Coin-Operated Machines by Alan Spencer

got into enough movies, I found myself doing more and more westerns, and then I met you."
    A guilty pang hit Brock.  Now that he listened to her story from beginning to end, he really had put the kibosh on her career.  He had done the same to Angel too.  Brock was tearing up thinking about it, but he drove on hoping she wouldn't notice.  Instead of words, Hannah leaned her head against him and petted his stomach.  She understood what he was thinking. 
    They kept driving . 
    Brock's thoughts drifted to Angel.  He grew apprehensive imagining how his first encounter would go down. 
    Hannah read into the looks on his face.  "You're not going another mile without telling me what's going in that head of yours, Brock."
    "I'm stressed about Angel.  It's like bracing yourself for a punch that has your name on it, and you've done things that merit that punch, so there's no way out of it except to, well, to get punched."
    "I think she'll appreciate you coming to visit.  Sure, she's got issues she's going to deal on you, but it'll help you both.  How's that journal been working out?"
    Brock had kept the journal tuc ked under the seat of the car.  He made a few more entries during the trip, one of them damning towards Hannah.  He hated writing it, but it flowed through the pen and onto the page anyway: 
    Angel isn't the only one I've seen in precarious situations after men have finished with her.  Hannah was also a regular at my parties.  I once caught her passed out on my black leather sofa naked except for the rug she'd pulled up from the floor and wrapped around herself.  Open condom wrappers were strewn in the vicinity, but I can't be for sure they were used on her, but I know somebody had some fun with her.  Her panties were across the room.  I don't judge her because I've woken with up with strange women in my bed before.  I'm so glad what Hannah and I have now is so far removed from that.  I'm taking out the bad memories and replacing them with good ones.  And that's the thing about Angel.  Does she have any good memories, or are they all bad?  If there isn't any good for her now, there's no way she's going to kick the habit. 
    Brock finally replied to Hannah 's question.  "It's going alright.  The journal is a self-confessional, so it's not going anywhere near publication.  I have locked up skeletons in my head, and I have to free them."
    "I think it's a great idea.  I used to write a journal as a kid.  It was about stupid stuff.  What I wanted for my next birthday.  I drew pictures of my dad dressed up as a princess because he'd never play dolls with us.  He was a machismo guy.  Maybe I'll start writing in one too.  Would you ever let me read yours?"
    "Now what kind of a question is that?  It's deep down and personal.  It's unabridged material."
    "You don't trust me ?"
    "I trust you."
    "Then let me read it."
    "Why?"
    "Because I want to know what you think about the past.  It's about when you had the mansion, right?"
    She was backing him into a corner, and Brock had only one true weapon to redi rect her from the conversation.  "White cake or chocolate cake for the wedding?"
    Hannah smiled .  "Well, that's a loaded question..."
    She laid out each specific detail of the wedding, and when she was finished, they were only 22 miles away from Blue Hills, Virginia.

 
     
     
     
    BLUE HILLS, VIRGINIA
     
     
    Exiting the interstate and riding on a less traveled highway for twenty minutes, Brock and Hannah ended up in a heavily wooded area of bright green maple, chestnut, hickory, and oak trees.  "Welcome to deciduous city," Hannah said under her breath, reading the homemade sign on the road, what was made perhaps by a child, how the letters were painted crooked.  Hannah rolled down her windows.  "Smell that fresh air.  Oh, this is so much better than the city.  When we retire, we have to get out of Beverly Hills."
    "Once I pay off my debts, and if my show lasts long enough, I can build up a