Going Down: The Elevator Series (13 page)

“I’ll call you later,” my rarely worn one-shoulder sheath appeared to say. “Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.” I slipped back into the living room, closing my bedroom door behind me. Leroy was perched on Maggie’s lap grooming his hind parts, as he likes to do when she comes over. I swear that cat’s asshole is probably cleaner than most operating rooms.

“I can’t believe you didn’t wear the shorts. I’ll have you know those were exact replicas of the ones Daisy Duke wore in
Dukes of Hazzard
, Season Two, Episode Fourteen, ‘The Runaway.’ ” She scooped up Leroy and deposited him on the adjacent couch cushion. “Sorry, buddy. I don’t have time to let you finish today. Let’s get a move on. If I more than double nickel it we might get to the chicken coop before the wiggle wagons.”

“Was any part of that English?”

She was already through the door and into the hallway shaking her head. “You’re such an appliance operator. This is why I made you a cheat sheet.”

I begrudgingly followed her. “You’re like a walking redneck Rosetta Stone, Maggie.”

***

The ride out of the city was long. I could feel my body rejecting the fresh air within minutes. Thankfully Maggie knew her day would be ruined if she didn’t stop for coffee before leaving my block. I never considered myself an addict until I had to abstain prior to getting some blood work drawn. My doctor asked me to go twelve hours without caffeine, but I had gotten competitive and denied myself for twenty-four. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but the lab technician dropped all the charges in the end. Dr. Hansen retired shortly thereafter, but I’m sure the two events were unrelated.

“We’re getting close; I can feel it!” Maggie bounced in her seat.

“Me, too. It feels like we’re about to get murdered and have our wallets stolen by some traveling pack of bandits.” I looked around at the wooded scenery. I tried to memorize the beauty of it since it would likely be the last thing I see on this earth.

“Stop it! No one is going to kill us. I’ve been talking to a few of the guys over the CB the last few weeks. They seem very cool, and I’m a good judge of character.”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t use the CB anymore, Maggie.” My lips were as pursed as pursed could be.

“I don’t recall agreeing to that. I’m telling you, these are nice guys. You have to give them a chance.”

“I hope they give me a chance at a head start before they carve out my spleen and sell it on the black market. Will you ask them to dump my body behind that pine tree over there?” I pointed out the passenger window. “It’s so lovely. Like a postcard. For serial killers.”

“Stop! You are so dramatic. No one is losing their spleen today.”

“I’m dramatic? Have you seen your outfit? You look like the sole survivor of a rodeo fire.”

“Ohmygod, we’re here! I see it!” She punched my arm in excitement. I rubbed the tender spot of my newest bruise and attempted to pull the big rigs into focus with my one contact. No amount of bad seventies TV viewing could’ve prepared me for the sheer number of trucks.

“That’s a lot of trucks.” My eyes darted between the still-bouncing Maggie and the lineup of vehicles ahead of us, unsure of which was more intimidating.

“Right? This is going to be such a great cross section of asphalt pilots! I can’t believe our luck!”

My focus shifted solely to Maggie. “ ‘Ass’ what? I changed my mind. We’re going back.” I attempted to overpower her and make an illegal U-turn on the highway, but she had the upper body strength of a baboon on a methamphetamine binge.

“Get control of yourself! An asphalt pilot is a truck driver, for Pete’s sake. And what is wrong with your eye? Why do you keep winking at me?”

Instinctively, I covered my left eye. “There was an incident. I don’t want to talk about it.” I pulled the brim of my novelty hat over my face as Maggie put the car in park.

“Oh, Cici,” she huffed while adjusting her plaid micro top and sparkly skirt. “Pull it together; I don’t want you embarrassing me.” And with that she was out of the car.

I sat in my seat for a moment, taking in my surroundings and questioning every life choice that led up to this moment. Maggie was about as high maintenance as they come, but she was also the best and most loyal friend I’d ever had. In exchange for bizarre field trips where I ended up acting as her bodyguard, I had a companion with unflagging allegiance who often knew what I needed before I did. I once woke up with the flu only to find a vat of chicken noodle soup and the entire DVD series of
Gilmore Girls
at my front door.

A loud rapping on my window startled me. “Are you coming or not? Let’s get a move on,
amigo
!” It was almost endearing how she gave the illusion that I had any choice. Almost.

I trudged out of the car, double-checking that I had my phone, pepper spray, and hand sanitizer at the ready. In all likelihood, these were just normal hardworking men, but I had no idea how long it had been since they had seen a real woman. Was it like the military? Did they deploy for months at a time? These were questions I should’ve asked beforehand. I clutched my purse a little closer to me.

Maggie, however, was in her element. We weren’t even past the parking lot yet, and she was oozing charm. Her patriotic nightmare of an outfit couldn’t hide her good breeding. Her posture was such that you could balance a tea service on top of her ridiculous hat. With fifteen years of ballet under her belt, she almost floated over the wads of gum and empty soda bottles littering the concrete. “Hey there, fella!” she called out. “Nice Peterbilt.”

The
fella
she addressed turned in our direction and whistled.

“Maggie! There’s no need to be crude! Get your hormones in check,” I gasped. I lowered the brim of my cap even more. At this rate, I’d be wearing it as a mask in fifteen minutes.

“Oh, good grief! Get your mind out of the gutter, beaver. A Peterbilt is a type of truck. How do you not know this?”

“Because I spend my time memorizing things that are relevant to my life, and various Trivial Pursuit answers. How on earth would I know a Peterbilt is a—Did you just call me a beaver?”

Maggie shook her head in disgust. “You didn’t read any part of the informational packet I prepared, did you? A beaver is another name for a woman. Preparation is the key to success, Cici.” She inhaled heavily and pulled open the front door of the truck stop. The smell of thirty different kinds of air fresheners and overcooked bacon assailed our senses. This wasn’t completely foreign territory; my family had taken quite a few road trips during my childhood. Except this time I wasn’t with my brother on the hunt for candy and soda; I was with a girlfriend on the prowl for a husband.

The inside of a truck stop was essentially a large gas station, usually with a diner or fast food joint attached. You could purchase anything from rubbery chicken fried steak to a knit pantsuit. The novelty options were endless. One could really clean up in the clearance section if you were in the market for broken Christmas tree ornaments and outdated New Year’s glasses. A feature that made a truck stop unique from a regular gas station was the public showers in the back. I’d have to be pretty naïve to think Maggie’s goal wasn’t to
accidentally
wander into the showers. She may have been freakishly strong, but I was prepared to use my pepper spray and the skills from my one free trial Krav Maga lesson, if necessary, to prevent that from happening. This day was as much about fulfilling Maggie’s newest dream as it was about staying out of jail.

“Can you believe how beautiful it is?” Her voice whooshed out in the hushed whispers of someone in a catatonic trance. “It’s better than I imagined.”

Out of the corner of my good eye, I caught a glimpse of a tangled wind chime and a garden decoration that looked like an old lady bending over. “It really is a lot to take in.” I nudged her into one of the aisles. “Let’s keep moving; we have a lot of ground to cover.”

And I need to get the heck out of here, sooner rather than later.

“Good idea. Let’s head for the diner and order some breakfast. I bet that’s where most of the aces are anyway.” Maggie glided between a fast walk and a slow sprint toward the diner area.

“Sounds like a plan. I’m one bout of listeria away from my goal weight.” My phone was already in my hand as I searched Yelp for reviews when I received a text from the Elevator Sex God.

How’s it going so far? Still alive?

My stomach did that silly flip-floppy thing and not because it was apprehensive about the forthcoming cuisine. I clicked on it to reply, when I realized I’d made a grave error. I should’ve focused more on where Maggie was leading us and less on the yearnings of my meat wallet. While there were quite a few open tables, she deposited us smack in the center of five tables whose occupants looked as if they’d just stepped off the set of America’s Most Wanted.

I gulped.

Quickly scanning the area, it was easy to see we were two-thirds of the women within fifty yards. The third woman was sitting at the full table directly to our left, and she appeared to be stockier than most of the men. I tried not to judge a book by its cover, but the odds of her asking me to arm wrestle for my breakfast were pretty high. The din in the diner fell so silent I could hear my left eye blinking SOS in Morse code.

“Hey, little mamas.” We were addressed by the gentleman closest to our right as he made a sound not unlike a wounded elephant, and spit tobacco into a metal coffee can in front of him.

I grabbed my companion’s arm. “Maggie! Sidebar!” I hissed. I attempted to pull her with me, but she didn’t budge.

“It’s Maggie Mae!” was her only harshly whispered response.

That was confusing enough to give me pause. “Pardon?”

“I swear to Waylon Jennings, Cici! Did you even read past the table of contents in the informational packet I made you?”

This cleared up none of my confusion. “You made a table of contents?”

“That’s beside the point!” She wrenched her arm out of my grasp and planted them both hands on her hips. I wasn’t winning this one. “The point is, I go by Maggie Mae now!”

My left eye twitched so wildly it was close to sending out smoke signals. I wanted to argue that her Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandmother Margaret Eugenia Vanderhorn—her namesake—was rolling in the family mausoleum, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Maggie had her hands on her hips. It was time to pick a different battle.

“Fine,
Maggie Mae
.” I might have injected a bit of venom into her new moniker. “Could we please sit at another table? Perhaps closer to the door?”

She shot me a look of defiance and plopped down in a chair. “No. What’s wrong with this table?”

“Yeah. What’s wrong with that table?” The tobacco man snorted. The nearby tables gave no pretense of allowing our hushed conversation any privacy.

Think fast on your feet, Carrington.

“My cat’s sick.”

I’m really going to have to expand my repertoire of excuses.

“Huh?” The strapping woman on my left barked.

This was going downhill fast. “Nothing,” I answered, taking my seat across from Maggie.

She seemed inclined to pretend that entire interchange never happened. “We’re starved! What would you boys—and lady—recommend?”

I scanned the table for menus, but didn’t locate any. Something told me they didn’t serve an egg white omelet with truffles and goat cheese at this fine establishment. I wasn’t normally a picky eater by any stretch of the imagination, but I wasn’t in the best mood after getting dragged from my bed
and
naked partner this morning. I picked up my phone to reply to Cole.

Yes, I’m still alive. Maggie’s days are numbered, though.

A waitress appeared over my shoulder like a ninja. Looking at her face and seeing my exact level of doneness reflected in it, I immediately felt a kinship with her. She was probably in her late fifties. Her gray-peppered light-brown hair was pulled into a tight bun, as it probably had been for the past thirty years. Her head appeared to be perpetually cocked to the side. She wore a dumpy T-shirt and jeans, although I noticed the other waitresses wore uniforms. This was a woman who had already had enough of everyone’s nonsense. I liked her, and if I played my cards right, maybe I could broker a deal with her to pull the fire alarm. Things were looking up. I gave a silent nod in the general direction of my pantless Good Luck Cat back in the city.

My newest soul mate pulled two laminated sheets of paper from her waistband, both yellowed with age. She slapped one down in front of each of us. I only needed a quick glance at the menu to confirm it consisted solely of protein, carbs, and fat. I glanced across the table at Maggie and noticed a distinctive shift in her expression. It was the same pattern every time with her obsessions. She would be all in until she had to step way outside her comfort zone. Then she would panic. Her brief foray into camping nearly burned down a national park when she kicked over a kerosene lamp in her haste to run back to the car. A solitary owl had hooted after dark and she’d had her fill of nature. She was the kind of girl who wanted to see the world… from the safety of her penthouse.

Maggie’s eyes darted between the menu, the nearby truckers, and me. Her body wasn’t bred to handle this type of food and she knew it. Sweat accumulated on her brow, and she wiped it away. I might not have to fight my way out of here after all.

When she finally spoke, her voice was horse. “Um, good morning, ma’am.”

Our waitress said nothing in return.

Maggie looked at me for help, but I wasn’t about to throw her a lifeline. Recognizing this, she soldiered on. “Are there any specials? What would you recommend, ma’am?”

“Ordering fast. I don’t got all day.” The waitress crossed her arms and flattened her lips even more.

“Oh. Right.” Maggie was off kilter. “What kind of drinks do you have?”

“Coffee.” This waitress didn’t mince words. I liked her more by the minute. She wasn’t wearing a name tag, so I decided to call her Vera in my head.

“Good!” Some color returned to Maggie’s face. “I’ll take a half-caff latté with soy milk, easy on the foam, and two shots of vanilla and a half shot of caramel. You have to put the vanilla on the bottom, though. That part’s crucial. You’re not writing this down. Did you get that? It really ruins the taste if you don’t put the vanilla in first.”