“No, stop.”
Brynn sat up in bed with her mouth open, the words still hanging in the dark of the room. Her shirt was soaked through to the skin, the cotton pressed flat against her chest and her stomach, her hair stuck to the side of her neck in wet ropes. Her chest rose and fell hard under the wet shirt, her heart hammering against her ribs, the beat of it visible in her throat, her collarbones lifting with each breath.
The shapes came into focus around her. The desk against the wall with the chair pushed in. The window with the blinds pulled down, a thin line of gray showing at the bottom where the seal met the sill. The second bed three feet from hers, the blanket pulled up over the shape beneath it.
Her hands found the edge of the mattress and gripped it, her fingers pressing white against the sheet, the knuckles locking, the tendons standing out along the backs of her hands.
She sat there, her shoulders rising and falling, the sweat cooling on her arms and the inside of her elbows. A car passed on the street outside, the headlights sweeping a bar of light across the ceiling through the gap in the blinds, moving from one wall to the other and disappearing.
She looked over at Alma. She lay on her side facing Brynn, one eye cracked open, her body held still, the blanket pulled up to her shoulder. She was holding the shape of sleep, her breathing too even, her mouth too still, her hand curled under her cheek on the pillow. When she saw Brynn looking at her she closed the eye, her lashes pressing together, her breathing going slow and deliberate.
Brynn watched her for a second then threw the blanket back, swung her legs off the bed and set her feet on the carpet, the fibers rough and flat under her toes. She reached under the mattress, her fingers sliding along the bed frame until they found the box cutter. She pulled it out and stood, her hand closing around it, the plastic warm from the heat of the mattress, the weight of it small and familiar in her palm.
She started toward the bathroom, her feet quiet on the carpet.
Alma’s voice came from behind her, quiet. “Brynn?”
Brynn stopped in the doorway, her back to the room, her free hand resting on the frame. “Go back to sleep.”
“Can I ask you something?”
Brynn looked back at her over her shoulder. Alma was sitting up now, her knees pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, her face half-lit by the gray from the window. The blanket pooled around her waist.
“Hurry.”
“When did you know that Saint, like... liked you?”
Brynn leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, her weight settling into it. Her thumb moved once along the side of the box cutter, the ridged plastic catching against her skin.
“When he stopped getting mad that I couldn’t say his last name right and just let me call him Saint.”
Alma nodded, her fingers picking at a thread on the edge of the blanket, winding it around her index finger and unwinding it. She wound it again, tighter, the thread pressing a white line into the skin. “I think the boy I been talking to is just, like... lying to me. To get what he wants.”
“Stop talking to him then.”
“But I like him, though.”
“You gotta trust him, not just like him.”
Alma nodded. Her eyes dropped from Brynn’s face, down her arm, to her hand. She looked at the box cutter.
“Go back to sleep,” Brynn said.
Alma lifted her eyes back to Brynn’s face. “Are you going back to sleep?”
“Yeah.”
Alma nodded, lay back down, pulled the blanket up to her chin. Her eyes closed and her breathing settled.
Brynn’s hand clenched once around the box cutter. She stood in the doorway for a beat, her shoulder against the frame, her eyes on Alma’s shape under the blanket, the rise and fall of her ribs, the purple toenails sticking out past the edge of the sheet.
She stepped back from the threshold onto the carpet, turned from the doorway and walked to the closet. She pulled the door open and reached in past the hangers. Her hand found the hoodie on the shelf above the rod, the cotton soft and pilled, and she pulled it down. It was oversized, the sleeves hanging past her hands, the hem falling to her thighs. She pulled it on over her head, worked her arms through the sleeves and slid the box cutter into the front pocket.
She got back into bed, pulled the blanket up. She pressed the collar of the hoodie to her nose, the fabric resting against her mouth and eyes closed.
The truck sat in the driveway with its hood propped open on the rod, the engine bay throwing heat back into the morning air. A toolbox sat in the grass beside the driveway with the lid hanging open, wrenches, sockets and a pair of pliers spread across the top tray, a bottle of brake fluid standing upright in the grass next to it.
Beau leaned into the engine bay with a rag hanging from his back pocket, his forearms streaked with grease to the elbows, his shoulders bunched as his hands worked something loose beneath the intake manifold. The hood cast a shadow across his face and the top half of his body, the rest of him standing in full sun, his boots planted wide on the concrete.
Saint sat on an overturned five-gallon bucket a few feet from the front bumper, his back against the chain-link fence that ran along the edge of the yard, a beer resting between his feet.
He picked up the beer, took a sip, wiped the condensation on his jeans and set it back down. “You going to any camps this summer?”
Beau’s hand reached deeper into the engine bay, his shoulder turning against the frame, the tendons in his forearm standing out as he torqued something. “Yeah. Doing a couple.” He pulled his head out from under the hood, wiped his hands on the rag, the grease smearing into the already-dark fabric. He draped the rag over the fender and looked at Saint, squinting against the light. “You want to come?”
“Where you going?”
Beau leaned back under the hood, his voice carrying up hollow from the engine bay. “Austin for one. El Paso for the other.”
Saint nodded, tipped the beer back. “Shit, we should just go to Mexico while we over there.”
Beau laughed, the sound muffled under the hood. “Yeah, that’s how you get snatched up by the fucking cartels.”
“Man, ain’t nobody getting snatched.”
Beau pulled his head out, the rag slung over his shoulder now. “You ever been to Juárez? That shit ain’t Cancún, lil’ bro.”
A wasp circled the prop rod twice, drifted toward the radiator cap and settled on the edge of the frame. Beau flicked the rag at it and it lifted off, banking toward the yard. He pulled the rag back, folded it once and stuffed it into his back pocket, then leaned in and set both hands on the fender, looking down into the engine bay.
The front door opened behind them and Vickie walked out, the screen door banging shut against the frame. She stopped on the top step, a cigarette tucked behind her ear, her keys in her hand. Her eyes landed on Saint on the bucket and stayed for a second, her weight settling onto one hip, before they moved to Beau.
“You got twenty dollars? I need to get mama some scratch-offs.”
Beau wiped his hands on the rag, wringing it once between his fists. “You the one with the job, Vickie.”
“My money goes to bills. Somewhere you should be fucking contributing to.”
Beau reached into his front pocket, worked a folded bill out from between his knuckles and held it up, the grease leaving a smudge on the paper. “I got five. That’s it.”
Vickie sucked her teeth, stepped off the porch and crossed the driveway, her sandals slapping the concrete. She snatched the five out of his hand, folded it into her palm and dropped it into her back pocket. Her eyes went to Saint again, looking at him sitting on the bucket with the beer balanced on his knee, his hand resting on top of it, his face turned up toward her. Saint looked back at her, his eyes steady. She held for a beat, her keys clicking once against each other in her fist, then turned and walked back into the house. The screen door slapped shut behind her. Through the window they could hear her voice carrying down the hallway, calling something to someone deeper in the house.
Beau watched her go, then looked at Saint. A grin pulled slow across his face. “You got a thing for older women?”
Saint shook his head, picking up his beer. “Ain’t my fault your sister always eyeing me.”
Beau laughed, the grin still sitting on his face, and ducked back under the hood. His hands found whatever he’d been working on and the sound of metal turning against metal came up from the engine bay, a bolt loosening in slow quarter-turns, the socket ratcheting. The wasp came back and circled the antenna once before drifting off toward the street.
Saint set his beer down between his feet. “Let me borrow your truck tonight.”
“It ain’t even running right.”
“I ain’t going far. Just need to make a little run.”
“You gonna put gas in it?”
“Yeah.”
Beau nodded under the hood, his hands still working. “Then yeah.” He pulled his head out, wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist and pointed at the toolbox sitting in the grass, the sun catching the chrome on the wrenches. “Get me the pliers out of there so I can finish this shit.”
Wes lay on the couch with his feet hanging off the armrest, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, the toothpick pinched between his teeth. The TV played a rodeo broadcast from somewhere in Oklahoma, the announcer’s voice tinny through the small speakers, the camera cutting between the chutes and the stands. Dakota stood in the kitchen with her back to him, wearing a t-shirt that hung to her thighs and a pair of panties, her bare feet on the linoleum, a skillet on the burner in front of her. The bread browned in the pan, the edges darkening where the butter pooled, the smell of it and the melting cheese filling the trailer, settling into the cushions and the carpet and the curtains.
On the screen a rider came out of the chute on a brindle bull, lasted three seconds before the animal spun him into the dirt, the rider’s hat flying off his head as the bullfighters moved in. Wes shook his head, the toothpick shifting between his teeth.
“I’m gonna be fucking famous one day. Pro rider making millions.”
Dakota laughed without turning around, her hand resting on the handle of the skillet. “I don’t think those guys make millions of dollars.”
“I ain’t worried about them. I’m gonna make millions.”
Dakota lifted the edge of the bread with the spatula, checked the underside, set it back down. She flipped the sandwich in the pan, the bread hissing against the fresh butter, the cheese oozing out past the crust and bubbling where it hit the surface. “You gonna make millions and then lose it all when you get into it with the wrong people at some shit bar in fucking Crane before they leave you in a ditch.”
Wes folded both arms behind his head, the couch creaking under the shift in his weight, his eyes on the screen where the replay ran the same wreck in slow motion from a second angle. “That’s what bodyguards and Blackrock security for.”
Dakota laughed again, shaking her head, and slid the grilled cheese off the skillet onto a plate, the bread golden and dark at the edges, the cheese still running. She grabbed a knife from the counter, cut it in half, the blade pressing through the crust, the cheese pulling apart in a long strand between the two pieces. She wiped the knife on the edge of the plate and set it in the sink.
“You so full of shit, Wes.”
She reached into the cabinet above the stove, pulled a handful of chips from a half-empty bag, dropped them on the plate next to the sandwich. She went to the fridge, pulled a beer from the door and popped the tab with her thumb as she walked into the living room. She sat down on Wes’ lap, swinging her legs over his, her back settling against the couch cushions, the plate balanced on her stomach, the beer in her other hand. Wes’ arm came across her thighs, his fingers tapping against the leg further away.
He looked at the plate on her stomach. “Why you ain’t fix me a sandwich?”
Dakota took a bite of one half, the bread crunching between her teeth, chewing with her eyes on the TV where another rider was climbing into the chute, settling onto the bull’s back, wrapping the rope around his hand. “Because you only had two slices of cheese.”
Wes sucked his teeth and reached for the other half. Dakota slapped his hand off the plate without looking at him, her palm catching his knuckles, the plate rocking once on her stomach before it steadied. She took a sip of the beer and set it on the carpet next to the couch, the can tilting once against the fibers before it settled upright.
“You gonna settle down when you make all these millions?”
“Absolutely fucking not. I’m a rambling man. Wherever I lay my hat is my home.”
“That’s not how it goes.”
“That’s how it go for me.”
Dakota rolled her eyes and took another bite of the sandwich, the cheese stretching from the bread to her lip, her fingers pinching the crust where it was starting to come apart. On the screen the gate opened and the bull came out spinning, the rider’s free arm whipping above his head, the announcer’s voice climbing over the noise of the crowd.
The pawn shop sat at the end of a strip on the main road through Monahans, the neon sign buzzing in the front window, the lot empty except for a sedan parked near the side entrance with its windows down. Saint pulled Beau’s truck into the lot and nosed it toward the storefront, the tires crunching over the gravel at the edge of the asphalt. He killed the engine and the truck settled, the exhaust ticking in the quiet, the hood popping once as the metal cooled.
Brynn looked out the windshield at the building, the bars on the windows, the handwritten signs taped to the glass advertising cash for gold, layaway, check cashing. The paint on the facade had faded from whatever color it had been to a flat tan that matched the dirt in the lot.
She raised an eyebrow, looked at him. “What are we doing here?”
Saint opened the door. “You’ll see.”
He got out, walked around to the bed of the truck and reached over the side, grabbing a bookbag wedged between the wheel well and a five-gallon bucket. He slung it over one shoulder, the weight of whatever was inside pulling the strap tight, and walked around to the front of the truck. Brynn was still sitting in the passenger seat, her arm resting on the window frame, her eyes on him through the glass. He waved his hand at her. She pushed the door open, the hinges groaning, and climbed out.
She followed him across the lot and through the front door, a bell ringing on a coiled spring above them as they stepped inside. The store was narrow and deep, the ceiling low, the fluorescents humming in their fixtures. Glass cases ran along both walls, watches and jewelry under the glass on one side, the velvet lining faded where the sun hit it, electronics on the other, a row of phones lined up by size, cables coiled beside them. Power tools hung on pegboard behind the register, drills, sanders and a circular saw, the blades dull with dust.
A lone employee sat behind the counter on a stool, scrolling on her phone, her elbow resting on the glass, a can of Dr Pepper sweating beside her wrist. Saint walked up to the counter and set the bookbag down in front of her.
Brynn hung back a step, her eyes moving across the store, the cases, the shelves, the pegboard. They landed on the far wall where a row of guitars hung from hooks, acoustics and electrics lined up by size, the price tags dangling from the tuning pegs, the bodies catching the overhead light, the wood grain showing through the lacquer. She stared at them, her hand coming up to rest on the edge of the case beside her, then stepped closer to Saint.
The employee kept her eyes on her phone. “You looking to pawn something?”
Saint unzipped the bookbag, reached inside and pulled out a Playstation 5. He set it on the counter, the console landing heavy on the glass, the surface flexing under the weight. “I want to trade this for whatever guitar she wants.”
Brynn’s eyes went wide, her head turning from the console to Saint. Her lips parted, closed. Her hand came off the case beside her.
The employee looked up from her phone, her eyes moving from Saint to Brynn to the Playstation sitting on the glass between them. She set the phone down on the counter. “Where’d you get this?”
“It was a present. For having good grades.”
The employee looked at him, her eyes staying on his face for a beat, her thumb still resting on the edge of her phone. She picked up the console, turned it once in her hands, checked the ports on the back, set it down. “I’ll do it if it works.”
Saint nodded. “It works.”
He turned to Brynn, touched her elbow once and walked her over to the far wall where the guitars hung. The two of them stood in front of the row, the instruments hanging at different heights, the acoustics on the left, the electrics on the right, the necks angled out from the wall. A Martin with a cracked pickguard. A Fender missing a string. A Yamaha with the finish worn through on the body where someone’s forearm had rested for years.
“Which one you want?”
Brynn whispered. “Where’d you get that PS5?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Brynn stared at him, her eyes holding on his face, searching it. He nodded toward the guitars.
She turned and looked at the wall. Her eyes scanned the row, passing over the electrics, the bass, the Fender, settling on the acoustics. She reached up and lifted one off the hook, a Yamaha with a natural finish, the spruce top light under the fluorescents, the fretboard dark with use. She pulled it to her chest, her arms wrapping around the body of it, her fingers pressing flat against the back, the curve of the waist fitting against her ribs.
Saint smiled at her. He walked back to the counter where the employee was plugging the PS5 into an old monitor behind the register, the cables snaking across the glass, her fingers working the HDMI into the port. She hit the power button and the console hummed, a blue light pulsing from the front panel, the screen flashing to life, the startup logo filling the monitor. The fan whirred to speed inside the housing.
Saint nodded toward Brynn, the guitar pressed against her chest. “Fair trade?”
The employee nodded, pulled a pad of receipts from under the counter, clicked a pen and scribbled on it, the paper tearing against the carbon copy beneath it. She tore the sheet off and slid it across the glass. Saint took it, folded it once, put it in his pocket.
He looked back at Brynn. She was looking down at the guitar in her arms, her fingers curled around the neck, her thumb resting on the fretboard between the second and third fret, pressing lightly enough that the string dimpled under her skin.
They walked out of the store, the bell ringing above them, and crossed the lot back to Beau’s truck They climbed in and pulled the doors shut, the cab going quiet. Brynn set the guitar across her lap, the neck resting against the dashboard, the body filling the space between her and the bench seat. She reached over, took Saint’s face in both hands, her palms against his jaw, and kissed him.
She pressed her forehead to his, her hands still on his face, her thumbs against his cheekbones. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because I want to hear you sing.”
Brynn smiled, her eyes closing for a second, her breath warm against his mouth. She kissed him again. Saint smiled against her lips and pulled back, his hand finding the key in the ignition.
“Beau at Gracie’s so he ain’t gonna be wondering where his truck at.”
Brynn laughed, leaning back against the seat, her hand resting on the body of the guitar in her lap, her fingers spread across the spruce. Saint turned the key and the engine caught.
Why we assuming he stole that?
