“He’s not even talking,” Jay snaps. “He’s not there.”
“He’s there.” She accepts the earpiece back and presses it to her ear. “You there?” She laughs and looks to us. “He’s there. He doesn’t like my ‘big-ass motherfucker friend’.”
“Me?” I look back toward the hill and try to find him. I look for a body, for a rustling breeze. I look for a damn bird flying in the sky. But he’s invisible. “What’s his beef with me?”
She shrugs and snaps her laptop closed. “He has height issues. He doesn’t like when they’re extra tall.”
“Little man syndrome,” Jay guesses. “You got an itty-bitty, five-foot fucker on the payroll, Soph?”
“Something like that. Come on.”
“Youknow his name, right?” Jay pushes out of the car when she does, and follows her toward reception. I follow behind, dig my hands into my pockets and find myself staring into the room windows in hopes the reflection might show me a five-foot-tall soldier moving on the hill. “You’re not working blind, are you?”
“Of course I know his name, but it’s classified. He chooses to be known as Romeo, so that’s what we call him. He wants to remain anonymous, so he stays anonymous. I would do the same for either of you if you needed me to. Knowing his name doesn’t change our mission, so we respect his privacy and move on.” She pushes through the glass reception door, making the bell above ring and reminding me of Abigail.
I haven’t seen her in a day, and it makes me feel all kinds of fucked up I never thought I would feel.
I’ve been arrogant all these years, truly believing that there was no way a woman could control a man the way I’ve seen my friends fall over time. Hard-ass criminals, soldiers, snipers who can and have killed men, falling for these women seemed so ludicrous to me. Like maybe it was an act, because the pussy was magical or some shit.
I wasn’t going to call them on it, because who am I to step in and block a man from magical pussy? But maybe it was never an act. Maybe it’s not magical pussy, either. Maybe some women really do command men, maybe they really do inspire loyalty and control.
Maybe Abigail controls me too, and though I’m certain Ishouldbe grieving this new revelation, I can’t move past grieving for her. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, and I’m officially her slave. I’m her army, her protector, her hopeless addict, and ten minutes from now when I’m in my room and have privacy so the rest of the world isn’t witness to my emasculation, I’m going to call her and beg for a hit only she can give me.
An older male sits behind the tall counter in a flannel shirt and light blue jeans. He wears reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, and has a spot of thinning hair on the top of his head. He tries to hide it with a comb over, but he’s not fooling anyone as he reads a frayed paperback book, an old fantasy-type story with dog-eared corners and a cracked spine.
“Hello.” Soph stops at the front counter and drops her wallet down with a loudclunk. “We’re checking in for the week.”
“The week?” Shocked, I turn to Jay. “The week?”
Soph grins and hands over a credit card. “Four rooms please. Side by side.”
The man watches us with wary eyes. He knows we’re not regular folks, and he’s somewhat concerned about the little dancer turning up with big-ass dudes on her flanks, but he also doesn’t want to deny a week’s worth of income when he catches sight of Soph’s shiny card.
“Sure thing, Mrs…?”
“Macy Jean Philips. This is my husband, Donald Philips, and the taller one is his much,mucholder brother Gerald. We’re all Philipses. But we don’t call them Don or Gerry. Their momma will beat us with a switch if we ruin the perfectly good name God graced them with.”
“Oh… kay. Mrs. Philips.”
There’s a business certificate framed and hung on the wall that reads ‘Bart and Gina Dunne’. Bart – I assume that’s this dude – takes Soph’s plastic and replaces it with a clipboard and pen.
“Please fill in your details, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
* * *
When Soph is done hammingup her role as Macy Jean Fuckwit, she collects the room keys attached to heavy doorstoppers, and we walk back outside into the sun.
As soon as the door closes behind us, I shove Soph harder than I would ever shove any other chick.
“Much,mucholder brother? Woman, I’m not old!”
“You’re older than me, and more mature than him.” She points a thumb at Jay, who has somehow produced a set of Steiner binoculars, and studies the hillside where Romeo is still hiding. “Take your room key and go talk to your pretty girl. We’re heading out at five, so don’t be late.”
“Where are you guys going now?”
“Up the hill,” Jay murmurs. He stole a red apple from the bowl on Bart’s desk, so now he crunches on that and studies the hillside with such distrust, it’s easy for me to laugh and walk toward my room.
“We’re not going up to the hill,” Soph snaps. “We’re going to eat, then… nothing. We’ll meet you at five.”