trevor awoke to the eight o’clock courtesy call and found jules asleep on her stomach. he thumbed her panties and whispered in her ear, “i love you to the moon and back.” he peeled back the black lace and kissed her cheek.
he stretched his calves in the body-length mirror then touched his toes to pop his back. thirty pushups. forty sit-ups. he tucked the tip of his erection in the waist band of his boxers and pumped out another twenty of each. morning exercise made him horny, but his girl was exhausted and she needed rest.
trevor was the mastermind. this project was his baby... but julesie made it work. she had the personality, the empathy, the look; she was convincing and relatable. she took his good idea and made it shine.
besides, nobody wanted to spill their darkest secrets to a dude. especially not other dudes.
he sat on the floor by the lobster carcass, opened his computer and signed into the chat room. john’s webcam was still online. his body was still hanging.
jules was pissed that trevor got off on last night’s suicide. she couldn’t possibly understand the joy he found in that thrashing body. HE may be the mastermind, but SHE got to have all the fun; john’s death was the first time trev got to participate in the sickness.
big plans this afternoon then a thirteen-hour car ride tonight— trevor thought of jules and that body and rubbed one out in the shower.
the new york valet was a waste of time, artistry and pills. eight bucks, a dell laptop, an old-school nintendo (with ten games and a broken controller), fifty dvds, various electronics, a dime bag of weed (which he gave to jules), a pair of rollerblades... and the itchy green uniform with the “stanley” name tag. barely worth the gas money from jacksonville.
but for every waste-of-skin pothead, there were three spoiled brats boo-hooing about hating life or being fags or failing grades or stubbed toes just WAITING to top off. shotgun-doug was a spoiled brat. from the sound of it, emma was too.
to make up for stoner-stanley’s profitless suicide, trevor had a plan.
he brushed lint from the sleeves, buttoned the top button, worked his fingers into stiff white gloves, and tossed stanley’s name tag in the trash below the sink.
hotel checkout was at one. that gave him four hours to do this right.
* * *
“we heard he offed himself. or OD’d. maybe he OD’d.”
“stan was the kinda kid you don’t let in bell towers.”
“i dunno why they hired him. terrible with clients. mumbled. hey dude, where’s your name tag?”
trevor stooped to the parking-garage floor and plucked up a cigarette butt with an inch of good smoke. “they still need to make me one,” he said, though he didn’t know who “they” were. he simply donned the outfit, found the hotel’s address on stoner-stanley’s pay stub, and discovered these two knobs parking cars and taking keys. “got a light?” he asked.
dominique (”call me dom”) stood in the middle of a luggage cart with arms extended to both bronze polls. he shook his head.
mike (said his tag) flipped a chrome zippo and covered the flame with his glove.
trevor leaned into it and inhaled to start the burn.
“how much you bench?” mike asked and snapped the lighter.
“haven’t touched a weight since college,” trevor said.
“that uniform barely fits. you’re doin’ somethin’ right.”
the uniform made him feel like a shriner monkey.
“you’re lucky,” mike continued. “jerry doesn’t usually hire three valets on tuesday mornings.”
trevor shaped his mouth into an “o” and coughed a smoke ring. “it’s part of the new training program. just until i’m settled.”
a shadow at the entrance caught trevor’s attention. it was an suv. silver acura. 2010. perfect.
“do you fellas mind if i get this one?” trevor asked.
“you know where to park it?”
“i’ll manage. jerry showed me the ropes over the weekend.”
“have at it.” mike gestured “after you” and trevor dropped and heeled the butt, then stepped through the break in the faux-velvet rope. the suv careened tediously into position and eased to a stop.
trevor stood tall and proper, then opened the passenger door, flashed his pussy-kissin’ smile, and found the arm of an old lady with a face like a crumpled grocery bag.
“oh my! what a gentleman!” said the troll and stretched her leg to the concrete with trevor’s support.
“good morning, ma’am!” he exclaimed with aggressive enthusiasm. “how has this lovely new-york morning been treating you?”
“it’s a beautiful day out there, isn’t it? we’ve been in the car since four this morning and i’m just glad to be safe and sound!”
“oh dear! that’s too early!” trevor led the woman toward the hotel’s revolving door while mike and dom helped the husband with luggage.
“we make the trip about once a year to visit jeffry over at columbia. darrel’s getting better at navigating the big-city streets, but i still keep my eyes closed half the time!”
“oh my! taxi cabs all week, then?”
“thank the lord, yes! take those keys from my husband and keep them ‘til friday!”
“will do!” trevor released the woman’s arm and placed his hand on her shoulder. “whereabouts are you from?”
the woman grinned (too much blush, she looked like a clown too). “we live in a neighborhood called ‘victorian village’ in columbus, ohio.”
“perfect!”
“you know it?”
“not yet!”
“well it’s quite hip.” she lowered her voice and squealed. “and very gay friendly!”
“how quaint!” trevor said.
“you are such a handsome young man. i bet the ladies come running just to see that smile.” the woman unsnapped her purse and fluttered through her wallet with surprising dexterity. she removed a twenty and slipped it in the top of trevor’s pants. “i’ve been with darrel for twenty-three years, but i’d give it up for a glass of merlot and a night with those dimples.” she winked and pinched his ass.
trevor feigned naughty embarrassment with wide eyes and an open mouth, then put his finger to his lips and whispered, “here comes hubby!”
darrell approached with mike, dom and the bags. he tossed the keys to trevor. “take care of her.”
“yes sir,” trevor said. he winked at the woman, slapped mike on the back, and hopped in his new ride.
* * *
the rest was simple: trevor parked the car in slot sixteen, removed the keys from the ignition, jogged back to the valet boys, “which spot?” they asked, “sixteen” he said, then stepped to the key rack, swapped another set of keys from hook “fifteen” to hook “sixteen,” pocketed the suv keys, faked sick, “i’ll call jerry on the way home,” jogged back to the suv, un-pocketed the keys, started the ignition, and drove away free.
the geezers wouldn’t need their car until friday. the valets would think the keys were on the hook. and thanks to stoner-stanley’s fancy gloves, no fingerprints!
a car seat was buckled in the back and ghosts of tiny hands mashed the windows. darrel and the clown-lady were new grandparents. jules wouldn’t approve.
trevor decided to dump the seat before picking his girl up at the hotel.
he tapped a screen in the dash and a global positioning system sprang to life. the “find home” option was the first button in the menu. he touched it... a moment of computation... then a new window appeared. “would you like to set your destination for columbus, ohio?”
“yep.”
right on the way to chicago.
* * *
trevor made a left turn and cut three lanes of traffic to reach jules at the curb. cars honked and swerved, but the temple of his girlfriend’s forehead was kissing the street lamp and her melancholy poise graced that pole like a model of exotic couture; stoner-stanley’s flaccid trash bag hung like a modish purse across her shoulder.
he honked to get her attention, then parked, kissed her, and tossed their suitcases and laptop bags into the empty back seat.
“so it worked?” jules asked and glanced around the interior.
“and nobody got hurt.”
“who were the owners?”
“kids. perverts. i think they were drunk. they won’t miss it.”
“good. what about our junker?”
“you cleaned it?”
“spotless.”
“checked between the seats?”
“and wiped it down.”
“the revolver?”
she raised the trash bag. “got it.”
“good. they’ll tow her in a day or two. probably to the dump. at least it made the trip from jacksonville.”
“where next?”
“pawn shop and lunch when we’re out of the city.” trevor-rule number three: never pawn shit in the city you stole it from.
jules unlaced her boots and dropped them in back, then slouched, bent her knees to her chest, and set her nylon feet on the dash. she unsnapped her corset's breast pocket and removed a torn piece of paper.
“you stole a page from the gideon?” trevor asked.
“stan didn’t leave any papers.” she plucked the baggie of cannabis from the same pocket.
“cheap bastard.”
“i think i want a tattoo,” she said.
“you wanna get caught? a tattoo will distinguish you if something goes wrong. think about it, julesie.”
“something simple. maybe a star or a heart on my neck. would that be cute or tacky?”
“sexy.”
“really?”
“hell yeah.”
she smiled and dropped a pinch of grass on leviticus, then rolled, licked and sealed the makeshift joint. “maybe when we’re settled then.”
* * *
thirty miles out, jules got the munchies. trevor dropped her off at a subway for a veggie sandwich while he earned some cash across the street.
stoner-stanley’s life pawned for ninety fucking bucks.
they reached ohio at eight p.m. and the gps brought them straight to victorian village and guided them into the driveway of a purple house with steeple points and a round porch. trevor pressed a rubber button on the overhead console, waited for the lavender garage, and pulled inside.
jules relaxed with the car stereo while trevor made his rounds. when he returned with the final load, her eyes were glassy-pink. “how much?” she asked.
“are you high again?”
“babyyyy, how much?”
“ass-loads. no cash but lots of jewelry. if we can spread this shit over several brokers, we’re lookin’ at five grand.” he held up a bag of trail-mix. “stole us some chow too.”
“you. are. amazing,” she said. “have i ever told you that?”
* * *
the midwest highway stretched toward a starless horizon. a lightning bug hit the windshield with perfect timing and, for a split second, glowed a splattery yellow.
“you have a little somethin’ on your nose, baby,” trevor said.—
“what? where?”
he motioned to his left nostril. “right about here.”
jules snapped the vizor down and flipped open the mirror... and a silver watch fell in her lap.
“what is—”
“it’s not stolen,” he said. “bought it while you were getting lunch.”
the face was purple and shaped like a heart.
“it’s white gold,” he said. “reminded me of you.”
“why—”
“just because.”
jules buckled the present around her wrist and looked up. “it’s perfect.”
“glad you like it.” trevor ignored the headlights and taillights and the endless pulse of that dotted-white line. he looked at his girl and he smiled. “i love you julesie.”