Less Than Nothing (19 page)

“Hey, little darlin’, whatchou doin’ out here in God’s country at this hour? Where’s your car?”

I debate telling him to blow it out his ass, and remember how well my middle finger did in Memphis, so decide to play nice.

“Don’t have one.”

He takes another step closer, and my creepdar alarm is screaming full tilt.

“You lookin’ for a date, is that it?”

I smell alcohol, and something else – a stink like rotting garbage. His breath.

“Wrong. I’m here with some people,” I say.

The man’s eyes roam over the empty lot, and he licks his lips and smiles. It reminds me of a special on Animal Planet about moray eels.

“Some people, huh?” He glances at the two bags – the guitars are on the other side, and it’s too dark for him to see them. “With just that? Come on. Don’t shit a shitter. How much for a little lovin’, sweetie?”

I try to keep my voice steady. I’m cringing now, calculating whether I can bolt to the left. “I’ve got AIDS and herpes, mister. And I’m on my period. You don’t want to mess with me.” I wish I had the can of pepper spray I’d taken from home, but I lost it at some point on one of my early scared nights in the park. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He grabs my arms with a vice-like grip, and I scream. He clamps a hand over my mouth, and I try to bite him, but he’s smiling like a lunatic – he’s enjoying me frightened and fighting him.

“I like ’em with a little spirit, girl. You got a real mouth on you, don’t you? How ’bout I show you what we do to little whores with smart mouths in these parts?” he hisses in my ear. The stench is overpowering. I try to kick him and land one on his shin, but he just laughs. He removes his hand from my mouth and slaps me, hard.

My head jerks back, and tears well in my eyes… and then he’s sailing through the air, Derek on top of him. They land on the ground, hard, and I realize Derek must have flying tackled him. The pervert’s swinging at Derek, but he doesn’t stand a chance. Derek’s pummeling him, and I’m glad, but that changes to alarm as each blow sounds wet.

“Come on. That’s enough,” I say and grab his shoulders, but he shrugs me off and keeps pounding him. I grab his arm and hold it, but he keeps hitting the man with his other fist. “Derek!” I scream, really frightened now. If he keeps this up, he’ll kill him. I’m crying now. “Stop. Please. Just stop.”

Derek looks back at me like he’s coming out of a dream. The dark glow slowly fades from his eyes as he realizes what he’s done. He stares at his fists, bloody and ragged, and then slowly rises, moving like an old man. I look down at the pervert and gasp – he’s a mess, hardly recognizable, his nose flattened, his eyes swelling shut, his skin torn in a dozen places. Derek stalks away, breathing heavily, and after pacing back and forth halfway to the car, walks back, flexing his hands.

When he reaches us, he kneels down and frisks the driver. He finds his wallet and car keys, pulls out a business card and pockets it, and examines the license before tossing it onto the man’s chest.

“Well, Jerome T. Samuels, looks like you don’t hold up against anything tougher than a girl, huh? Guess that hillbilly white trash upbringing of yours didn’t prepare you for the real world.” Derek’s breathing is still ragged, and I can see him making an effort to fight back the anger that’s swelling in his chest. When he speaks again, his voice is calmer. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to let me borrow your car. I’m not stealing it – you need help, and you can’t drive. We’ll call an ambulance and send it for you.”

Derek looks at me, and I know my eyes are still frightened. He glances back down and peers at the man’s tattooed arms.

“Judging by the prison tats, you’ve done time. I’ll bet the cops would love for her to file a report against you for attempted rape, assault and battery, the whole deal. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, is it, you piece of shit?” Derek spits to the side and kneels down close to the comatose man. “You make up some story about how you were beaten up by whoever you want to say did it. But you don’t mention me or her, or so help me God I’ll come for you and finish the job. You report the car as stolen, that’s fine, but don’t do it till morning or your ass is going back to jail.”

Derek stands. “Make a noise if you understand.”

The man makes a wet gurgle. I back away from Derek, my stomach churning. He turns to me and hands me the keys. “Put the stuff in the car. I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t hurt him anymore. Please. For me. Just don’t,” I say in a small voice. I walk away three steps and stagger to the bushes and vomit, heaving until my stomach’s empty, the kung pao sour in my nose and mouth.

“Are you okay?” Derek says, and he sounds both worried and normal. I nod, but part of me is still sick. My whole body feels like there’s something badly wrong.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” I say and go to gather our things. Only when I reach the car with our guitars do I realize I’m shaking and crying. They fit in the back of the car, which is filthy, beer cans crumpled and tossed on the floor, a patchwork of duct tape repairs on the seats. I return to get our bags, and spot Derek, who’s kneeling by the man, speaking softly.

Something about the image frightens me, and I think I’m going to be sick again. Instead, I carry my backpack and Derek’s rucksack to the Camaro and wedge them between the guitars, then push a bag out of the way and sit in the passenger seat, waiting for Derek. I wipe the tears off my face. My cheek burns where the creep hit me, but it’s a familiar feeling – Ralph’s conditioned me to take a punch without blinking.

Derek’s boots crunch on the asphalt, and he swings the driver’s door wide. When he looks at me, it’s still the same incredibly hot Derek, but I can’t hold his gaze. I wordlessly hand him the keys, and he starts the engine before turning to me. “I’ve only driven a car in Driver’s Ed. That was a while ago.”

“I can drive.” Before I left home, I used to get sent for liquor store runs when my mother was under the weather.

“That might be a good idea,” he admits, and we switch seats. I put the transmission in reverse and back out of the slot, and then point the hood at the highway.

Driving in the fog requires all my concentration, which is good because it means I don’t have a chance to replay the pervert’s leer over and over in my head. Or the image of Derek, blood smeared on his hands, methodically killing a man.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. That I left you alone. I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, and I blink back more tears.

“You were using the can, Derek. You can’t be everywhere at once, and your job isn’t being world police against scumbags.”

“I know. But I got you into this, and I’m supposed to be looking out for you.”

“You didn’t get me into anything. I’m doing it because I want to.”

He goes silent and moves the paper sack onto the floor, and then stares back up at me with a hunted look.

“I’m sorry. I heard him go after you and saw him hit you, and I…I snapped.”

Yes. Yes, you did. And I was there to see it. You wouldn’t have stopped until you’d driven your fist completely through his skull and pounded it to mush.
I change the subject, because I’m afraid I’m going to blow chunks all over the interior, which would be a fitting end to one of the worst days of my life.

“It’s over, Derek. We need to focus on what to do next. You think he’ll tell the cops, give them a description?”

Derek shakes his head. “No. I think I nailed it. He’s got a record, so they’re way more likely to believe us instead of him. No, he’s going to be praying we don’t turn him in. He’s a loser. He’ll take his lumps rather than risk going back into the joint.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am. I know the type.”

We stop at a gas station in Kingston, and Derek calls 911 from a payphone, holding a rag over the mouthpiece and wiping it down when he’s done. The bored attendant is dozing in the cash booth, so there’s nobody to give a description, assuming anyone cares. We drive another few miles and stop at a twenty-four-hour restaurant, and I get a cup of coffee and use the bathroom. When I return to the car, Derek’s got his smirk in place. I get behind the wheel and smell alcohol. He holds up a nearly full pint of Jack Daniels and takes a long pull.

I’ve got nothing against alcohol, even though it ruined my mom’s life. It’s just a chemical, like any other. If she wanted to abuse something, if it hadn’t been booze, it would have been something else. At least that’s what I tell myself. But seeing Derek with the bourbon, his knuckles shredded from two fights in a handful of hours, makes something inside me die.

“Want some?” he asks.

“No,” I say, not trusting myself with more words.

He looks puzzled and then shrugs and takes another swig before putting it back into the bag. “It was unopened. There are three beers in here, too, if you want one of those.”

“Thanks. I got coffee. I think it’s probably a good idea if one of us stays sharp.” My tone sounds harsh to my ear, but I’m tired and nauseated, and now, a little bit scared. I realize how little I actually know about Derek. He’s capable of sudden, massive violence. He seems to slip into another place when he loses it. And now he’s drinking hard liquor after almost killing a man.

What else don’t I know about him?

This entire adventure suddenly feels wrong. I’m in the middle of nowhere with a homeless guy I know little about, and he likes to drink after smashing people to a pulp. What else does he like to do? And does he hit a lot of people when he’s angry? He claims to have only gotten into a couple of fights, but he wasn’t specific about the number. And he admitted to hospitalizing someone.

What have I gotten myself into?

The last two days of mooning over him like a groupie at a rock concert now disgust me. I’m sickened by myself, by how far I’ve come from the girl in San Francisco just a week ago. A girl who was distrustful of Derek. Possibly for good reason.

We drive in silence, and after fifteen minutes I turn on the radio just to stop the escalating whirlwind of self-loathing. I tell myself that Derek was protecting me, that there’s no danger – in fact, he stopped the two bullies from attacking, and saved me from the old pervert. The words sound fine, but I can’t get the slow-motion vision of Derek’s bloody fists out of my head. And I know without a doubt that when I finally get to sleep, Ralph’s face and Derek’s will merge in a way that will haunt me forever.

By the time we make it to Knoxville, Derek’s finished the pint. He seems completely relaxed, not at all drunk, and shows no signs of being anyone but the Derek I know.

Thought I knew
, I correct. Because the truth is, for all my lustful fantasies about him, I’ve seen a side of him tonight that’s in direct conflict with the calm, funny, sexy, intelligent guy I decided to go to New York with. A side that, if I’d known about it, would have been a total deal breaker.

But now I’m on the road with him.

Derek tries to make small talk, but I’m not in the mood. We ditch the car near a truck stop on the east side of Knoxville and walk wordlessly to the huge lot where scores of trucks are parked, some idling with the distinctive clatter of diesel motors, most silent. We sit on a bench outside the restaurant, and Derek checks the time. It’s nearly 4:00 a.m., and we’re both beyond tired. But like soldiers on a jungle offensive, we can’t sleep until we’re somewhere safe, and right now, safety is as fleeting as the dream we’re chasing.

He looks at me with a grim expression. Faint lines of anger tighten around his mouth and eyes. “You can see where he hit you,” he says.

“I have that kind of skin. It’ll be gone by tomorrow night.”

He doesn’t ask how I know that. I don’t volunteer.

And I realize that everyone’s got a story. Mine’s ugly in places. But I don’t have an exclusive on ugly. After what I’ve seen, I’m sure that Derek’s nightmares are every bit as bad as any of mine, if not worse. Way worse. Because there aren’t a lot of things that can cause the kind of blind rage I saw.

“You want some ice? I’m thinking about some for my hands.”

I look down at his knuckles. They’re swollen and scabbing over. One of the things that’s different than the movies or TV is how much damage even the winner of a short fight suffers. If more people saw how bad it can be to win, there’d probably be a lot fewer punch outs.

“No. I’ll be fine. How about you? You going to be able to play?”

He chuckles as though the idea’s funny. I wonder whether he’s a little drunk, but as usual, I can’t read him. “Sure. I’ll be a little stiff for a few days, but I’ll make do.”

I try to smile, but it’s more of a grimace. “You recognized the tattoos on that guy’s arms. Prison, you said.”

“That’s right. I’ve seen a lot of them. Arian brotherhood. Racist Nazi bastards love to tat up.”

I try to think of a soft way to ask, but I can’t. “Have you ever been in prison, Derek?”

He chuckles. “They don’t put kids in the joint, Sage. I only turned eighteen the other day. So no, I’ve never been.”

Duh
. Can I think of any more stupid questions to ask?
Were you ever an astronaut? Have you ever ridden a unicorn?

He smiles, genuinely amused, and I wish I could collapse inward on myself and disappear, crumpling like origami in a fire. Sage, master of the idiotic question, has taken her clueless act on the road. Shows round the clock, never a dull moment, no inquiry too far-fetched or unlikely for her to voice, no filter between whatever stupidity flits through her brain and what spews out of her mouth.