Page 3

TWO

CAMbrIA

Not a girl, barely a woman … and barely hanging on

Eighteen years old and stuck in a life that smells like stale cigarettes, cheap liquor, and motel bleach. The sun beats down on the cracked asphalt parking lot as I crouch near the vending machines outside our room, scrounging coins from under the rusted metal lip and on the concrete below. Thirty-seven cents. That brings my grand total to four dollars and sixteen cents—still not enough for another night, but maybe enough for gas station dinner if I skip lunch again.

Momma’s been inside all morning, curled under a stained blanket, rolling in and out of sleep. She gets like this when she hasn’t had her fix—bones aching, skin crawling, voice slurred and distant. Last night she promised she’d be okay.

She didn’t come back until dawn, barefoot and shaking, clothes torn at the seam, face bruised. I didn’t ask what happened. I already knew. She collapsed on the bed and hasn’t moved since.

I hate this place. This dusty town with its broken sidewalks and flickering motel signs. I hate the looks the gas station clerk gives me when I walk across the street in my baggy jeans and oversized hoodie. Like I’m one bad decision away from becoming my mother.

Maybe I am.

Maybe this is all life has to offer me.

Maybe this is my own personal purgatory.

I pocket the change and head back inside, blinking against the dimness of the room. The air conditioner wheezes from the window, doing more rattling than cooling. The room smells like sweat and sadness. Momma’s curled in a ball, lips dry, mumbling something incoherent under her breath.

I kneel beside her. “You need water, Ma.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t want it. Just need Frankie. He’ll come. He always does.”

Frankie.

What a fucking joke! She thinks he’s her savior.

He’s the devil walking.

Her pimp. Her nightmare. The man who made her this way.

“He ain’t coming,” I whisper.

But I know better. He always comes. No matter how much I wish he wouldn’t come back, I never have that luck. No matter how much I pray for his overdose, it doesn’t come.

I sit back on my legs, wiping my palms on my jeans. There’s a rip in the knee that wasn’t there yesterday. I found them in the dumpster, took them back and washed them in the hotel laundry room. They don’t fit quite right, but I didn’t spend money on them. I picked because they didn’t have holes like a lot of jeans come with already. Probably got this one from crouching behind the motel dumpster, digging for discarded bottles to cash in. I used to dream about leaving.

About college.

Modeling maybe.

Singing on a stage in Nashville.

Momma always tells me I have a pretty face and a sweet voice. She tells me to get us out of here. I used to think I could do it. Make something of my life and hers too.

But dreams don’t last long when hunger lives in my stomach and bruises live on my mother’s skin and sometimes my own. Any dream of having a life out of Collins, Arkansas crashed around me two years ago.

I go to the mini fridge—empty, no surprise there. I grab the half loaf of bread we swiped from the convenience store dumpster and tear off a piece. No butter, no jam. Just dry bread and water from the tap. Gourmet.

I hear a knock on the door and freeze.

My heart jumps into my throat.

Another knock. Slower. Heavier.

I grab the baseball bat I keep next to the dresser and tiptoe to the door. “Who is it?”

No answer.

Frankie doesn’t knock. He has his own key to the room. He always gets a key. My key actually. Some nights we sleep under the steps if I don’t come up with enough money for the hotel. No matter how much we switch rooms, Frankie always gets my room key. Momma says he needs it more than me. Which means sometimes after one of my shifts at work, I have to sit outside until my mother comes to and can let me in.

My fingers tighten on the bat. I crack the door an inch and peek out. Just a man. A very attractive man.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Jeans, tight black t-shirt, and a leather vest.

My heart skips again, but not in fear this time. He’s smoking a cigarette and watching me like he’s been waiting his whole life for me. Or maybe it’s my young girl fantasy for someone, anyone to rescue me from this life.

“You dropped this,” he says, holding up a crumpled dollar bill.

I don’t reply. I just stare blankly at him.

He smiles, slow and easy. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

I open the door a little wider. Anxiety fills me. I don’t like strangers and I don’t trust anyone.

“Name’s Little Foot.”

I snort somehow relaxing which surprises even me. “That supposed to be cute?” I remember a movie when I was a kid that came on the free public channel. It had dinosaurs.

He laughs. “I guess it is.”

I stare at him wide-eyed, “Your mom named you after a cartoon dinosaur.” Like who names their kid Little Foot?

“Road-name babe. Little Foot because I used to wear my big brother’s shoes every day even when my mom would say not to, I would always get them and my foot was so little in them. When Axel, that’s my brother, brought me into the Hellions, he tagged me Little Foot. It stuck.”

I step outside, let the door close behind me. No need to let him see my mother in her condition.

“Why you talkin’ to me? Why not keep the dollar?” I ask because seriously who tracks someone to a room over a single dollar.

“Because I saw you yesterday. Picking up change in the lot. Thought maybe you needed a friend.”

I cross my arms. “I don’t need anything from anyone.” I don’t know if I’m aggravated because of my distrust or because more than anything I’m embarrassed.

He nods like he understands. But he doesn’t. No one does. Still, I take the dollar. “Thanks, though, I was missing it.” I lie.

“Anytime,” he says before he does the strangest thing. He hands me a piece of paper with his number scribbled on it.

“In case you ever want to talk.”

He walks off like it’s nothing. But for me? It’s everything. Because for the first time in a long damn time… maybe even ever.

Someone saw me.

Failing to get my mother out of her slump, I go about my afternoon. Frankie doesn’t come and sometimes I swear he does this so she feels the beginning of withdrawal and craves him more. She thinks he is some kind of savior. He’s not a saint, he is the damn devil.

Evening comes, I walk across the street for my shift at the gas station. As soon as I turned eighteen last month, I applied to work here. Thankfully the manager was willing to give me a chance. The night shift sucks but I need money to keep the hotel paid for until we can get an apartment again.

The parking lot is mostly empty, except for a couple of vehicles at gas pumps, and one old Buick that hasn’t moved in three weeks. I tug my hoodie tighter as the wind picks up, the kind that carries dust and forgotten dreams.

Gary is inside behind the counter, reading some crumpled magazine he keeps stashed under the register. He barely looks up when I walk in. Just grunts and slides over to the time clock. He’s older, probably in his fifties. Always sloppy in appearance, not that I can say much given my clothing is always a mess. But I’m clean. I shower every day. I’m not so sure Gary does. He has a beer belly that his rumpled t-shirts barely covers.

“Clean the coffee station,” he says. “And the men’s room.”

“Sure thing,” I mutter. Knowing I do this every night.

The bell above the door jingles behind me as I head to the back. I fill the pot, wipe down the counters, scrape dried creamer off the tile. This job isn’t glamorous. It barely pays. But it’s the only thing keeping me and Momma off the streets.

At 2 a.m., I take my break. I sit out back behind the dumpster, legs crossed, eating a granola bar I stashed in my hoodie pocket. I pull out the paper Little Foot gave me and stare at the number. I think about texting him. Just to see if he meant it.

But I don’t.

Because people like him don’t really help girls like me. They feel sorry for us. Maybe they want to save us. But nobody stays.

When my shift ends at five, I walk back toward the motel, my steps heavy. The sky’s turning that soft blue just before dawn, the kind that makes everything look washed out and worn. I get to the room and twist the door knob slowly. That is the thing about this old hotel. The door locks are old school with a regular key, not one of those fancy key cards. She left the door unlocked. My chest tightens in fear. I’m half afraid of what I’ll find.

Inside, Momma’s awake. Barely. She’s sitting up now, blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon, her eyes hollow.

“Frankie came,” she mumbles.

I’m sure he did in more ways than one. She can’t pay him in money, he keeps too much of his cut of bringing her clients. He uses her body as much as the men who pay him to have access to her. It’s disgusting. But she doesn’t listen. My stomach knots. “When?”

“While you were gone. He brought me something. Told me I’m beautiful.”

“What time, Momma? How long ago?” I need to know how long until the withdrawal starts again. We are stuck on this cycle that she refuses to break.

She gives me a snarl. “I don’t look at the clock. Don’t be so hateful to Frankie. He takes care of me.”

I don’t say anything. Because I want to scream. I want to punch a hole in the wall. I want to cry. Instead, all I do is nod. I’ve argued with her before about him, about our situation, about everything and nothing. In the end, I can’t reach her.

Momma lays back down, smiling like she’s high on life. I know that look. That numb, floaty smile that means she’s checked out for the rest of the day. I pull off my hoodie and jeans and lie down on the second bed. I stare at the ceiling fan and count the slow, lazy turns.

One.

Two.

Three.

The paper with Little Foot’s number is still in my pocket. Taunting me.

I pull it out and lay it on the nightstand. Just in case. Because as much as I tell myself I don’t need anyone…There’s a small, fragile part of me that wants to believe I might be wrong. Finally, I give into the fatigue of the night shift and sleep for a few hours.

The next day blurs by in waves of silence. I clean up around the room, not because I care but because I can’t sit still. I scrub at the crusted sink, organize the handful of toiletries we’ve scraped together, pick up the empty bottles and wrappers that always seem to multiply overnight. It doesn’t help. The air still smells like old cigarettes and despair.

Momma barely moves. She’s quiet now. Too quiet.

Around noon, I sneak across the lot to the vending machine outside the office and press my ear against the glass. It buzzes low, steady, like it’s breathing. I slide in the last of our change for a water bottle and a pack of crackers.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I sit on the curb, legs stretched out, letting the sun warm my face while I nibble the crackers slow. It’s not hunger that eats at me. It’s fear.

Because I know what’s coming.

Frankie doesn’t just show up to say hello. He shows up when he wants something. And if Momma isn’t good for it, he comes after me. He’s never touched me—at least not yet—but I’ve seen the way he looks at me. The kind of look that sticks to your skin long after he’s gone. It is coming, I feel it.

The kind of look that makes you wish you were invisible.

Back in the room, I sit at the little table and stare at my phone. I haven’t called anyone in weeks. Haven’t had anyone to call. No friends left. No family. Just Momma and Frankie’s shadow creeping in from every corner. I pay for the phone under one of those pay as you go things, but it’s a flat fee for unlimited usage.

Usage that doesn’t happen regularly. In fact, outside of getting called into work when someone calls out, I don’t actually talk to anyone on it.

I pull out the paper with Little Foot’s number again. It’s crumpled now, worn soft from how many times I’ve held it. Pick it up, put it in my pocket, take it out, put it on the nightstand, all over and over on repeat.

I don’t think. I just dial. The phone rings twice before he picks up.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, scratchy, like he’s been smoking or maybe just woke up.

“It’s me,” I say, and realize too late I didn’t say who.

But he knows. I sense it. “You okay?” he asks, his voice sharper now.

I want to lie. I want to tell him I’m fine. That I don’t need anyone.

But the words won’t come. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

There’s a pause on the line. A long one.

Then: “You at the same place?”

I nod, then remember he can’t see me. “Yeah.”

“Give me a few hours. I’ll be there.”

The line goes dead before I can say anything else. I stare at the phone, stunned. He’s coming. Why? Why would someone like him give a damn about someone like me? Is he really coming?

I don’t understand it.

But I don’t hang up.

I wait.

Hours pass.

I try to distract myself—clean more, re-fold the threadbare clothes in my duffel, sweep the floor with a towel. I peek out the curtain every five minutes like I’m expecting Santa Claus.

Then I hear it. The low rumble of a bike engine. I don’t even hesitate. I run to the door and fling it open. There he is. Black Harley-Davidson. Leather cut. Sunglasses. Boots that kick up dust as he walks across the lot.

My chest tightens. “You came,” I say.

“Told you I would.”

We stand there, just looking at each other. For the first time in a long time, I feel seen. Not pitied. Not picked apart. Not judged. Just… seen.

“Come ride with me,” he says.

And God help me—I go. Throwing all common sense and caution to the wind, I take the helmet from his hand and climb on behind him.

We ride for what feels like hours.

I don’t ask where we’re going. I just hold on. My arms wrapped around his waist, my face pressed into his back. The wind tears at my hair, but I don’t care. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel free.

He takes back roads, cuts through the woods, the hum of the engine the only sound between us. It’s not until we pull off near a wide, quiet overlook that he finally kills the engine.

I slide off the bike and stretch my legs. The view is beautiful—rolling hills and thick green forest that looks untouched by the mess I left behind.

“You hungry?” he asks, pulling a small bag from his saddle compartment.

I nod. “Starving.”

He hands me a bottled water and a sandwich wrapped in foil. “Turkey,” he says. “Best I could do on short notice.”

I eat like I haven’t seen food in days. Maybe I haven’t.

He sits beside me on a wooden bench, unwrapping his own sandwich, but mostly just watching me.

“Why’d you come?” I ask between bites.

His jaw tics. “Because you called.”

“That’s not an answer. You don’t even know me.”

He looks away for a moment, then back. “I know what it feels like to be stuck. To feel like no one gives a shit if you disappear.”

I lower my eyes. The vulnerability is too much.

“Figured maybe you didn’t want to feel that way anymore.”

I nod slowly. “I don’t.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the wind rustling the trees. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. It feels safe.

“Tell me about you,” he says after a while.

I take a deep breath. “Not much for me to tell.”

“How about your name?”

I smile, “Guess I left that out, huh?” He nods. “My name is Cambria Tracy. I’m eighteen years old.”

He gives a low whistle. “You really legal?”

I nod, “you need to see my ID? I have one.” Because I do and I can imagine he is worried about getting caught with me if I was a minor. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-six,” he answers content I am giving him the truth about my age, “And your parents?”

“Dad is unknown, momma,” I pause, “she is sick. It’s why we live in the hotel right now. We’re gonna get a new place. I have a job now and can help. Her medicine it just costs a lot so we got kicked out of our last place.”

While the words aren’t exactly the truth, it isn’t like I’m giving him complete lies.

He listens to every word. Really listens. No interruptions. No judgment.

When I’m done, he says, “You ever think about leaving?”

“All the time.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

“My mom.”

He nods. “You love her.”

“I do.”

“And she loves you?”

That is a hard question to answer. I pause. “Sometimes I think she does. Sometimes I think she just needs me.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“I know.”

We don’t say much after that.

When we get back to the motel, the sun’s already setting.

I expect him to drop me off and ride off into the dark like something out of a dream. But he doesn’t. Instead, he kisses me on the cheek leaving me in shock.

“I’m in Arkansas for one more day. I’ll take you to dinner tomorrow night. Then I gotta go back to North Carolina. You need me, call. Even if it’s to talk.”

“Who are you?”

He smiles with his perfectly white teeth. “I’m starting to figure that out, darlin’. I’m not a good man, but I’m not a bad one either. I see something in your eyes. I can’t explain it. You need me, Cambria, just call. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

And before I can think of a single word to reply, he turns and walks back to his bike without ever looking back at me.

I’ve never felt butterflies before. I’ve never felt confused by someone before either. But here we are and I’m not quite sure what comes next.

Well, except dinner tomorrow night.