That was his plan, after all—to try to wiggle into my good graces. He still hadn’t figured out I wasn’t won over so easy. That, and I’d outlast him without fail.
He’d realize it soon enough.
But hopefully not until I’d fucked with him well and thoroughly.
10
Dat Ass
GRANT
I didn’t know why I was shocked to find thirty anti-fracking signs stuck in my small front yard the next morning.
Jo was my first thought in the way of perpetrators, though on consideration, it could have been anyone. Especially given that she had new and cruel ways to punish me. Signs were nothing when she could force me into an enclosed space full of bees.
With a sigh, I walked past the signs. Having played this game before, I knew that removing them would only multiply them—I’d wake up tomorrow with more.
As I headed toward town in search of a hot meal, I thought about what else she had in store for me, deciding that it was unimaginable and pointless to try. One thing I wouldn’t dare tell her was that yesterday was more fun than I’d had in a long, long time.
We’d cleared out the bees, and Wyatt fed us pulled pork and sweet tea while we sat in his kitchen talking, laughing. Mostly, I listened, observed as they told stories of the town, of their youth, with a little gossip strung in for good measure.
I had friends, people I did things with. But these people were a part of each other’s lives in a way I found fascinating. It was a thing I’d only seen on television, a concept that felt about as real as a Norman Rockwell. I watched them like a voyeur, feeling more like an outsider here than I maybe ever had.
Her honesty held its own appeal. I lived in a world of mirrors, where people behaved like they thought you wanted them to behave. Where genuineness was not rewarded—it was punished. It left a window for being taken advantage of, a window I’d taken many a time. But this time was different. I didn’t know how, exactly. Probably to do with Jo’s and my arrangement and the time we’d spent together. It was easier when they weren’t humanized. When the things they wanted were merely bargaining chips to get what I wanted.
But yesterday, I watched a half-pint woman with inky black hair and a backward baseball cap scoop up handfuls of bees like the hive was a basket of kittens. While she talked shit to me.
It was hard not to be impressed.
You have a job to do. So do it.
My father’s words in my head steered me toward my day as I reached the edge of Main Street. That voice had followed me around my whole life, cold and distant. I hated it. But that voice inspired me to prove him wrong—a potent motivator. Pissing him off satisfied a quiet, deep-seated desire to hurt him. Even deeper than that, deeper than I liked to acknowledge, was a kernel of hope. It’d happened here and there—he’d toss praise at me like the scattering of breadcrumbs, and I’d lived off those crumbs my whole life, keeping me in his sphere, starving for affection I’d never get.
But on the flip side, I enjoyed my job. I liked to be useful, to be successful in my goals. To know that when a task was set to me, I accomplished it despite whatever odds were against me. I looked forward to seeing these towns, noting the differences between my life and the people I came across. A tallying of what I had and what they had, not monetarily, but in a spectrum of worths and desires. A seeking, almost. For what, I didn’t know. All I knew was that I hadn’t found it.
As for Lindenbach, I had rounds to make at a couple farms I hadn’t signed yet and dinner at the mayor’s house. Like the rest of the country, Lindenbach was divided, and the mayor represented one side of the coin. Mitchell had grand ideas, misguided though they were. He wanted to elevate the town, but he was coming at it crooked, mistakenly believing that capitalism was the only way up.
I found him crass, and not because he was from the country. But because his ego could barely fit in Lindenbach. Every word he spoke had an unspoken expectation that you’d agree with him, and if you didn’t, then fuck you.
It wasn’t my job to get involved in local politics. I had deals to close, and then I could go home. What Lindenbach did after that was none of my concern.
When I turned onto Main Street, it was to find more anti-fracking signs posted in establishment windows. Someone had been busy. The new development struck a chord of urgency in me—it was the point when I should take my time and hurry before they took to legislating regulations to kick Flexion out of town.
Hands in my pockets, I strode toward Bettie’s Biscuits, the town’s diner. Eyes followed me. I met passing gazes with a smiling nod or an easy Morning, taking the flak where I had to. This was the job. Eating the shit sandwich.
Fortunately, I’d been bred not to care. When I left here, I’d never see any of these people again. What they thought of me only mattered in relation to how it affected the contracts I needed to get signed.
Everything I did here was for show, I reminded myself.
Jo’s face popped into my thoughts with the subtlety of a jack-in-the-box. Objectively, whatever happened with her was for show too. Subjectively, the undercurrent of intrigue flowed beneath the façade of indifference. In that place, so far beneath the surface, lived the beginning of something else, something other. Something decidedly not objective.
I made myself feel better by insisting my interest was nothing more than the challenge she presented and the fine packaging she came in.
Whatever helps you sleep at night, a voice in the back of my head snarked.
But I shook it off. This was my domain, and I reigned supreme. I knew what I was doing. And I didn’t have feelings to hurt, to consider, or to even manage. Which was why I was so perfect for this job.
The bell over the door dinged when I entered. I was met with Hank Williams and the hum of the breakfast crowd, the smell of bacon and coffee in the air and the clink of silverware against plates.
I took a seat at an empty booth by the window and picked up a menu from the condiment caddy, skimming it for something that sounded good, which ended up being all of it.
“Hey, sailor,” came a raspy voice from my elbow.
I looked up to find ninety-year-old Bettie herself standing at the end of the booth, pouring my coffee with a smirk on ruby lips and a T-shirt that read Oh yes I can. She’d knotted it at her waist, sporting a pair of wide legged black slacks and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a pair of red Converse.
I shot a smirk right back at her. “Morning, Bettie. What’s farm fresh on the menu today?”
A laugh slid out of her. She propped a hand on her hip and gave me an approving look from behind chunky red glasses. “So you knew that was me, did you?”
“You can assume I know everything.”
“Everything, huh? That’s a mighty statement.”
“It’s my job to know. Particularly who wants to humiliate me on live television.”
“Well, you handled it like a pro.”
“Also in the job description.”
She made an amused sound. “Is handling bees in your job description too?”
“Only this time. Anyway, Jo handled the bees. I wasn’t allowed to touch anything.”
“Look at that. You’re not even surprised I know.”