Badlands (12 page)

Janelle grimaced at her own reflection. “You must feel like shit.”

“I’ll do your hair after I finish mine,” she offered.

“Thanks. I’m running late.”

Instead of rushing to get ready, she fidgeted with her cell phone, sending Owen a text message. Maybe he could call Shane and find out what was going on. She wanted to see if he’d talk to Jamie, too.

Owen had been the positive male role model in her son’s life. Sometimes it broke her heart to see them together. He bore such a strong resemblance to Shane. They were nothing alike on the inside, praise Jesus. Owen might not be able to give Jamie any advice about sex. He was so shy and reserved, she’d wondered if he was a virgin.

Last summer, Tiffany had stopped by while Owen was throwing the football to Jamie. “Who is
that?
” she’d asked.

“Jamie’s uncle.”

“Hook me up with him.”

Owen had seemed interested—all men liked Tiffany—so Janelle had made the arrangements. Tiffany had been through a lot, and she deserved a nice guy. Janelle hoped they’d hit it off, but they’d only gone on one date. When Janelle asked how it had gone, Tiffany had claimed she didn’t kiss and tell, which was a lie. Tiffany usually dished all the details. For some reason, she stayed mum about Owen.

If he wasn’t Jamie’s uncle, Janelle might have tried to flirt with him herself. He was boy-next-door handsome, tall and lean and hard-muscled. She didn’t care about hurting Shane, but Jamie loved Owen, and her son needed a decent man in his life. Janelle wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize their relationship.

After she donned her waitress outfit, black satin shorts and a pink spandex top, she slathered on makeup. Tiffany teased her hair into a fluffy mane. For the next few hours, she alternated between serving drinks and dancing.

It was a busy night, so she left the floor early. During a solo number, she noticed a man sitting alone at a corner table. He wasn’t in the mandatory tip area by the stage, where she normally focused her attention. She didn’t cater to outliers, who wanted to look without tipping. Even her awareness of the front row was muted by the invisible wall she put up. They saw her as an object. She saw them the same way. Not as individuals with unique traits, but as wallet holders with bills of different denominations.

This man was watching her. His broad shoulders hunched forward as his eyes followed her across the stage. Something about him made her stomach coil with tension. He reminded her of Shane, in size and physical presence, if not looks.

She tried to pretend he wasn’t there. Just another face in the crowd.

After her set was finished, she hurried backstage to cover up. “Table five wants a VIP,” Kevin said, jerking his thumb at her.

For some reason, Janelle hesitated. She could refuse to perform this service, but she rarely exercised that right. Private dances were part of the job. The only time she ever said no was when the guy was sick or unwilling, being dragged to the VIP area by his buddies. The guy at table five had just arrived. He appeared stone-cold sober.

“He asked for you,” Kevin said.

She nodded, letting out a slow breath. There was no point in getting fully dressed, but she put on a bra top and vinyl skirt over her sparkly G-string. The customers always wanted to see her take something off. Heart pounding with trepidation, she strode to table five. In the early days, she might have downed a shot of tequila first. Alcohol numbed her senses, but falling off stage was a real hazard in high heels, and no one tipped a sloppy dancer. As she’d gotten used to stripping for strangers, she’d learned to disassociate from her body.

The man at table five watched her approach, smiling a little. He had coal-black hair and cold blue eyes.

“Hey, there, big guy,” she said, fluttering her lashes. It was her typical greeting, and fitting in his case. In addition to being large, he was attractive and well-built. His T-shirt stretched across a powerful chest. “You ready for a dance?”

“How much is it?”

“Twenty a song.”

“I’ll pay ten.”

A haggler. This kind of behavior raised red flags. It indicated he wanted to test her limits, to get more bang for his buck. “Twenty’s the bare minimum, sugar.”

“Will you make it worth my while?”

“I’ll give you a good dance.”

“Nude?”

She shook her head, letting her earrings jangle. Even topless dancing was prohibited in private rooms at clubs that served alcohol. That rule wasn’t enforced, however, and all of the girls knew the customers tipped better if they saw the naughty bits.

He seemed disappointed that she had standards. Perhaps he preferred his women cheap and desperate.

“Should I come back later?” she asked.

“No,” he said, rising. “I can’t stay long.”

She slipped her arm into his, noting his height and strength as she escorted him to the VIP room. He paid Chuck, who stood by the beaded entrance, and they slipped inside. “Have a seat anywhere you like.”

He chose a black armchair in the back booth. They were all alone. The room had a security camera, and Chuck checked in routinely, but Janelle didn’t feel safe here. She never would. Ten years in this business had taught her how fast a man could go from respectful to insulting, placid to angry, gentle to violent.

“Hands on the armrests,” she said, noting that he had tattooed knuckles and a spider’s web on his elbow.

He’d probably done time.

She wasn’t surprised or put off by that. The strip club was a place for outcasts. Maybe she’d picked up on his prison vibes and overreacted because of Shane. She was still a little hungover, her nerves on edge.

Trying to relax, she waited for the next song to start. He looked at least thirty, with a coarse complexion and scarred motorcycle boots. Maybe he was a trucker, or an oil rig worker. His clothes were clean. He was intimidating but not repugnant.

When the music started she sort of...floated up, and away. It was almost as if she was watching the scene from a distance. She became someone else. Her dancer-persona shimmied between his splayed legs and turned, brushing her bottom over his lap. She bent over and wiggled suggestively, aware that her sparkly thong barely covered her sex. Then she straightened, facing him again. Lifting her high-heeled foot to the top of the chair, near his shoulder, she unzipped her micro-mini and let it fall away. She pushed her breasts together and gyrated slowly, moving her hips to the beat. The flare of interest in his eyes, along with the bulge in his pants, told her he liked what he saw.

Almost done.

During the last twenty seconds, she dropped to her knees and simulated oral sex. Sometimes the sight of male arousal excited her. Dancer-girl’s cheeks flushed with heat. Her hair spread over his thighs, dragging across his fly. She pulled her bra down a little, revealing her breasts to the nipples. His hands clenched on the armrests.

Then the song was over.

Janelle rose, adjusting her top. She returned to her body in a flash, all business. After giving them both a moment to recover, she glanced at him. He seemed impressed and annoyed, as if he hadn’t expected to enjoy her performance enough to get frustrated by it.

And there was the rub of a good lap dance, no pun intended.

“Care for another?” she asked.

“Only if you blow me for real.”

She didn’t bother to say no. He was already on his feet, wincing as he dug into his pocket for a tip. Instead of handing the bill to her, he held it up jauntily. She knew this trick. If she reached for it, he’d pull away.

“Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

He caressed her face with the edge of the bill, touching her the only way he could. When she closed her hand around the money, he let go. “Maybe I’ll come back.”

She watched him walk away, hoping he wouldn’t return. If she wanted a scary, unsettling ex-con sniffing around her, she’d call Shane. The back of his shirt said Ace Demolition. As soon as he was gone, she glanced down at bill her in hand.

Five dollars.

Her pride came cheap these days.

CHAPTER TWELVE

O
WEN
DIDN
’
T
FIND
ANYTHING
useful in the other railcars.

There were signs that other people had been inside. They’d left behind trash and graffiti, but no food or clothing. He headed back to the main car with Cruz, studying the deserted structures and silent tracks in the distance. Moonlight illuminated the area, pouring through the large windows of the train. It was a defendable space. He could guard the entrance while Penny and Cruz slept.

Owen decided to remove a few more cushions for them to rest on. He took out his knife and sliced one of the seat covers away, exposing the soft padding underneath.

“Can I help?” Cruz asked.

Owen had two knives now, Roach’s combat weapon and the pocketknife Penny had stolen from camp. He gave Cruz the pocketknife, showing him its features. It had a dull blade and a couple of other tools.

Cruz held it in his little fist and made a stabbing motion, puncturing the seat.

“Not like that,” Owen said, stilling his hand. “This blade doesn’t lock, so it can fold up and cut your fingers.” He showed Cruz how to hold the knife safely and to cut away from his body. With Owen’s guidance, Cruz separated a seat cover from the cushion, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then he did one on his own while Owen supervised.

Penny wouldn’t have approved of this activity. Cruz seemed to know that and to revel in the illicit thrill.

When Cruz was finished, Owen held out his palm.

Cruz hesitated. “Can I keep it?”

“For what?”

“So I can protect my mommy.”

Owen’s throat tightened with emotion. “If someone attacks your mommy, you should run away and yell for help.”

Cruz stared at the knife, conflicted.

“If someone attacks you, you can bite their hand or kick them in the nuts. You know what I mean?”

He nodded. “Mommy calls them
canicas.
”

Owen hid a smile. Marbles. Only a woman would call them that. “Let’s practice. Pretend I’m going to attack you.”

Cruz stood across from Owen in the aisle and fumbled with the knife. His little fingers couldn’t get the blade out. He transferred it to his other hand and tried again, accidentally dropping the knife on the ground.

If he’d managed to get the blade ready, Owen would have shown him how easily he could be overpowered. But he didn’t feel it was necessary now. Cruz couldn’t use the knife for any purpose. He didn’t have the fine motor skills.

“See how hard it is? You could have just kicked me in the nuts and ran away.”

Cruz picked up the knife and studied it in the dim light. Mouth pursed with concentration, he figured out how to extend the blade.

“Good,” Owen said, surprised by his tenacity. “But you still can’t hold it that way. Like I told you, the blade doesn’t lock.”

The boy moved his fingers out of the way. When he found the correct position, he frowned, seeming to realize that the knife wasn’t made for stabbing.

“It’s not a weapon,” Owen said.

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t use it to defend yourself. You can cut string with it or sharpen a stick, maybe. That blade is pretty dull.”

He looked crestfallen.

“Look,” Owen said, stepping forward. He molded Cruz’s fist around the handle and let the blade stick up between his fingers. “This is the way to inflict damage. Punch someone in the eye like that and you’ll stop them.”

Cruz jabbed the seat cushion a few times to practice. He grinned, as if this was fun.

Owen took the knife back, aware that he’d made a mistake. Instructing a child to stab someone was too gruesome, too potentially traumatizing. He couldn’t stop reliving the sensation of Roach’s blood running over his hands. “It’s not a toy.”

“I know,” Cruz said, stricken.

“You’re better off using your body’s natural weapons.”

“How?”

Owen humored him with a quick demonstration on how to attack vulnerable spots with his fists, teeth, elbows and knees. Cruz listened carefully and mimicked his every move, relishing the lesson. Owen decided to let him keep the pocketknife, just for tonight. Cruz was scared for himself and for his mother. Owen could sympathize.

They collected a pile of cushions and seat covers, carrying them back to Penny. She shifted in her sleep but didn’t wake. Owen suspected she had a touch of heat exhaustion. He hoped it wouldn’t turn into full-on heatstroke.

“I’m hungry,” Cruz whispered.

“We’ll eat tomorrow. Lie down and get some rest.”

He stared up at Owen with big brown eyes. Just like Penny’s. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to guard the front of the car.”

“I want to come with you.”

Owen shrugged, leading Cruz down the aisle. They sat side by side, with Cruz by the window. They couldn’t see much outside, other than moon-washed hills. So they just rested there, sharing the quiet.

“Is this train from the olden days?” Cruz asked.

“No, it’s fairly new. The railway reopened about ten years ago. Then it went bankrupt and closed again.”

“Why did it go to bankrup’?”

“The owners ran out of money,” he said, balancing his elbow on the back of the seat. The wound on his forearm throbbed like a son of a bitch.

“Have you been here before?”

“Not in this car. But along the tracks, yeah. When I was about sixteen, my dad brought me out here looking for scrap metal.”

“What’s that?”

“Machine parts that can be melted down and reused.”

“Did you find some?”

“Yes,” Owen said, shuddering at the memory. His dad had made him carry twenty pounds of rusted iron for ten miles. He’d ended up sunburned and sick, vomiting his guts out, so he knew how dangerous it was to get heatstroke.

“Is your dad old, like my grandpa?”

“Older. He was fifty when he died.”

“He died?”

“Last year.”

Cruz didn’t know what to say about that. “Was he nice?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Owen tried to think of an appropriate answer for a little boy. “He yelled at me and called me names.”

“Like what?”

Sissy. Faggot. Weakling. Cocksucker. “Words you shouldn’t hear.”

“He lived with your mommy?”

“Off and on,” he said. Christian Jackson had spent a lot of time in jail, mostly for domestic violence and drug charges.

“Did he leave...because of you?”

“No,” Owen said, startled by the question. He remembered what Penny had said earlier about Cruz thinking his father didn’t want him. “Some people just aren’t cut out to be dads. It’s never the kid’s fault.”

He squinted up at Owen. “Did he love you?”

“Yes,” Owen said, after a pause. For all his faults, his father hadn’t been a sociopath. He’d had anger issues, a drug problem and poor impulse control. He’d probably thought he was doing Owen a favor by toughening him up. And maybe he had. Without that harsh upbringing, Owen might not have survived in prison. “He was a mean son of a bitch, though.”

Cruz mulled this over. “Is it better to have a mean dad or no dad?”

“I don’t know. That’s a good question.” Owen could forgive his father for slapping him around, but he couldn’t look past the abuse his mother had endured. Far too often, she’d been used as a punching bag. Owen knew this: a bad
husband
was worse than none. “You’re lucky to have such a great mom.”

Owen glanced toward the area where Penny was sleeping, contemplative. Cruz had no experience with cruelty or abuse. He’d never been neglected. His father’s absence was the only mistreatment he was familiar with. Because of this, he didn’t see Penny as anything special, but he would. Someday, he would.

“Mommy says you’re not my dad,” Cruz blurted out.

Owen studied the boy’s hopeful face, his heart breaking. He still couldn’t believe Cruz had ever cast him in the role. A role he so desperately wanted. Pressure built behind Owen’s eyes. “I’m not,” he said, clearing his throat. “I wish I was.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you like my mommy?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“She likes you, too.”

His pulse accelerated. “How do you know?”

“I heard my tía Raven talking to her about it.”

Raven. Owen knew not to take her seriously. “What did she say?” he asked anyway.

“She said she wanted to go riding with you.”

“Go riding?”

“Uh-huh. Mommy got mad and told her to leave you alone. Tía said Mommy just wanted you for herself.”

“And what did your mother say?”

“She said that was true. Then Tía said okay, she wouldn’t take you for a ride as long as Mommy went with you.”

“Was this conversation in Spanish?”

“Yes.”

“What word did they use for ride?”

“Montar.”

He laughed, rubbing a hand down his face. It didn’t surprise him that Raven would initiate a naughty discussion. Even religious, well-bred girls talked about sex. He doubted she was serious about wanting to “mount” him, however. More likely, she had just been teasing Penny. The fact that Penny cared enough to warn Raven away from him was flattering. Did she really want him that way?

“Are you going to leave us?” Cruz asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, sobering. If Penny was too weak to continue, he’d have to make the difficult journey on his own. It was what he’d done after the earthquake. “I might have to go get help. But I’ll come back.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Cruz accepted those words, seeming comforted. “Mommy didn’t want to leave you, either. We looked for you by the tents before we ran away.”

“It’s okay. She made the right decision.”

Cruz curled up against his side and fell asleep. Owen stared out the window, lost in thought. He wondered if Penny wanted a man for herself or a father for Cruz. Owen loved Cruz as if he was his own son, but he’d never imagined having children of his own. He wasn’t even in the market for a girlfriend, so marriage and parenthood seemed beyond his scope. For the first time, he considered how his intimacy issues affected others. He hadn’t realized Penny was interested in him.

He’d assumed that stress and fear had caused her to cling to him. Seeking physical comfort was a normal reaction. But, according to Cruz, Penny had discussed him with Raven. She’d wanted him
before
the kidnapping.

He thought back to their earlier conversation. What could he offer her, other than his complete devotion to her and Cruz? Owen didn’t have much going for him. He had no savings and limited prospects.

She’d brought up a point he hadn’t considered. What did he think she could offer him? The question made him uneasy. It wasn’t that he thought he had to bring more to the table in a relationship because he was a man. It wasn’t
just
that, anyway. They were from different backgrounds. She was gorgeous and graceful and classy. She could date a movie star or a billionaire if she chose to. He was a convicted felon, a trailer park reject from the tumbleweeds. Of course he didn’t understand what a woman like her would see in him.

She deserved someone better, someone healthy and stable. He couldn’t support her in the style she was used to. If he kept his distance, she’d find the right person. She’d meet a decent man from a nice, respectable family. They’d live happily ever after. And he’d die of longing, watching her slip from his grasp.

He picked up Cruz’s sleeping form and carried him to the back of the rail car, setting him down beside Penny.

About a year ago, Owen had done a background check on Tyler Forsythe, Cruz’s father. He was a law student at Yale, handsome and athletic. Cruz looked like him. He had Tyler’s golden-brown hair and thick, straight eyelashes. Cruz resembled Penny more, but his features were a blend of two beautiful people.

As far as Owen knew, Tyler had never contacted Penny, never inquired about his son. Maybe he didn’t care.

Tyler was the kind of person Penny’s father approved of her dating, with the exception of his non-Latino heritage. It occurred to Owen, somewhat belatedly, that Tyler wasn’t his equal. Owen would treat Penny ten times better than a spoiled, unfeeling bastard.

After staring at the sleeping pair for several moments, Owen returned to the front of the car, his chest aching. He wanted them so bad he was choking on it. Tyler had thrown them both away and never looked back.