My Kind of Crazy (15 page)

I wake up with the sun streaming in the window, hitting me full in the face. I blink a few times, adjusting to the light, and then smile, thinking about last night. The truth is, that might have been one of the best and the worst nights of my life.

I turn to Peyton, but the bed beside me is empty. My clock says it's 6:16 a.m. I sit up to look for her but all I see is two week's worth of laundry scattered across the floor like an obstacle course.

No Peyton.

Honestly, I'm not sure whether to be pissed or relieved. I know this is how it's gone all week, but somehow I thought after last night, things might be different. I guess it beats having to explain to Dad why there's a girl in the house.

I throw on my jeans and a T-shirt and head out into the hall. The door to the bathroom is closed and I can hear the shower running. Dad's up early. I start downstairs when I hear singing in the kitchen. Dad's crooning some off-key country song to himself while he bangs around making coffee.

Crap.

I retreat to my room before he can see me, hoping Dad doesn't decide to come back upstairs and take a piss because he'll be in for quite a surprise. I'm also praying he's wearing pants.

Somehow I've got to get Peyton out of here without him seeing her. I have no idea how to tell him about her or explain her unsettling appearance, and I'm guessing he won't buy that her bike jumped a curb.

Moments later, my door quietly opens and Peyton tiptoes in. She's wearing my Batman hoodie, which is way too big for her, and her sweats from last night. Her lip is definitely swollen and her cheek is still slightly pink. The sweatshirt hides the bruises on her arms, but her hair is even more devastating in the daylight. My stomach twists at the sight of it—forcing me to reimagine all she went through.

“Hey,” she says. “I…uh…took a shower. I hope that's okay.”

“Yeah, of course.” I feel self-conscious around her in a way I never have. Awkward. Like I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I'm not sure if I should kiss her good morning or just act as if everything is normal. I don't know what
she
wants me to do.

“Is it okay if I borrow this for today? I don't have any other clothes,” she says, gesturing to my hoodie she's wearing.

I nod vigorously. “Sure. Whatever you need.”

“Thanks.” She sits on the edge of my bed, inches from where we were lying semi-entwined only a few hours ago. “Thanks again for letting me stay here last night. I guess I need to figure out some kind of plan. I mean, obviously I can't go back home.”

Before I can even think it through, I say, “You can stay here.”

“Really? Are you sure?” She looks relieved, as if it's what she's been hoping to hear.

“Definitely.”

“Is your dad going to be okay with that?”

“I'll talk to him.”

“Because he seemed kind of surprised to see me this morning,” she says.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

“Did you say you saw my dad this morning?” I ask to make sure I heard her correctly.

“I was going into the bathroom as he was going downstairs. He was totally cool, but I don't think he expected to see a girl coming out of your room. In fact, he looked sort of amused.”

“Fantastic. I guess he and I should probably have a chat.”

“Probably.” She puffs out her cheeks, sighing, then runs her hand self-consciously over her hair. “I look pretty awful, don't I?”

I shake my head. “No. It's not that bad,” I lie.

She bites nervously at her fingernail. “I'm hideous.”

“I think you're beautiful,” I tell her, and this time I'm not lying.

She smiles but I can see that she's feeling fragile. I walk over and kiss her, as if it proves what I said. Instantly, all the awkwardness washes away. We're just Hank and Peyton.

I tell her I'll be right back, because I should probably get things squared away with Dad as soon as possible.

I go downstairs and find Dad refilling his mug of coffee. He's dressed in that same nice button-down shirt and pants he wore the other day. Either he's run out of clean clothes or maybe he has another interview. I'm hoping for the latter, which would be good news and also mean he'll be leaving the house soon.

“I met your friend this morning.” He gives me a knowing smile and raises his eyebrows, then lifts his mug as if he's toasting me. “It's about time someone popped your goddamned cherry. I was starting to wonder about you.”

He chuckles and sips his coffee. Subtlety has never been his strong suit. I'm hoping Peyton can't hear him, but I don't bother to correct him because this information seems to put him in a good mood and I don't want to jinx it.

I try to laugh it off instead. “Yeah, about that. Listen, Dad. Peyton…the girl upstairs… I need to ask you a favor. She needs a place to crash for a while, and I was wondering if she could stay with us.”

“For how long?”

“I don't know.”

“What about her family?”

“Her family is
why
she's here, Dad.”

“She a runaway?”

“No, not exactly.”

His brow furrows with concern as he shakes his head. “I don't know, Hank. I don't want to get mixed up in any family drama. I don't need someone to come looking for her and start trouble.”

“No one will come after her.”
At least, I hope not.

“I'm not blind, Hank. Someone knocked her around pretty good. I don't know her story, and it's none of my business, but I want to make sure that if I agree to this we're not putting ourselves in a bad position. I'm trying to get my life back on track and I don't need any setbacks.”

“Dad, I swear, you'll hardly know she's here. I promise. It's only temporary, until she can figure things out.”

He considers it and then nods reluctantly. “Okay. But I mean it, Hank. Anyone comes nosing around for her, she has to go.”

I bob my head. “Absolutely. Hey, you got another interview today or something?”

He glances at the clock on the wall, downs the rest of his coffee, and smooths his hair with his hands. “I'm going down to the factory to talk to my old boss about getting my job back. As much as I don't want to give those bastards the satisfaction of crawling back to them on my hands and knees, sometimes the devil you know is better than the one you don't.”

“That's good, Dad. Good luck. And, um…thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah. You keep chatting me up and I'm gonna be late.”

We're not good with the sentimental shit, maybe because it doesn't happen too often, or like…ever, so that was as close to a father-son moment as any.

As soon as he leaves, I make the executive decision that given the circumstances, there will be no school or work today. First I call O'Callaghan and give him some bullshit excuse, but I need something legitimate for school in case I need to stretch it out for a while.

I call the attendance office and lower my voice two octaves, thickening my New England accent to play Dad. I go with the first thing that pops in my head. I tell the woman that my son, Hank, is very ill. It could be flu, but there's a possibility it could be encephalitis. The woman sounds shocked and concerned, so I know I've picked a good excuse. When I hang up, Peyton starts cracking up.

“What? What's so funny?”

“Encephalitis is brain inflammation.”

“Shit, I overdid it. I meant bronchitis. All I know is, there's no way I can deal with school today.”

“Definitely.” She shakes her head. “What the hell am I gonna do, Hank? I need to figure out how to get my stuff from my house. I need to figure out the rest of my life. And I've got to find a way to fix this.” She holds up a butchered strand of hair and then drops her hand into her lap. “I can't walk around like this.”

And then it hits me.

“I think I know someone who can help.”

• • •

Mo's Boobie Barn is on the outskirts of town, sandwiched between a Motel 6 and a check-cashing shop that also offers bail bonds. Talk about knowing your target audience. The Boobie Barn is literally an old renovated barn, painted red with white trim, but the silo out back is bright pink, like a giant schlong. You can't miss it.

I gamble that Monica's there, even though it's early. I would've called first, but it's much easier to explain everything in person, and I'm hoping if I just show up with Peyton, Monica will be less likely to send me away. I see her piece-of-shit red Dodge Shadow parked on the side, and it makes me smile. It's been a few weeks since I've seen Monica, and I'd be lying if I didn't say I missed her.

I remind myself that I am here to help Peyton so my mind doesn't wander to all the hot girls wearing next to nothing. I've never actually been inside Mo's because I'm underage, but I'm hoping that since it's lunchtime and there aren't many cars in the parking lot, I might be able to convince someone to at least get Monica a message.

“You're taking me to a strip club?” Peyton shakes her head as she climbs off the handlebars of my bike. “I'm not taking off my clothes for money. No way. I'm not that desperate.”

“You don't have to take off your clothes. Just follow my lead.” I prop my bike against the side of the building and make my way to the front, past the first blinking neon sign that says “Open 24 hours / Live DJ” and the second that says “Live naked girls.”

When I open the front door, I'm greeted by pulsating music and a bouncer built like a sumo wrestler. He doesn't look like the sort of person who would take pity on a not-quite eighteen-year-old trying to get into a strip club with his equally underage girlfriend. He positions himself squarely in front of the purple velvet curtain that separates the entrance from the actual lounge.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Uh…yeah. I'm here to see Monica.”

He narrows his eyes. “Can I see some ID?”

“Um…I don't actually have it on me. If you could just tell her that Hank is here, she can totally vouch for me.”

He doesn't budge. “Uh-huh. You need an ID to get in. No ID, no access.”

The man clearly takes his job very seriously. I'm betting he's been Employee of the Month more than once.

“Here's the thing. I really need to talk to Monica. It's sort of a life-and-death situation.” I can feel Peyton staring at me, and I silently plead for her to roll with it.

The bouncer dude crosses his arms over his four-foot-wide chest and says, “Life and death, huh?”

“Yes, life and death,” I assure him. “You see…I've just found out that someone we both know and care about is sick, dying actually. And I know she'd want to know about this. He's like a father to her, and she'd be devastated if something happened and she didn't get a chance to say good-bye.”

“It's really rough when someone passes and you don't get to say good-bye. You never get any closure,” Peyton chimes in, and I bite my lip to keep from completely losing my shit.

“Never. It's like an open wound,” I say as Peyton gives a sorrowful shake of her head.

The guy shifts uneasily. “Dying, huh?”

“Could be a matter of hours. So touch and go,” I say.

“The worst part is he's so young, like a brother,” Peyton says.

Bouncer Dude's brow creases with confusion. “I thought you said he was like a father to her.”

I nod. “Yes, he's like a father
and
a brother. I don't know which is worse.”

“I lost my father,” the bouncer tells us. “Two years ago next Sunday.”

“That's awful. I'm so sorry,” Peyton commiserates.

“Then you know how it is,” I say, sensing his weakening resolve. “She's gonna be wrecked. Like a total head case. So I'm hoping we can break this to her in person. You know, in private.”

The guy hesitates. We're as good as in. He shoots a glance over his shoulder. “Okay, there's practically no one here so be cool. Monica's dressing room is in the back, although around here she's called Fantasia.”

“Thank you,” I say before he can change his mind, but the bouncer sticks out a beefy arm the size of a small tree trunk.

He leans in and says in a voice that's all business, “Walk like you know where you're going, because if anyone asks where you came from, I'm going to say I was on a piss break and you two snuck in. So be cool.”

“Like frickin' ice cream,” I assure him.

He parts the purple velvet curtain for us and we're in.

“Nice work. I'm not even going to ask why you're on a first-name basis with a stripper,” Peyton says as she looks around, all wide-eyed.

“Monica used to date my dad,” I explain. “Don't worry. She's cool.”

“And how exactly is she going to help me? Because call me crazy, but I don't think I can pole dance myself out of this situation.”

“Would you please trust me?” I say, which seems to pacify her.

Jesus, this place is everything I imagined it would be. There is a smattering of tables and bar stools around the edge of the stage where a few early-afternoon diehards are guzzling drinks and watching a bored-looking brunette with a cheetah G-string and black tassels grind a pole.

The DJ is in the corner, jamming to the beat of the house music and wearing giant headphones and sunglasses despite the fact that he's inside. He can probably stare all he wants and no one would even know. It's like my dream job. There are seminude girls every-frickin'-where, and it's like naked Disneyland.

A cocktail waitress wearing a sexy maid apron and not much else checks me out, then notices Peyton, who stands out like a sore thumb in my Batman hoodie and sweats, and looks the other way. It figures that the one time I actually get to be in a place like this I can't even enjoy it. I grab Peyton's hand, and we wind our way through the maze of tables toward the back like we mean business.