Veda, her only friend, lived there.
With no assistance, she wrestled Max from his car seat and headed into the house. They entered through the kitchen door. The delicate floral print wallpaper covering the walls, in far too busy a pattern for the small room, had yellowed over the years. No doubt sped up by Wayde’s heavy smoking. The strong smell of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air twenty-four-seven. She squeezed through the narrow doorway into the small living room trying not to wake Max in her arms. The trampled beige carpet felt like concrete beneath her feet. The room, sparsely furnished with only a couch, loveseat, and antiquated console television that barely worked without cable, was gloomy. She tucked Max into his bed in the living room. Not in a bedroom of his own as Wayde promised. The stripper slept in there. He told her about Savannah when she arrived. Savannah was only staying for two weeks―three months ago. She kissed Max’s forehead and hoped if she got them home soon, he’d never remember the last few months.
In the closet of a kitchen, the small table and fridge were so close together she had to squeeze between them. She crouched down, opened the bottom cupboard, and stared at the bottles in front of her. Hard liquor never agreed with her. Still, she hoped a couple shots would help her sleep until Max woke up. After retrieving a bottle of vodka and a shot glass, she fell into the chair and poured the first shot. She was still looking at the glass when Wayde came into the kitchen.
“What the hell are you doing with that?”
“I’m hoping the alcohol will put me to sleep. Maybe I can get lucky and dream I’d never been here.” She was asking for trouble talking that way, but she was angry and frustrated.
“Maybe I can lay down with you, and you can get lucky.”
Now, you’re the one dreaming.
When she’d first arrived at Wayde’s house, he made it clear he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He’d convinced her she’d made her choice, and he told her he was going to be sure she got what she came for. Between her tears and her cutting words, sometimes she did get lucky, and he left her alone. At other times, she wasn’t lucky at all.
After downing the first shot, she poured another. She sat with her back three inches from the refrigerator. Wayde took his permanent seat on the long side of the table. The best seat in the house. If the stripper, Savannah were home, she’d be sitting across from her. And if the door opened, Savannah would cuss and scoot in a few inches to let whomever it was in. Usually, it was her married redneck boyfriend. The only other person who came to the door in the three months she’d been living with them was Savannah’s aunt, Wayde’s ex-sister-in-law. The aunt made it clear she’d only come to see ‘what kind of woman gonna go live with some man she don’t know and drag her kid along too’.
“You better watch how you’re talking to me,” Wayde said. “Don't know what you got full of while you were gone, but you’d better watch your mouth.”
“I’m going to lie down.”
“Shit, all you do is sleep. No wonder your husband got rid of you.” He didn’t look at her when he spoke. He just stared at the wall in front of him and took a big fat drag of his cigarette.
She downed her second shot, got up from the table, and set the glass down firmly in front of him.
When she went to bed, Wayde opened his cell phone and dialed. The call went directly to voicemail. He hesitated and then began to speak. “She’s home from Lakeside. Just how bad do you want to keep her here? And why don’t you ever pick up my calls. I’m getting sick of talking into the air. I love you.” He sighed and closed the phone.
Chapter 7
Jackson and Olivia’s limo pulled up next to an indiscriminate row of brick buildings with storefronts along the bottoms. He scanned the near desolate streets. The limo, against the backdrop of the
With no assistance, she wrestled Max from his car seat and headed into the house. They entered through the kitchen door. The delicate floral print wallpaper covering the walls, in far too busy a pattern for the small room, had yellowed over the years. No doubt sped up by Wayde’s heavy smoking. The strong smell of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air twenty-four-seven. She squeezed through the narrow doorway into the small living room trying not to wake Max in her arms. The trampled beige carpet felt like concrete beneath her feet. The room, sparsely furnished with only a couch, loveseat, and antiquated console television that barely worked without cable, was gloomy. She tucked Max into his bed in the living room. Not in a bedroom of his own as Wayde promised. The stripper slept in there. He told her about Savannah when she arrived. Savannah was only staying for two weeks―three months ago. She kissed Max’s forehead and hoped if she got them home soon, he’d never remember the last few months.
In the closet of a kitchen, the small table and fridge were so close together she had to squeeze between them. She crouched down, opened the bottom cupboard, and stared at the bottles in front of her. Hard liquor never agreed with her. Still, she hoped a couple shots would help her sleep until Max woke up. After retrieving a bottle of vodka and a shot glass, she fell into the chair and poured the first shot. She was still looking at the glass when Wayde came into the kitchen.
“What the hell are you doing with that?”
“I’m hoping the alcohol will put me to sleep. Maybe I can get lucky and dream I’d never been here.” She was asking for trouble talking that way, but she was angry and frustrated.
“Maybe I can lay down with you, and you can get lucky.”
Now, you’re the one dreaming.
When she’d first arrived at Wayde’s house, he made it clear he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He’d convinced her she’d made her choice, and he told her he was going to be sure she got what she came for. Between her tears and her cutting words, sometimes she did get lucky, and he left her alone. At other times, she wasn’t lucky at all.
After downing the first shot, she poured another. She sat with her back three inches from the refrigerator. Wayde took his permanent seat on the long side of the table. The best seat in the house. If the stripper, Savannah were home, she’d be sitting across from her. And if the door opened, Savannah would cuss and scoot in a few inches to let whomever it was in. Usually, it was her married redneck boyfriend. The only other person who came to the door in the three months she’d been living with them was Savannah’s aunt, Wayde’s ex-sister-in-law. The aunt made it clear she’d only come to see ‘what kind of woman gonna go live with some man she don’t know and drag her kid along too’.
“You better watch how you’re talking to me,” Wayde said. “Don't know what you got full of while you were gone, but you’d better watch your mouth.”
“I’m going to lie down.”
“Shit, all you do is sleep. No wonder your husband got rid of you.” He didn’t look at her when he spoke. He just stared at the wall in front of him and took a big fat drag of his cigarette.
She downed her second shot, got up from the table, and set the glass down firmly in front of him.
When she went to bed, Wayde opened his cell phone and dialed. The call went directly to voicemail. He hesitated and then began to speak. “She’s home from Lakeside. Just how bad do you want to keep her here? And why don’t you ever pick up my calls. I’m getting sick of talking into the air. I love you.” He sighed and closed the phone.
Chapter 7
Jackson and Olivia’s limo pulled up next to an indiscriminate row of brick buildings with storefronts along the bottoms. He scanned the near desolate streets. The limo, against the backdrop of the
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