage, ghetto kind of way, but trust me, it’s run by a creep! A fucking animal who, who—sorry, I’m ranting, so there I was—”

Nia paused the video, watched Suzanne lick her lips to respond, then resumed it.

“—standing in the parking lot, alone…with my two-year-old son, when this man came up behind me, and—I’m sorry. I’m so anxious right now and—”

“Sweetie!” Suzanne replied loudly. “You’ve made your point, okay?”

“As I was saying, this man, or douchebag if I’m being super honest, followed me outside into the parking lot. I didn’t see him, but could feel his eyes, you know, on me.”

Nia paused the video. “And if I’m being super honest, fuck you.”

Suzanne’s eyes bulged, clutching herself, “That was, uh, highly inappropriate.”

“Yeah, but you’re a big girl, right?” Nia asked, then continued the video.

“I’d stop, then he’d stop. I’d start walking, then he’d start walking.”

“Not true,” Nia stated.

“But when I got to my car, he just kept going, getting closer and closer to me and my child, and, and, and at that moment—”

“Again, not true.”

“—I started having, you know, flashbacks from all those late-night true crime shows.”

Nia paused it. “So, because you watch murder porn, you felt you had the right to—”

Suzanne clapped her hands repeatedly. “Stop it! Okay? Stop it!”

Nia un-paused the video.

“Anyways, he stopped about fifteen feet away, then said—”

Suzanne reached out and paused the video. “Little girl,” she said as Nia pulled the phone to her chest. “You’re searching for a fairy tale. Let’s talk about something real.” Nia studied her, then knelt down behind the counter. “What are you doing?” Nia took a black softball-sized cube from under the register, placed it on the table beside her laptop and pressed a spot on top. It dinged, then reverbed throughout the shop. “What are you doing?”

“Holding you accountable,” Nia said, then tapped her phone.

“‘—Excuse me, ma’am.’” Suzanne’s voice returned, louder, from the cube. “And, and, I just lost it. I was like ‘No, no, no, you do NOT come any closer! Do NOT approach me!’ It was the store’s owner. The owner!

“I get it!” Suzanne cried. “Fine, fine, fine, you win, alright, you’ve made your point!”

Nia nodded, “I know,” but she didn’t stop the video.

“And like, it shifted. It really shifted the dynamic, and, of course, he got offended and—”

Nia paused the video, then stared at Suzanne.

Suzanne held her glare. “What?”

“Say something.”

“What do you mean, say something?”

Nia nodded. “Yep, fake southern accent.” 

“Sweetie, you’ll understand this when you’re older, but your daddy is—”

Nia pressed the screen, forwarding the video, then released it.

“—then he called me an ugly whore and lunged at me,” the speaker replayed, drowning out Suzanne’s response. “Yep, the fucker lunged, like legit lunged at me. Here’s my point—”

Nia stopped the video and left the phone on the table. “Are you married?”

Suzanne suddenly felt self-conscious, crossing her arms. “It’s complicated.”

“Ah, so you’re a prostitute,” Nia said, very matter of fact. “Explains your anger.”

Suzanne was taken back. “I assure you, little girl, I am not a prostitute.”

“Then why do you talk like one?”

“I don’t talk like one.”

“Does your little boy know who his daddy is? If he doesn’t, then you’re probably a whore.”

“Stop talking, little girl, please, just…enough, okay?”

Nia pointed at the front door. “So, is he still outside? Your son?”

Suzanne scrunched her brow, then reflected. “Sweetie, I think you may be confused.”

“Don’t gaslight me, woman. I’m not stupid.”

“I said you were confused.”

Nia tapped her phone screen and dragged the cursor back.

“…really empowering, you know? Oh, and he did all of this in front of my kid who—Thank you God—has finally settled down.”

Nia paused the clip, then watched Suzanne squirm.

“Oh, that!” Suzanne exclaimed, then pointed to the back room, “Your dad has been gone a long time. Maybe he could use your help?”

“I’m not supposed to leave the front desk unattended. That’s how robberies happen.”

“I’m not a robber.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Suzanne placed her elbows on the counter, then interlocked her fingers. “I really need you to hear me cuz I don’t like repeating myself. I don’t have a little boy. I’d like to someday, maybe even have a few, but right now it doesn’t fit. I’m way, way too busy right now.”

“Is it because of all the prostituting?”

“Nia, is it?” Suzanne asked, finally recalling her name. “I’m very successful, independent, and I make my own money. I’m what the kids call a ‘Boss Bitch,’ pardon my French.”

Nia shook her head. “Bitch isn’t French.”

“I help manage a Fortune 500 company out of Manhattan. You know where that is?”

Nia retrieved her phone and opened a new browser. “What’s the name of the business, Ms. Push-up Bra? Or did you lie about that too?”

Suzanne self-consciously adjusted herself. “Why would I lie about something like that?”

“Because you’ve lied about everything else.”

“It’s called ‘By Jonathan Renegade,’” Suzanne snapped, “are you happy now?”

“That’s a man’s name.” Nia plugged it in the browser and tapped the most relevant link.  

“Yeah, well, we sell high-end women’s intimacy clothing.”

“Jonathan Renegade: CEO,” Nia read aloud. “Barry Rosenberg: President. Damien Gruber: Executive VP/Chief HR. Xavier Mann: Executive VP/CFO, and…I don’t see your name.”

“I, uh, those people pay me to pitch the store.”

“So, you’re just an employee?”

“No, no, no, my job is to convince people with big money to—”

“Oh, so you’re a traveling salesman?”

“In a roundabout way, yes.”

“You work for men who order you to sell underwear to women?”

“I don’t take orders from men, no…”

“But if you don’t do what they ask, do you still get paid?”

“I can’t just do my own thing, little girl. There are rules.”

“So…a boss bitch is a woman who fulfills the orders of her male authorities?”

“No, like I said, it’s complicated.”

“So, you ARE a prostitute?”   

“Found it.” Eric wheeled out an old black metal box with a pair of jumper cables, an orange extension cord wrapped around his shoulder. “Sorry, about that. The extension cord wasn’t where it was supposed to be.”

Suzanne followed him outside. “You’ve a lovely daughter, by the way. Very perceptive.”

“Thank you,” Eric said, then plugged the three-prong end into the outlet by the ice machine. “She gets it from her mother.” He rolled the box to the minivan, hooked up the battery charger, then gave Suzanne the green light. The engine turned over. Eric unhooked the cables and shut the hood. “133 Plymouth. Ask for Mike, he’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you,” Suzanne nodded, “I really appreciate this.”

Eric gathered his tools and approached the driver-side window. “Are we cool?”

Suzanne gave a half-hearted nod. “We’re good.”

“Great, so could you delete the videos like we agreed?”

“Already did.”

Eric didn’t believe her but smiled anyway. “Thank you.”

Nia bolted out the front door, a red phone in her hand, “Hey, Boss Bitch!”

“Nia!” Eric snapped, halfway back to the door. “Don’t talk like that.”

“That’s what she called herself.” Nia took in her dad’s glare, then rolled her eyes. “Fine, okay, sorry.” She held up the phone. “She left this on the counter.”

Eric left his tools, took the phone, jogged back to the minivan, and knocked on the window. Suzanne clutched herself, then let out a sigh of relief. “Sorry,” he said, then presented the phone.

Suzanne rolled down the window and took it, smiling. The screen lit up, showing a trail of short messages, all from Damien. “Have a good night, Ma’am.” Eric said, then headed back to the store.

Suzanne ignored him, then called out the window. “You have wine, right?”

Eric looked back. “What’s that?”

“What kind of wine do you have?” she asked, stepping out of the rumbling van.

“Come on in. We’re still open for twenty minutes.”

Suzanne nodded, “thank God,” then reached inside to shut off the car.

Eric stopped her. “Keep it running until you get to the shop.”

5

Eric rang up two bottles of Moscato and some off-brand honey whiskey, then bagged them as Suzanne swiped her card. “Despite all that, just know, we appreciate your business, ma’am.”

Suzanne ran her pinky tip across the digital signature box. A single line with a sharp incline. She hit Accept, glanced at Nia—not smiling—and slipped her wallet into her purse. “It’s not polite to stare, you know?”

Nia’s stare remained, holding her hypnotically. “You didn’t delete the videos.”

Suzanne’s stomach dropped. “Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Sweetheart, if I said I did it, then I probably did it.”

Nia was ready. “But you didn’t.”

“Why would I lie about something as ridiculous as—”

“Because that’s what psychos do. Psychos lie to get what they want.”

“Nia, relax,” Eric said, his tone uneasy, doubt in his eyes. Nia wasn’t one to speak falsely. At six, she’d confessed to marking up the living room wall with a hunter green crayon even though her cousin had taken the blame. At eight, she made Ms. Delarosa correct a math quiz where she’d been mistakenly awarded full credit for a wrong answer. And last year, she refused to recant an accusation after she caught Bret Davis, the teacher’s pet, cheating on a history test. The mockery that followed was brutal, but she endured it, and was later vindicated when Bret’s mom discovered a drawer of xeroxed exams swiped from the teacher’s lounge. Honesty wasn’t a habit to Nia; it was a code. Eric studied Suzanne. “Any truth to that?”

Suzanne gave a grin, then took her bag of booze. “It was nice meeting you.”

Nia checked her phone. “It’s at three-thousand views.”

“Seriously?” Suzanne set the bag by her feet and retrieved her phone. Her two-minute rant had been shared three-hundred and twenty-eight times in the last fifty minutes with a steady incline of 2,942 views. “Holy shit, I’m gonna be famous.”

“Told you, Dad,” Nia said, “she’s a monster.”

“Ma’am, you promised me you would delete the videos.”

Suzanne fired up the camera and started recording. Her mouth was ready but her mind was empty. “This place is the worst, y’all. Like the bathrooms are gross, the variety is limited and crazy expensive. Oh, and…a recent shopper called them out on price gouging gas, so they kicked—”

“Yo! Boss Bitch!” Nia yelled over the counter, pulling Suzanne’s attention. “We don’t sell gas, you fucking retard! Stop lying all the time—!” The rest was stopped by her father’s palm, but she pulled it away. “I see you, bitch! Wolf! Wolf!”

“Nia, stop!” Eric ordered.

Suzanne dropped her phone. The three-dollar plastic case she’d found on a discount shelf popped on impact, unintentionally cracking the camera lens. She took it, aimed it at the floor, then yelled “Stay back! Stay back! Don’t come any closer!”

Nia crawled on the counter, but Eric bear-hugged her back. “Stop this, Nia,” he whispered, “you’ll only make it worse.”

“Dad! She’s spouting lies.”

“Yes.” Eric locked eyes with her. He gestured at the tiny black camera over the backroom door, a green light blinking. “This won’t end well for her, trust me, let her destroy herself.”

Suzanne charged the counter, then jumped back as if she’d been forcibly shoved. “Sir, what are you—” She tripped back into a rack of theater box candy and powdered donuts. The fall wasn’t intentional, but it fueled her performance. “Sir, take your hands off me. Please, just—” She crawled to her feet, then punched herself in the right eye. The first strike was soft. The second scared her. She stopped after the third, but sold it with a shriek. If she returned to the Marriot with a black eye, Damien may terminate the arrangement. Suzanne hurled herself into the candy aisle and skid her phone across the floor like a shuffleboard puck to make it look like she’d been tackled from behind. She grunted, “just let me go home…”

“Are you done yet, Ms. Price?” Eric asked.

“What?” Suzanne asked, legit out of breath, retrieving her phone.

“Are you finished trashing my store?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your ID. From the alcohol sale.”

“No! No! You stole my purse, didn’t you?”

“Your purse is on the floor next to your booze, Ms.—”

“No, no, please don’t!” Suzanne aimed the broken camera at the main door, then charged. She tripped on some theater box candy by the yellow hazard sign and face-planted into the floor. The phone flew from her, somersaulted across the tile, then landed face-up on the welcome mat. She rolled on her back, then slowly sat up.

“Dad?” Nia asked, “should we call the police?”

Eric left his post, said “no, call an ambulance,” then offered a hand to Suzanne. 

Suzanne slapped his hand away. “Fuck…me alone!” she barked animalistically. She meant to yell ‘fuck off,’ but midway in, the twisted wires in her brain flashed ‘leave me alone,’ and out of her mouth came a combination. She slapped the air where Eric’s hand had been, then stood up, clutching her face. On her way to the door, a wave of nausea slowed her down.

“Miss,” Eric said, his hand still out. “I think you may a concussion.”

“Stay back!” She slapped at his hand, then realized he’d obeyed her the first time, still by the counter. “Stay away from me!” She swiped the bag of booze and ran to the entrance, then made sure the phone was still recording.

It was, and she grinned, but only the right side of her mouth reacted.

When the door chimed open and the night air hit her face, she started screaming.

She aimed the lens at her shoes, black slip-ons with thin insoles, and galloped to the van. She threw the alcohol in the passenger seat and jammed her phone into the mount. The suction cup came off the windshield, and she smashed her fingers into the dashboard. She cried in pain, then refixed the suction cup. As she refastened the phone, her thumb accidently switched the camera to face her and the empty back seat. “Oh my god, oh my god,” she spouted, taking the steering wheel. “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.”

She stepped on the pedal and drove over the curb into the street. She took a sharp right at the stop sign and plowed ahead. A block later, she stopped at a red light and leaned into the camera. She started to speak, but it all came out slurred.

A vibrant, multi-colored parade of college-aged kids crossed the street. The men, dressed as knockoff fairytale characters walked with their hypersexualized female counterparts. A shirtless prince led a girl in a skintight white dress, then tossed her broken tiara into the street. A cab driver yelled, and the kid retrieved it. A husky kid with fur on his face slapped the rear of his petite red-dress date, directing her steps as an obese firefly pulled her goliath boyfriend in green tights by the wrists. It was like seeing a storybook detonate with a drunken, lusty flair. The girl in the sparkling plastic slippers—Cinderella, probably—broke a heel at the curb, then lost her mind. Suzanne recalled a similar event in college, then grinned manically as the memory resurfaced, embarrassing and tickling her at the same time.

The truck behind her honked, and Suzanne sped through the intersection.

She passed a dark Dollar General, then felt the nausea return. Her eyelids went heavy. She slapped herself to stay awake, then took the wheel with both hands. Six minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of a vintage brewery, and closed her eyes for, what was meant to be, a moment.

Eighty-two minutes later, Suzanne awoke with a splitting headache.

She checked her gas gauge. It was low, maybe thirty miles left. If her memory served her right, her hotel was back the other way two miles. It was close, but then she recalled her corroded battery. She retrieved her phone from the dash mount, but it was dead. It died ten minutes into her nap. And to make things worse, the external charger in her purse had gone uncharged for weeks.

She checked her purse, then whispered “thank you” repeatedly when she found a charging cord. She found the adapter, then plugged it into the charging port. Suzanne calmed herself, staring through the misty windshield. Her phone sprung to life and she plugged in the auto shop address.

O’Malley’s Auto Parts was a bit further down the road.

Suzanne gripped the wheel with both hands, checked herself in the rearview mirror, then continued her trek. Moments later, she pulled into the parking lot, audibly sighed, and shut off the engine. “Thank you, God,” she mumbled, then left the minivan. She clipped a heel on the way out, and tripped forward, but caught the handle and steadied herself.

The building was dark. And the Open sign was off.   

11:02 pm. The place was closed.

“Oh, no, no,” she slurred, feeling her stomach turn inside out as she climbed back into the driver’s seat. She pulled the door closed, jammed the key into the ignition, and turned it.

Click.

She turned it again, and held it.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

The console behind the wheel flashed sporadically, then shut off completely.

The phone was at two percent. Enough for a call. Two if she was lucky. She called Damien, but it was declined on the third ring. Her second call went straight to voicemail. Her third call was interrupted by a text from the same number.

Busy with the Boys. Don’t call me. We’ve discussed this.

                                                                                                 — D. G.

Suzanne opened the chat and frantically started typing.

She typed out My car battery is dead, but forgot a space between ‘car’ and ‘battery,’ and the autocorrect function changed it to ‘carbamazepine.’ Her mind didn’t register the mistake until after she had sent it. She frantically typed Sorry, not that, followed by the original message. Carbamazepine came up again, but she caught it and added a space. She double-checked the text, then added to it. I’m stranded at the auto shop on—

The screen froze and the phone shut down.  

6

 If it hadn’t been for the pocket-sized external charger she had forgotten about in the bottom of her purse, she would’ve been stranded, like early 90’s-stranded.

Except in the 90s, there were working payphones everywhere.

Suzanne crawled into the back seat, then wrapped herself in a gigantic blue comforter from the trunk. It had the musky storage smell which usually repelled her, but tonight it was a lifeline. The dull yellow light of the charger flickered faintly then, after a moment, resurrected her phone with a 2% charge. Her instinct compelled her to lunge for it, but she resisted. Not until it hit 10% power, at which point, she’d kill the background apps and let it charge into the high twenties.

The cord dangled awkwardly from the car mount, then ran under the steering wheel like an attraction zip line into the driver-side cup holder. Her head throbbed. She kicked off her shoes and stretched her legs. Her toes touched the armrest and she used her purse as a pillow. It wasn’t bad. The cold leather counteracted some of the inflammation in her neck, and soon, that sweet slumber tugged on her eyelids, and she embraced it with open arms.

Her phone dinged.

Suzanne squinted her eyes at the new message. She figured it was Damien, but from where she lay, it was a green bubble. And his texts were always blue…right?

Suzanne sat up, groaning as she painfully shoved the urge to sleep away, then climbed in the front seat. Her phone was at 11%, still not enough for her to feel safe yet. She tapped the screen, and read the message.

You out and about?

It was an unknown number. Probably a scam, she thought, then returned to the back seat. She imagined some Indian kid working a script in some shady hotel room, trying to rip off gullible nobodies in between jerk-off sessions. She turned up her nose, then recalled the sour hygiene of an elderly client who had hired her a few times last year. She initially turned him down, but when he offered her triple the normal rate, she obliged. He wasn’t bad. Breathing through her mouth was the only thing that kept her from passing out.

Her phone dinged again, replaying the original text. It dinged twice after that.

Gruber gave me your info. Said we should connect.

Suzanne reread the new messages three times. She climbed into the driver’s seat, debated ignoring it, but changed her mind. “Who is this?” she asked aloud, typing it too. She went to delete the conversation, but didn’t.

Gruber…

What if this was all a test by Damien? What if he was with the sender right now, watching to see how she reacted? If she declined the sender, that make her appear more favorable to Damien, yes? High status men appreciate loyalty, right?

Or…she could accept, cause a little chaos, and possibly extract some jealousy?

She sent it, then received a response almost immediately.

7

Fletcher Langston pulled his Audi into the employee lot, and marveled at the reflection of the rising sun in the window of the Rust-Wick Capital Bank. He coughed hard into his elbow, then checked his watch. 5:45 am. In the rearview mirror, his eyes were bloodshot, his thick brown hair stood up in the back, and his dress shirt was riddled with sweat stains. He didn’t go home last night and needed a good excuse for Maisey, whom he promised to meet for lunch.

Explaining away his absence would be easy. He’d just say drinks with the boys went long and Damien invited him to crash at his new place downtown. That part was true, which comforted him in a weird way. He was a natural salesman, like his father. All he needed was a morsel of truth to make sales, which is how he rose from lowly associate to management so quickly.

The four-hundred-dollar ATM withdrawal at 11:45 pm would need a little extra finesse.

To make things worse, most of last night was a blur. He recalled dinner and the nightclub on Madison, but forgot doing cocaine off in the restroom until he sneezed snow all over the steering wheel. He recalled the bitchy text from Maisey before Percy’s Diner, and after that…nothing.

Nothing, at least, until he woke up in his back seat.   

He pulled eye drops from his glove box and dabbed his eyes until they looked somewhat presentable. Next, the peppermint mouth spray. Two hits on his tongue, three on the roof of his mouth. He slipped both into the pocket of his dress shirt, then combed his chin. It was prickly, just shy of a five o’clock shadow. He could dry shave, if he had to, before opening.

Although, his wife did enjoy him with a little scruff.

He took a swig from the half-empty water bottle in his passenger seat, gargled, swallowed, then glanced at the rearview mirror one last time.

And that was when he saw the glitter.

The microscopic shards of silver ran from his left ear down his jaw like a metallic sideburn. It grape-vined down his neck and exploded on his white dress shirt. The brunt clinging to his collar and left front pocket. Fletcher bit his tongue, then repeatedly told himself that the twenty-six-year-old with the purple lip ring was just a lucid, very intense dream. When the inner monologue became a chant, he turned the radio and took the black dress shirt that hung in the backseat. He noticed a pair of jumper cables in the backseat floorboard, then felt a piece of last night return.

He had used them last night, but where? And why?

He put the shirt in the passenger seat, then grabbed the cables to see if anything else sparked his memory. Nothing. He opened his trunk, retrieved the bag they came in, then coiled the cables and shoved them inside. He tossed them in the trunk, then got a glimpse of something.

He had jumped a woman’s vehicle last night…not at the nightclub. Somewhere else. After. After. After…the twenty-six-year-old got a phone call from the babysitter, and had to bail the plans they had made. The glitter came from the dancer, sure, but nothing happened between them beyond the phone call.

Fletcher clutched his chest, having dodged that bullet.

He wasn’t relieved about staying faithful, but about staying faithful last night. This would also make lying about the missing four-hundred dollars much easier. He could blame it on the boys if he had to. Plus, Damien always loved these kinds of stories.

He shut the trunk lid, then saw a green minivan in the handicapped parking spot next to the main entrance. The driver door was slightly ajar.

He glanced around the empty parking lot, but saw no one. Jack drove a silver Bentley and wouldn’t get in for another hour. Sheila’s blue Mazda rarely arrived before 8. Plus, she’d made it abundantly clear at an office party that she’d never be caught dead in a minivan because “they’re for poor people and sexual predators.”

O’Malley’s Auto Parts across the street wouldn’t open until 8:30.

Fletcher studied the van, then cleaned himself in the employee restroom. The glitter came off with soap and water, but traces still sparkled between his ear and jawline when the light hit it right. His shirt could be salvaged, but it was safer to toss it in the dumpster out back.

The green minivan was still there at 6:27 am.

There were snacks and malt liquor in the passenger seat. An opened bottle was in the cup holder. There was also a bag of wine and honey whiskey. The backseat was clean except for a blue comforter blanket. The key was still in the ignition. He checked the glove box. Registration papers, the vehicle handbook, and an unopened sleeve of white tissues. He saw a flash of pink and leather shoved under the bags. He glanced around himself, then set the bag of booze in the floorboard.

A purse.

Inside was an up-to-date passport, a teal blue wallet with ten credit cards, two hundred and eighty-three dollars wrapped in a rubber band, a red phone with a cracked screen, and an orange-tinted driver’s license.

Suzanne Price. Forty-one years old.

He pocketed the cash and left the purse. This would make his lunch with Maisey easier. A hundred and seventeen dollars was nothing. He retreated into his office, stashed the booze into his bottom desk drawer, locked it, then tossed the bag.

A thought came to him as he called Skylar’s Junkyard.

Suzanne Price. Where have I heard that name before?

“Skylar’s Junkyard,” said the gruff voice on the other end, “this is Bert.”

“Good morning, Bert, this is Fletcher Langston with the Rust-Wick Capital Bank. Someone left a green minivan in the parking lot and, uh, I was hoping one of your guys could tow it.”

“Where is it exactly?”

“In front of the main entrance—”

A new thought immerged, blinding him.

He saw a red brick motel surrounded by bright white streetlights. The image cut like a slide in a film projector to a brown door with a gold 213 under the peep hole. The image pulled back to show a shadowy vehicle with a blurry blue license plate. He recognized the motel, it was his secret getaway, where he took his conquests. He couldn’t place the vehicle. The projector clicked a new slide, zooming in on the license plate. It was still blurry, still blue, but the color of the vehicle had brightened from black to grey.

Another slide popped up. The grey brightened and the plate cleared.

The next slide was brighter, bluer, clearer. Four slides later, the image was crystal clear.  

The vehicle was a green minivan. The license plate read H7T-GR3.

Fletcher left his office, then stepped outside. “Fuck…”

“Excuse me?” Bert asked on the other end. “Everything alright, Fletcher?”

“Uh, yeah, everything is…” Fletcher trailed off, “never mind, the owner just showed up.”

He hung up.

8

MISSING PERSON REPORT:

Suzanne Price, 41

Suzanne Price was last seen October 14^th, at the intersection of Fountain St and Washington Blvd, after visiting a local convenience store.

According to eyewitness testimony, Price had experienced minor vehicle trouble and was assisted by the store’s owner. Surveillance footage confirms she departed the Side/Street Mart alone in a green minivan registered in her name.

Four days later, at approximately 3:14 pm, her vehicle was discovered along an abandoned dirt road fifteen miles west of her hotel, the Courtyard Bertling.

The engine was off. The keys still in the ignition.

Her personal belongings—her purse, identification, and credit cards—were left behind.

There were no visible signs of a struggle.

Investigators soon discovered a series of social media posts, uploaded by Price on the night of her disappearance, circulating the internet. In the videos, she made multiple alarming claims about an encounter. Eyewitnesses and security footage contradict the claims. Authorities are unsure whether these statements are connected to her disappearance.

What is known… after leaving the Side/Street Mart, Suzanne Price vanished without a trace.

No confirmed sightings.

No financial activity.

Nothing digital footprint beyond that night.

If you have any information regarding the disappearance of Suzanne Price, age 41, please contact your local authorities.

Until then… her case remains open.

THE END