Page 10 of Existential
SIX
Dagne
Seated atop the closed toilet, I stare at the brass claw-foot bath. I don’t belong here. They may be bikers; they’re probably as crooked as they come, but this lavishness? This opulence?
Whoever Sidey is, he’s got one hell of an old lady. More to the point, she must have had one hell of a budget. Suppose funds aren’t so hard to come by when your trade is illegal.
“Here.” Digits edges the door open, walking in with a towel and face cloth once he’s satisfied I’m still decent.
“Thanks.”
“I think there might be some toiletries under the basin; just help yourself.”
“Okay.”
He smiles shyly, and then turns to leave.
“Why did you help me if you knew it would make your president mad?”
He stops in the doorway, one hand on the frame and his back to me as he stares down at the floor. “Don’t worry about Hooch. He’s just got a sore head over somethin’ else.”
“Maybe, but I know you guys aren’t the sort that like people getting involved in your business. I meant it when I said I’ll be gone the minute I’m done.”
“Who cares what he said?” He shrugs. “Stay as long as you like. You wouldn’t hear much that isn’t public where you’re allowed anyway, so nobody’s going to think you’re imposing.” He turns slightly and runs his gaze head to toe. “Heather gives you any trouble, let me know. We’ll probably be in the chapel when you’re done, so hang around in the parlor again until I come find you.” He swallows, and sighs. Something clearly troubles him. “I’ll give you a lift into town if you still want to leave.”
“Thanks again.”
“Any time.”
The door closes with a soft snick after him, leaving me to my awestruck perusal of the bathroom once more. The damn room is bigger than the bedroom I had as a child. I guess you’d call the style some mix of art deco and vintage. Circular mirrors are cut so that they intersect with each other to make one large one that stretches across the width of the basin. The vanity has worn wooden doors, and a wicker basket sits to the side holding spare toilet rolls. The walls, though tiled from the floor up to half way, are topped with wooden panels painted a rustic shade of cream. A single showerhead protrudes from the wall on the right side of the bath, a curtain draped on a stainless rod that curls in ninety degrees around the shower area.
I push off the toilet, first checking the cupboards for anything of use. A half used bottle of body wash, and a 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner are the only things that seem of any quality. Everything else is either dried up, faded so much that I can’t read the label, or clearly for men. Products in hand, I lean across the shower area and twist the knobs to start the water, leaving the bottles on the floor beside the pattering spray.
The door is locked internally with both a cylinder lock on the handle and a deadbolt further up. Finding some comfort in the fact I shouldn’t have anyone walk in on me, I undress, stilling when I catch my reflection in the mirror. I’ve seen myself plenty in shop windows, occasionally stealing a better look in the fitting rooms at a department store, but the brutal white light in this room leaves little to the imagination.
I’ve gained a golden tan since leaving home, the result of plenty a day spent wandering the streets in the heat of the afternoon sun. My arms and legs have leaned out, probably also from the walking, and my collarbones protrude sharply at either end. Having no way to measure myself other than my shrinking clothes, I can only guess that I’ve lost somewhere between ten and fifteen pounds.
Living free comes with its vices, that’s for sure.
The water is tepid as I step under, using my cupped palms to throw it over my face and shoulders. I drag the curtain around, and then sag against the wall, staring once more at the bottom of that spectacular bath in the gap between the curtain and the floor as my thoughts drift.
Where the hell am I going to go from here? I can’t keep surviving by begging—my clearly defined ribs prove that. I’m going to need more work soon if I plan on staying free and alone. But work always brings questions, ones I’m never ready to answer. What’s my social security number? Who’s my emergency contact? Do I have any references? All those things do is point the way home, and returning to Salem isn’t something I’m ready for at all. Ever.
With a sigh, I lean down and snag the bottle of 2-in-1. It’s the first real shower I’ve had in weeks that isn’t one stolen from a truck stop or hashed together using the outdoor tap at some roadhouse. Lost in the moment, I close my eyes and relish the feel of the suds as I massage them through my locks. I should cut my hair—being on the road without a proper routine isn’t the best when your hair is midway to your waist, but having the long tresses to let fly in the wind some days is the only thing that keeps me feeling girly when my clothes are grubby and my skin dusty.
I finish up quickly, despite the fact that I would have loved to stand under that weak spray forever. Bottles returned to where I found them, splashed water toweled dry, and everything back as it was, I head downstairs. A deep murmur of voices indicates men nearby, but the words are muffled enough that I couldn’t tell what was being said, even if I tried. Soft music plays in the parlor, something country. I head through the archway to find the first girl from the porch wiping down furniture with a cloth and spray cleaner.
“Hey,” she greets, straightening up. “We didn’t meet properly before. I’m Beth.”
“Hi.” I use the back of a chair to physically break us apart and smile. No telling yet if this cheery attitude is legitimate, or if she’s just as conniving as that Heather girl seems.
“They only just went in, if you’re waiting for Digits.” She points at the wall, and I frown. Her smile grows. “Into the chapel, I mean. It’s behind that wall, in the long room under the stairs.”
“Oh.” I laugh awkwardly. “Right. I wondered what you were pointing at.”
“You wanna help?” She lifts the bottle in her hand. “I’m conditioning the leather, but the tables and bar still need wiping down. There’s a bottle over there in the cupboard.”
“Sure.” I follow where she gestured to and find a new bottle of cleaner and a rag from a tub at the bottom. “Should I start anywhere in particular?”