Page 16

Diesel

“Hey, Diesel. Wake up. You want some dumplings?”

Samantha’s voice comes like a siren’s song through the haze of my sleep. Gentle, warm, seductive. So gentle that, at first, it doesn’t wake me, it just makes me smile as if I’m still floating through the best dream. Then my stomach rumbles and forces my eyes open. Even though my aching body would rather sleep, it has been decided: I want some dumplings.

No, I don’t just want dumplings; I need dumplings.

“Fuck yes, I want some dumplings,” I say, sitting up.

“They’re the fucking shit, brother,” Hunter says, from where he’s hunched over the small cabinet that contains the room’s microwave, coffee pot, mini fridge, and meager collection of cups and silverware, shoveling dumplings into his mouth by the handful. Watching him devour the dumplings like a lion on a baby gazelle makes me salivate a river. “Get yourself some of these.”

“Don’t worry, I put some aside for you,” Samantha says, and she hands me a cup of coffee and a saucer laden with dumplings. “Eat up. You need more in you than just the pineapple you had last night.”

“Thank you, Samantha,” I say.

There must be something unintentional in my voice, because Hunter pauses for a moment and gives me a look.

“I’m going to finish eating outside. Catch some fresh air. You were snoring, Diesel. It sounded like mortar fire,” he says. “It was so bad that I thought about smothering you in your sleep.”

I flip him the bird. “Not fucking likely. Take your time out there, you asshole. Or come back never.”

He answers with a middle finger over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

“Are you two sure you’re friends?” Samantha says.

I grin at her. It hurts like hell. Smiling reminds me that my face is less my face and more a punching bag after Mike Tyson’s had a workout, but it’s worth it to have her smile back at me. “Not just friends. Best friends.”

Then I take a bite of the dumpling and relish the warm, savory flavor — the delicately seasoned meat, the gentle wrapper that gives way to release the homey burst of soup in my mouth. First one, then another, then two more go down quick and easy. Samantha sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes searching my face. There's a moment of silence between, but it's not uncomfortable. It feels easy.

Easy enough to open up.

Just a little.

Because what can it really hurt to be a little kinder to her? Not too much. Things are still too dangerous for that, but a little humanity and some conversation can’t hurt, right?

"So," I begin, unsure how to break the silence. "What do you do, outside of working for the strip club?"

“Gross.”

“What? I’m trying to talk to you. I’m trying to not be an asshole.”

“And you immediately bring up the place where I was basically held as a sex prisoner and call it my ‘work?’”

“Fine. Forget about that place. What do you really do?”

“Social work.”

“And how did you get into that?”

Samantha's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I think she might deflect the question. She looks down at her hands, clenches and unclenches them, as if wrestling with an answer. A moment passes where I get the impression that I’m somehow still being an asshole, despite the fact that I’m just trying to show interest in something that she’s passionate about, and I get ready to stand up and take my coffee outside, but then she sighs and her shoulders relax.

"It's a long story."

"I've got time," I say, surprising myself with how much I want to hear it. Why am I getting closer to her? And yet, why do I find myself unable to fight the fact that I want to get closer to her? I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Really?”

“Really. Tell me. I want to know.”

“Fine.” She nods and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "It started with my brother. He... is not well. He's had issues with addiction for years. Tore our family apart. There was — no, there is — so much pain. All the lies, the stealing, the relapses… it hurts so much to love someone, to want the best for them, and to see them come so close to doing the right thing, only to ruin it all." I lean forward, captivated by the raw honesty in her voice. She sighs again and then continues. "Watching him struggle, seeing how the system failed him, seeing how he failed, and how I failed him, too... You know, they say you can learn the best from your mistakes, and, if that’s the case, I feel exceptionally educated to help people in similar situations. And even though I’ll never give up on Jake, I’ll always try, but even if I can’t help my brother, I can at least help other families not have to go through what I went — no, what I’m going — through."

Her words hit me hard, reminding me of my time with the Army Rangers — the unbreakable bond of brotherhood, the promise to never leave a man behind, to sacrifice all you have for a cause that means something.

"Is that what led you to the strip club? Is it something Jake did?"

Samantha's lips quirk into a sad smile. “Jake has a way of falling in with a bad crowd. He was doing so well before that, too, but then he relapsed. Hard.”

There’s a baffling amount of love in her voice, and not a tinge of regret. If Jake were here right this moment, I’d want to rip his throat out for the pain he’s caused to this woman sitting next to me. Yet Samantha? She sounds like she’d just want to give Jake a hug and try again to help her brother be a better person.

“How do you keep doing it?”

“Because he’s my brother. Because I love him. Because I know that he can do better. I’ve seen it. Beneath the shadow of his addictions, there is a wonderful person inside him. Someone who’s smart, who can make me laugh, who loves me back. Even if it takes a lot to see it, and doing so costs a lot.”

Her eyes drop and she tugs at her skimpy shorts, then sighs, grabs a dumpling from her plate and pops it into her mouth. As she chews, I can't help but notice how uncomfortable she looks in her outfit; the Daisy Dukes ride up her thighs and the bikini top strains against her curves. Samantha tries to adjust them subtly, but I can tell they're digging into her skin. She stands, grabs the last few dumplings, and puts them on my plate.

“You should eat more,” she says.

Kidnapped, hunted by criminals, and stuck in a horrible situation because of her addict brother, and even when recounting her pain, the first thing she does is think about me. How in the hell does she manage it?

An urge rises within me, surprising in its intensity — I want to help her feel more comfortable. More human. More like herself, and less like a piece of meat on display. Samantha deserves better.

I swirl my coffee in my mug and stare into the inky black. An idea forms in my mind. It's a little risky, definitely not legal, probably well outside Samantha’s comfort zone, but it just might work.

"I think I know where we can get you some better clothes."

“It’s not like we can just go to the mall right now, Diesel.”

"The laundromat down the street. It doesn't open for a few more hours, but I bet there's plenty of unclaimed clothes people have left behind that would fit you."

She frowns. "You mean you want us to break in and steal them? It’s not enough that you shoot up a strip club, hurt people, kidnap me. We have to add breaking and entering and burglarizing a laundromat to the list?"

“It’s a crappy laundromat. I’m pretty sure they’re mixed up in some shady activity. I walked by them on my way to the store and they looked sketchy as hell — and these clothes are unclaimed merchandise. They don’t belong to anyone. So, technically, you’re not stealing.”

“We’re still breaking into a business, which is illegal. Someone owns it, Diesel, and if we just go bashing windows and stealing stuff from them, it’s not something I’m comfortable with.”

I shrug. “We don’t have to break the windows — I can pick the lock. I can lock it behind us, too. We’ll be in and out in just a couple minutes, and all we’ll take are some clothes that don’t belong to anyone, anyway. Where’s the harm in that?” She bites her lip and worries it between her teeth. Though she might not know it yet, this look, combined with her outfit, might be the most persuasive argument against breaking into the laundromat that she could possibly offer; I nearly surrender without her saying a damn thing. “Listen, do you want to spend the rest of this kidnapping with your tits out and that denim riding up your ass, or do you want to be comfortable?”

“I would love to get this denim out of my ass.”

“Then let’s go break into that fucking laundromat.”

“OK, let’s do it.”

We step out into the early morning air, the moon still hanging above the horizon, the sun barely making its presence known with a few stray rays. It’s not a human hour, it’s well before I’d like to drag my bruised body out of bed, but it’s the hour that Hunter and I are used to, and the hour we’ll have to keep to if we want to get back to Ironwood Falls alive.

“It’s just around the corner.”

Samantha and I stroll through the shadows, our footsteps muffled by the hum of cicadas in the warm air. The laundromat sits dark and silent, a faded "Closed" sign hanging crookedly in the window. I make quick work of the lock, and we slip inside, closing the door softly behind us. The smell of detergent and fabric softener hangs heavy, and the rows of washing machines loom like sentinels in the darkness.

"Over here," I whisper, gesturing to a corner where a pile of forgotten clothes sits forlornly. "Take your pick."

Samantha rummages through the pile of clothes, her hands gently sifting through the mismatched garments. I can't help but watch her; the dim light filtering in through the grimy window casts a soft glow on her skin, illuminating the fine features of her face, and I feel a tug in my chest that I know I shouldn't be feeling.

Suddenly, she lets out a gasp of delight.

"Look at this!"

Samantha holds up a pair of gray sweatpants and a faded blue t-shirt with the words "Boise Buffaloes" emblazoned across the front.

"Why are you so excited about that?"

"Because it’s the Boise Buffaloes. They're a minor league baseball team," she says as she runs her fingers over the worn lettering on the shirt. "My dad played for them for a few seasons when I was really little. He was their second baseman."

I can picture it—a young Samantha cheering in the stands, her eyes bright with adoration as she watches her father on the field. The image makes me smile.

"Did you play, too?"

"No, baseball was never my thing. I was more into dance and yoga. Still am. But every summer, we'd go to all of my dad's home games. They had a little section set aside with seats for all the players’ family members, and all our seats had our names on them.” I watch as Samantha's eyes light up and she disappears into the memory. "Those were some of the best times. My mom, my brother, me… The smell of popcorn and hot dogs, the crack of the bat, my mom cheering so loud I thought she'd lose her voice..."

Her smile is infectious, and I grin back at her.

"Sounds like you guys were close.”

"We were.” Samantha nods and hugs the Buffaloes shirt to her chest. Her voice changes, her smile fades, deflates. “We were.”

Frowning, I turn to the pile of clothes and rummage through them, looking for anything else that might fit Samantha. Near the bottom, my hand brushes against something soft and worn. I grab it and pull out a faded Boise Buffaloes baseball cap.

I put it on. "What do you think? Am I a real fan now?"

A bright laugh bursts from her mouth. "It suits you. You could almost pass for a local."

“A local? What’s with the insults? Do you want me to wear this hat or what?”

“You ass,” she says, and her smiles wavers again.

Seeing sadness on her face fills me with the urge to reach out, to pull her into my arms, to hold her through the wave of sadness roiling her hazel eyes. The strength of the urge is nearly overwhelming, but I fight it off.

I clear my throat and gesture towards the door.

"We better get going. Don't want to press our luck."

Samantha nods, clutching her new clothes to her chest as we slip back out into the early morning light. The walk back to the motel is quiet, with nothing but our melancholy thoughts to keep us company.

Suddenly, I feel her hand slip into mine. Her fingers intertwine with mine, and then there’s a squeeze. A warm, welcome, dangerous squeeze.

“Thank you,” she says. “For everything. It hurt to talk about my family, to think about my dad, but it hurt in a good way. Finding this shirt and that hat brought back some wonderful memories. You’re a good man, Diesel.”

I debate ignoring her words and pretending I didn't just feel the electric current that shot through me at her touch; it's wrong to get closer to her, to let myself be drawn in by her warmth, her vulnerability, her strength.

But I can't resist squeezing her hand back.

"Don't mention it.”

As we approach the motel, I see Hunter leaning against the railing, watching us with a raised eyebrow. His gaze flicks down to our joined hands and back up to my face. There's a question there, one I'm not ready to answer. Not even for myself.

But even the hint of an answer is enough to send alarm bells ringing inside my head and bring me back to reality.

Abruptly, I let go of Samantha's hand. She glances at me and there’s a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Is it disappointment? Longing? Regret? Whatever it is, it’s dangerous, it echoes in my chest, and I need to get away from it.

"I’m going to shower," I mutter as I stride away from her and then past Hunter. As the bathroom door clicks shut behind me, I lean against it and shut my eyes. Deep inside, I know it’s a mistake to get close to Samantha. Even if being next to her raises sparks of something I haven’t felt in all the years since Brandy died, I can’t allow myself to give in; Samantha’s a complication I don’t need, a weakness that could be exploited, a guaranteed ticket to a painful death.

But as I turn away from the door and start the shower, as I think about all the risks she represents, I realize that, even deeper, I don’t give a damn about any of them.

Because there’s still a ghost of a fucking smile on my lips just from knowing that I made her day better.

Because I can still feel the memory of her touch burned into my fingertips.

Because I never gave a damn about dying, and I sure as fuck ain’t starting now.