Infinite Pieces Volume 4, page 4
Porter reached over and took her hand. She pulled away. She didn’t want his comfort. She wanted to not be pregnant.
“How do I get rid of it?” she asked.
Stone clenched his jaw. And then the fucker looked at Porter.
“Hey.” She snapped her fingers at Stone. “I’m the one asking the question.”
Stone turned back to her, his eyes hardening. “I'll have my receptionist provide you with some resources.”
“You do that.” Then she got to her feet and walked out. Didn’t even wait for Porter. She was hoping to slam the door to let Stone know just what a shit doctor he was. But the door had one of those mechanisms that closed it slowly. Maybe he had a lot of pissed off women as clients. Got tired of listening to it bang shut behind them.
The receptionist was on the phone when she approached the counter. No doubt getting an earful from Stone. She nodded twice, met Angela’s eyes. “Yes, Doctor.”
Then she hung up. Smiling, she reached under her counter and pulled out a manila envelope. Written on the front in green ink was: So You’re Pregnant!
Angela took the package and ripped it open.
Literature on everything from breastfeeding to the benefits of cesarean over vaginal birth. And something titled: You’re Going to be a Mother Now: 10 Things Women Need To Know. Written by the illustrious Dr Stone himself. Angela almost threw up again.
Instead she tossed the package onto the receptionist’s keyboard.
The woman recoiled, startled.
“I’m not keeping the baby. I need the phone number for a clinic.”
The receptionist blinked. “Don’t you want to discuss that with your husband first?”
Porter had caught up to her and placed a hand on Angela’s back. She knew it was meant to support her. But for some reason it pissed her off. “One. He’s not my husband. And two. Even if he was, it’s my fucking body. And I’m not having a fucking baby. Do you fucking understand?”
“Jesus, Angela.” Porter said the words so quietly she might have imagined them.
The receptionist blinked back tears, nodding. Then she reached to a cupboard on her right and pulled out a single pamphlet. CARE Clinics.
Angela snatched it from her hand. “Thanks.”
She made her way out the door and down the hallway to the elevator. Didn’t care that everyone in the waiting room was staring at her when she left. She only hoped that no one recognized her. People usually didn’t when she was dressed as a civilian. No make up. Hair in a hat. Looking shorter than she did on stage.
That’s what people often said about her when they met. You’re shorter than I expected.
Porter ran to keep pace.
She thumbed the button for the elevator, neither of them saying anything. And then the doors slid open and they entered.
Angela stepped in, making her way to the back and leaned her head against the glass.
Porter snaked an arm around her shoulders, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “It’s not the worst thing in the world, is it? That we’re pregnant?”
Angela stiffened. “We’re not pregnant. I am. And the answer is yes.”
“You won’t reconsider at all?”
“Nope. No way am I bringing a kid into this world.”
“Listen, Angela –”
She stepped away from him and his arm dropped away. Whenever she argued she didn’t want to be touched. It made her feel less powerful.
“I get you went through hell as a kid. But we” – he gestured to himself and her –”would be amazing parents. We’d protect this child with everything we’ve got.”
“That’s not why I’m not having a kid, Porter.”
“Then what is it?”
She opened her mouth. Then closed it and shook her head. “I told you. The answer is no.”
“You won’t even think about it?”
Angela grit her teeth. “Jesus Christ. I’m twenty seven years old. It’s all I’ve thought about since I was thirteen and got my first period. That’s over half my lifetime.”
The elevator stopped in the lobby and the doors slid open. Angela stepped out, then turned. “Do you mind getting an Uber back to your place?” She’d picked him up and driven them both there. “I want to be alone.”
“Angela–”
“I need some space.”
He threw up his hands. “Fine.”
Angela walked out to the parking lot and got in her BMW. Before she slid the keys in the ignition, she pulled out her phone and tapped Frankie’s number.
She answered on the first ring. “Hit me.”
“You were right.”
“You’re pregnant.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get you an appointment. How soon do you want it?”
Angela rubbed her head. “Next week. I gotta go to Fairborne first.”
Silence.
“You’re going home?” Home. Fairborne had never been that. Even though it was what the place technically was. “Why?”
Angela sighed. “Just something I need to do there first.”
“Alright. How does two weeks sound?”
“Perfect. I’ll send you the list of clinics Stone gave me.”
She disconnected, took a photo of the pamphlet and texted it to Frankie. Then she stared out the window at the medical building. She’d give anything to fast forward her life by two weeks. But for now she took comfort in the fact that soon she wouldn’t be pregnant.
Angela hadn’t slept well.
In fact, she wasn’t sure she’d slept at all. Her mind had been racing the entire night. How could she be pregnant? She devoted a lot of her life to avoiding that one particular thing.
And it had happened anyway.
She dragged a pillow over her mouth and screamed. Silently. Mainly because she didn’t want to scare Mephisto who was curled up on her feet purring. He heard her anyway. She felt him rise, stretch, then walk along her bed towards her head.
She lifted the covers and he crawled under. Flopping onto his side, his belly resting against hers. She loved it when he did that. He was the only baby she needed. She combed her fingers through his fur. “Hey Smoosh.”
He purred louder.
Angela didn’t want to go back to Fairborne. She wanted to go straight to the clinic. But she was telling the truth, when she told Frankie there was something she needed to do before she got rid of the baby.
Her phone pinged. She glanced over at it. It had started yelling at her at around three a.m. She’d ignored it. Figured it was Porter. And eventually she reached over and silenced it. She hadn’t wanted to talk with him. Because there was nothing to discuss. She’d made up her mind. Abortion or bust.
Maybe she was no longer engaged.
Maybe that’s why Porter had been texting. She didn’t know what to think about that. The fact it didn’t reduce her to a blubbering mess was somewhat of a concern.
Did she even love him?
She thought she did.
Angela lifted the covers and studied Mephisto. Now him, she loved. Around Porter, she simply felt safe. Maybe that had been enough to convince her to say yes to his proposal. Maybe it was because he seemed to be the first man not to be intimidated by her.
Angela knew she was short-tempered. What some called a bitch. She simply called it survival. It had served her rock-and-roll career well. And she wasn’t about to change her personality. Not now.
She lowered the covers, then rolled over and trying not to disturb Mephisto, plucked the charger from her phone.
Then she swiped it open.
Face recognition took her inside to the apps.
She hit messages.
It wasn’t Porter at all. There were hundreds of messages. Friends, acquaintances, colleagues, crew. Even her Roadies had texted.
What the fuck was going on?
She scrolled down lookin for Frankie. She had sent two of her own messages. Your fiancé’s been busy. The second message was a video from TMZ. Porter standing outside his apartment building, big grin on his face. The title read: Ange⛌a Pregnant.
Angela clenched her teeth, pressed play. Porter’s voice filled the room. “Yeah, we’re both ecstatic. She’s feeling it. But otherwise, the baby is healthy.”
Angela’s head filled with a roaring sound.
She saw red.
Went cold.
With shaking hands, she texted Frankie back. Ex-fiance.
She got an immediate response. You wanna tell him or me?
Oh, I’ll do it.
Don’t put anything in print that we’ll regret.
Angela gripped the phone tight. Fucking asshole misogynistic piece of bullshit. Okay, Frankie had a point. She typed: you better do it.
Then she chucked the phone to the end of the bed. Porter knew damn well he’d put her in a tricky spot. Now, she either had to lie: I had a miscarriage. Put on the role of the grieving mother. When she wasn’t gonna feel anything other than relief. Or tell the truth: I got an abortion. And deal with the fallout to her career, not to mention her personal safety. She already dealt with too many pricks who felt she was some kind of Satan worshiper.
When in fact she probably hated Satan more than anybody alive.
Now she’d have to deal with baby killer on top of that.
She hated Porter more than Satan at the moment.
She raised the covers and glanced down at Mephisto. He looked irked that she kept moving. “I’m gonna be away for a few days. Frankie will stop by and feed you like usual.”
He blinked once. Then lay his head down on the mattress and closed his eyes. She rubbed his belly. His rumble hadn’t faded.
Then she rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb him.
Might as well get the trip to hell over with.
Or as the maps liked to call it: Fairborne.
Angela decided to rent a vehicle.
Mainly because she didn’t want any paparazzi following her. They were staked out at her home in the Hollywood Hills. But that was the benefit of secretly owning the property right next door. She could walk over there and exit. No prying eyes.
Frankie brought her the car, promised to feed Mephisto, and tell the press that Angela was unavailable for comment due to a family emergency. It at least bought her a few days grace before she had to address Porter’s comments.
And as for him?
She’d already blocked him. He was dead to her. Just like that.
It was a four-hour drive from Los Angeles to Fairborne if there was no traffic. But there was always traffic. So Angela calculated it would take six hours.
Fairborne was perched on the edge of Death Valley.
It was once a tourist town. Boasted a large resort with swimming pools, a golf course and palm trees. But when the owners could no longer afford to pipe water in, the whole place dried up. Literally.
Now it was clinging to life by its fingertips. Its sole claim to fame being that Ted Bundy had once driven through and gotten a flat tire. He was provided with a new one. And the punctured tire now lived on in a display at the Fairborne Police Station.
When Angela was seven hours in to the journey, she spotted the road sign announcing that Fairborne was ten miles ahead.
She slowed, looking out at the desert.
It looked empty. But it wasn’t. She knew that better than anyone. Her phone rang. Frankie. She hit the speaker. “Hey Frankie.”
“Two weeks to the day.”
Angela felt a huge wave of relief flow over her. “Thank you, Frankie. You’re an angel.”
“Even got the halo to prove it.”
Angela laughed. “And Porter?”
“Not taking it well. Has he been in touch?”
“I blocked him.”
“Damn, girl, you move fast.”
Angela grunted. The phone crackled. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Safe travels.” Frankie disconnected.
Angela didn’t bother to tell her that she’d be back to Los Angeles tonight. She’d already booked the Beverly Chateau under her pseudonym. Because she knew she was gonna need somewhere to rest afterwards.
If she even got out of Fairborne alive.
There was the slim possibility she wouldn’t.
She hit the turn signal, exiting off the highway. And there it was. A smattering of houses radiating out from a one-street downtown. She drove through, keeping her eyes straight on the horizon. Not wanting to make eye contact with anyone that might be out and about.
Like her mother.
She drove through the town, not breathing until she was burped out the other end. Then she drove for two more miles, before pulling over on the shoulder of the road.
Here the tarmac was intersected by a gravel road that led deep into the desert.
When she was in high school two of her classmates had died on this road. They’d driven out into Death Valley to have sex. When they tried to get home, they found the car tires had melted. Tried to walk back.
They never made it.
The gravel road didn’t have a name. At some point the mayor had tried to name it after the two students: Jaxson Kimberleigh. But it didn’t stick.
Everyone in town simply called it the Crossroads.
She lowered her window. A hot wind touched her skin. And the silence was so big – almost loud – it hurt her ears.
Angela got out of the Range Rover. She closed the door behind her. And was immediately soaked in sweat.
She peeled her shirt from her chest, walking along the center of the tarmac to the crossroads. There wasn’t any traffic out here. There never really was.
She stopped one foot away from where she’d stood ten years ago.
Angela hadn’t been back since that night when her mother found Jacob in her bedroom. She’d been grateful when her mother pulled him off her and out of her bed. Now the abuse would be over. But Rosie had grabbed one of Angela’s belts from the hook on the back of the door and began striking her with it.
Harlot!
Whore!
Trollop!
Each accusation was accompanied by a wallop. Leather against her skin, leaving behind red welts. While Jacob blubbered in the corner about how Angela had seduced him.
And then Rosie had fumbled and dropped the belt.
And Angela did something she’d never done before when Rosie was in one of her rages. She’d run. Out of the house, bare feet slapping against the driveway. Small pebbles digging into the soft soles of her feet. Nightgown twisting around her ankles.
She ran and ran and ran.
Not knowing where she was going.
But somehow she’d wound up here. Or rather, there. That spot a foot away from where she stood now. And then out of the darkness, it crept.
Over six feet tall, bony, backwards knees. Two horns – like on a ram’s head – curling around its skull. Stinking like brimstone. Breathing smoke.
The devil.
It offered her a deal. In exchange for helping Angela leave town and live the life she dreamed, she had to agree to one thing: hand over her first-born child.
Angela closed her eyes.
She hadn’t even hesitated. She’d always known she wouldn’t have a kid. And so she’d agreed…
A hot gust of wind blew over her face.
Her eyes flew open.
But no one was there.
She swallowed. Stepped forward. She wasn’t sure what she thought would happen. That he would simply appear again? Maybe. But he didn’t.
“Hey!”
Her voice echoed in the big empty nothing.
“You here?”
No response.
She walked across the intersecting road to the other side. Fuck it. She’d tell him whether he was here or not.
“You should know, I’m not keeping the baby.” Seemed only fair that if she was going to renege on her deal with the devil, she’d give the asshole a head’s up.
But there was still no response. No sign that the devil ever was here. If he had ever been here. Maybe it was all a dream.
She felt her stomach flutter. Looked down at her belly.
What the fuck?
It was twice the size as it had been when she started out that morning. Maybe it was just gas? But she hadn’t eaten anything the night before. And only had coffee for breakfast. She poked it. Seemed firm enough.
But it was rather alarming.
She walked back to the Range Rover. Opened the door and got in. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Maybe she should stay until evening? Did the devil only come in the dark? She hummed a few bars. That sounded like it had some promise for a song.
Fuck it.
She had done her due diligence.
She was going home.
Angela turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. She tried again. But it was like there was no battery. Not even a hint of an electrical pulse. The engine didn’t grind. The radio didn’t pop. The gas light might as well have been non-existent.
She waited.
Tried again.
Nothing.
She pulled up a leg and kicked the bottom of the steering wheel. Goddamnit. Had it overheated? She shouldn’t have stopped.
She glanced out the window.
It was hot.
Getting hotter.
And she had to pee.
She got back out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, then pulled down her pants, squatted and peed. Then she pulled her jeans back up, straining to close them. Her belly couldn’t have expanded that much in thirty seconds, could it? Maybe it was possible. She didn’t know that much about pregnancy, seeing how she had sworn never to be in this state.
She managed the zip, but left the button undone, pulling her shirt down. It was an old one. From her first concert the Hell’s Bells Tour. Back when T-shirts were longer because manufacturers weren’t skimping on fabric.
Angela got back in the Range Rover. Turned the ignition again. Nothing.
Fine. She’d call for a lift. Surely Fairborne still had a taxi.
She pulled her phone.
No signal.
Goddamnit.
She restarted it. But it wouldn’t come back on. Had she had that low of a charge?
She’d have to walk into town. Get a tow. A new battery. That could take all day, couldn’t it? She gathered her satchel (wallet, aspirin and a pouch of Starburst – though she imagined they had now all melted).
“How do I get rid of it?” she asked.
Stone clenched his jaw. And then the fucker looked at Porter.
“Hey.” She snapped her fingers at Stone. “I’m the one asking the question.”
Stone turned back to her, his eyes hardening. “I'll have my receptionist provide you with some resources.”
“You do that.” Then she got to her feet and walked out. Didn’t even wait for Porter. She was hoping to slam the door to let Stone know just what a shit doctor he was. But the door had one of those mechanisms that closed it slowly. Maybe he had a lot of pissed off women as clients. Got tired of listening to it bang shut behind them.
The receptionist was on the phone when she approached the counter. No doubt getting an earful from Stone. She nodded twice, met Angela’s eyes. “Yes, Doctor.”
Then she hung up. Smiling, she reached under her counter and pulled out a manila envelope. Written on the front in green ink was: So You’re Pregnant!
Angela took the package and ripped it open.
Literature on everything from breastfeeding to the benefits of cesarean over vaginal birth. And something titled: You’re Going to be a Mother Now: 10 Things Women Need To Know. Written by the illustrious Dr Stone himself. Angela almost threw up again.
Instead she tossed the package onto the receptionist’s keyboard.
The woman recoiled, startled.
“I’m not keeping the baby. I need the phone number for a clinic.”
The receptionist blinked. “Don’t you want to discuss that with your husband first?”
Porter had caught up to her and placed a hand on Angela’s back. She knew it was meant to support her. But for some reason it pissed her off. “One. He’s not my husband. And two. Even if he was, it’s my fucking body. And I’m not having a fucking baby. Do you fucking understand?”
“Jesus, Angela.” Porter said the words so quietly she might have imagined them.
The receptionist blinked back tears, nodding. Then she reached to a cupboard on her right and pulled out a single pamphlet. CARE Clinics.
Angela snatched it from her hand. “Thanks.”
She made her way out the door and down the hallway to the elevator. Didn’t care that everyone in the waiting room was staring at her when she left. She only hoped that no one recognized her. People usually didn’t when she was dressed as a civilian. No make up. Hair in a hat. Looking shorter than she did on stage.
That’s what people often said about her when they met. You’re shorter than I expected.
Porter ran to keep pace.
She thumbed the button for the elevator, neither of them saying anything. And then the doors slid open and they entered.
Angela stepped in, making her way to the back and leaned her head against the glass.
Porter snaked an arm around her shoulders, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “It’s not the worst thing in the world, is it? That we’re pregnant?”
Angela stiffened. “We’re not pregnant. I am. And the answer is yes.”
“You won’t reconsider at all?”
“Nope. No way am I bringing a kid into this world.”
“Listen, Angela –”
She stepped away from him and his arm dropped away. Whenever she argued she didn’t want to be touched. It made her feel less powerful.
“I get you went through hell as a kid. But we” – he gestured to himself and her –”would be amazing parents. We’d protect this child with everything we’ve got.”
“That’s not why I’m not having a kid, Porter.”
“Then what is it?”
She opened her mouth. Then closed it and shook her head. “I told you. The answer is no.”
“You won’t even think about it?”
Angela grit her teeth. “Jesus Christ. I’m twenty seven years old. It’s all I’ve thought about since I was thirteen and got my first period. That’s over half my lifetime.”
The elevator stopped in the lobby and the doors slid open. Angela stepped out, then turned. “Do you mind getting an Uber back to your place?” She’d picked him up and driven them both there. “I want to be alone.”
“Angela–”
“I need some space.”
He threw up his hands. “Fine.”
Angela walked out to the parking lot and got in her BMW. Before she slid the keys in the ignition, she pulled out her phone and tapped Frankie’s number.
She answered on the first ring. “Hit me.”
“You were right.”
“You’re pregnant.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get you an appointment. How soon do you want it?”
Angela rubbed her head. “Next week. I gotta go to Fairborne first.”
Silence.
“You’re going home?” Home. Fairborne had never been that. Even though it was what the place technically was. “Why?”
Angela sighed. “Just something I need to do there first.”
“Alright. How does two weeks sound?”
“Perfect. I’ll send you the list of clinics Stone gave me.”
She disconnected, took a photo of the pamphlet and texted it to Frankie. Then she stared out the window at the medical building. She’d give anything to fast forward her life by two weeks. But for now she took comfort in the fact that soon she wouldn’t be pregnant.
Angela hadn’t slept well.
In fact, she wasn’t sure she’d slept at all. Her mind had been racing the entire night. How could she be pregnant? She devoted a lot of her life to avoiding that one particular thing.
And it had happened anyway.
She dragged a pillow over her mouth and screamed. Silently. Mainly because she didn’t want to scare Mephisto who was curled up on her feet purring. He heard her anyway. She felt him rise, stretch, then walk along her bed towards her head.
She lifted the covers and he crawled under. Flopping onto his side, his belly resting against hers. She loved it when he did that. He was the only baby she needed. She combed her fingers through his fur. “Hey Smoosh.”
He purred louder.
Angela didn’t want to go back to Fairborne. She wanted to go straight to the clinic. But she was telling the truth, when she told Frankie there was something she needed to do before she got rid of the baby.
Her phone pinged. She glanced over at it. It had started yelling at her at around three a.m. She’d ignored it. Figured it was Porter. And eventually she reached over and silenced it. She hadn’t wanted to talk with him. Because there was nothing to discuss. She’d made up her mind. Abortion or bust.
Maybe she was no longer engaged.
Maybe that’s why Porter had been texting. She didn’t know what to think about that. The fact it didn’t reduce her to a blubbering mess was somewhat of a concern.
Did she even love him?
She thought she did.
Angela lifted the covers and studied Mephisto. Now him, she loved. Around Porter, she simply felt safe. Maybe that had been enough to convince her to say yes to his proposal. Maybe it was because he seemed to be the first man not to be intimidated by her.
Angela knew she was short-tempered. What some called a bitch. She simply called it survival. It had served her rock-and-roll career well. And she wasn’t about to change her personality. Not now.
She lowered the covers, then rolled over and trying not to disturb Mephisto, plucked the charger from her phone.
Then she swiped it open.
Face recognition took her inside to the apps.
She hit messages.
It wasn’t Porter at all. There were hundreds of messages. Friends, acquaintances, colleagues, crew. Even her Roadies had texted.
What the fuck was going on?
She scrolled down lookin for Frankie. She had sent two of her own messages. Your fiancé’s been busy. The second message was a video from TMZ. Porter standing outside his apartment building, big grin on his face. The title read: Ange⛌a Pregnant.
Angela clenched her teeth, pressed play. Porter’s voice filled the room. “Yeah, we’re both ecstatic. She’s feeling it. But otherwise, the baby is healthy.”
Angela’s head filled with a roaring sound.
She saw red.
Went cold.
With shaking hands, she texted Frankie back. Ex-fiance.
She got an immediate response. You wanna tell him or me?
Oh, I’ll do it.
Don’t put anything in print that we’ll regret.
Angela gripped the phone tight. Fucking asshole misogynistic piece of bullshit. Okay, Frankie had a point. She typed: you better do it.
Then she chucked the phone to the end of the bed. Porter knew damn well he’d put her in a tricky spot. Now, she either had to lie: I had a miscarriage. Put on the role of the grieving mother. When she wasn’t gonna feel anything other than relief. Or tell the truth: I got an abortion. And deal with the fallout to her career, not to mention her personal safety. She already dealt with too many pricks who felt she was some kind of Satan worshiper.
When in fact she probably hated Satan more than anybody alive.
Now she’d have to deal with baby killer on top of that.
She hated Porter more than Satan at the moment.
She raised the covers and glanced down at Mephisto. He looked irked that she kept moving. “I’m gonna be away for a few days. Frankie will stop by and feed you like usual.”
He blinked once. Then lay his head down on the mattress and closed his eyes. She rubbed his belly. His rumble hadn’t faded.
Then she rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb him.
Might as well get the trip to hell over with.
Or as the maps liked to call it: Fairborne.
Angela decided to rent a vehicle.
Mainly because she didn’t want any paparazzi following her. They were staked out at her home in the Hollywood Hills. But that was the benefit of secretly owning the property right next door. She could walk over there and exit. No prying eyes.
Frankie brought her the car, promised to feed Mephisto, and tell the press that Angela was unavailable for comment due to a family emergency. It at least bought her a few days grace before she had to address Porter’s comments.
And as for him?
She’d already blocked him. He was dead to her. Just like that.
It was a four-hour drive from Los Angeles to Fairborne if there was no traffic. But there was always traffic. So Angela calculated it would take six hours.
Fairborne was perched on the edge of Death Valley.
It was once a tourist town. Boasted a large resort with swimming pools, a golf course and palm trees. But when the owners could no longer afford to pipe water in, the whole place dried up. Literally.
Now it was clinging to life by its fingertips. Its sole claim to fame being that Ted Bundy had once driven through and gotten a flat tire. He was provided with a new one. And the punctured tire now lived on in a display at the Fairborne Police Station.
When Angela was seven hours in to the journey, she spotted the road sign announcing that Fairborne was ten miles ahead.
She slowed, looking out at the desert.
It looked empty. But it wasn’t. She knew that better than anyone. Her phone rang. Frankie. She hit the speaker. “Hey Frankie.”
“Two weeks to the day.”
Angela felt a huge wave of relief flow over her. “Thank you, Frankie. You’re an angel.”
“Even got the halo to prove it.”
Angela laughed. “And Porter?”
“Not taking it well. Has he been in touch?”
“I blocked him.”
“Damn, girl, you move fast.”
Angela grunted. The phone crackled. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Safe travels.” Frankie disconnected.
Angela didn’t bother to tell her that she’d be back to Los Angeles tonight. She’d already booked the Beverly Chateau under her pseudonym. Because she knew she was gonna need somewhere to rest afterwards.
If she even got out of Fairborne alive.
There was the slim possibility she wouldn’t.
She hit the turn signal, exiting off the highway. And there it was. A smattering of houses radiating out from a one-street downtown. She drove through, keeping her eyes straight on the horizon. Not wanting to make eye contact with anyone that might be out and about.
Like her mother.
She drove through the town, not breathing until she was burped out the other end. Then she drove for two more miles, before pulling over on the shoulder of the road.
Here the tarmac was intersected by a gravel road that led deep into the desert.
When she was in high school two of her classmates had died on this road. They’d driven out into Death Valley to have sex. When they tried to get home, they found the car tires had melted. Tried to walk back.
They never made it.
The gravel road didn’t have a name. At some point the mayor had tried to name it after the two students: Jaxson Kimberleigh. But it didn’t stick.
Everyone in town simply called it the Crossroads.
She lowered her window. A hot wind touched her skin. And the silence was so big – almost loud – it hurt her ears.
Angela got out of the Range Rover. She closed the door behind her. And was immediately soaked in sweat.
She peeled her shirt from her chest, walking along the center of the tarmac to the crossroads. There wasn’t any traffic out here. There never really was.
She stopped one foot away from where she’d stood ten years ago.
Angela hadn’t been back since that night when her mother found Jacob in her bedroom. She’d been grateful when her mother pulled him off her and out of her bed. Now the abuse would be over. But Rosie had grabbed one of Angela’s belts from the hook on the back of the door and began striking her with it.
Harlot!
Whore!
Trollop!
Each accusation was accompanied by a wallop. Leather against her skin, leaving behind red welts. While Jacob blubbered in the corner about how Angela had seduced him.
And then Rosie had fumbled and dropped the belt.
And Angela did something she’d never done before when Rosie was in one of her rages. She’d run. Out of the house, bare feet slapping against the driveway. Small pebbles digging into the soft soles of her feet. Nightgown twisting around her ankles.
She ran and ran and ran.
Not knowing where she was going.
But somehow she’d wound up here. Or rather, there. That spot a foot away from where she stood now. And then out of the darkness, it crept.
Over six feet tall, bony, backwards knees. Two horns – like on a ram’s head – curling around its skull. Stinking like brimstone. Breathing smoke.
The devil.
It offered her a deal. In exchange for helping Angela leave town and live the life she dreamed, she had to agree to one thing: hand over her first-born child.
Angela closed her eyes.
She hadn’t even hesitated. She’d always known she wouldn’t have a kid. And so she’d agreed…
A hot gust of wind blew over her face.
Her eyes flew open.
But no one was there.
She swallowed. Stepped forward. She wasn’t sure what she thought would happen. That he would simply appear again? Maybe. But he didn’t.
“Hey!”
Her voice echoed in the big empty nothing.
“You here?”
No response.
She walked across the intersecting road to the other side. Fuck it. She’d tell him whether he was here or not.
“You should know, I’m not keeping the baby.” Seemed only fair that if she was going to renege on her deal with the devil, she’d give the asshole a head’s up.
But there was still no response. No sign that the devil ever was here. If he had ever been here. Maybe it was all a dream.
She felt her stomach flutter. Looked down at her belly.
What the fuck?
It was twice the size as it had been when she started out that morning. Maybe it was just gas? But she hadn’t eaten anything the night before. And only had coffee for breakfast. She poked it. Seemed firm enough.
But it was rather alarming.
She walked back to the Range Rover. Opened the door and got in. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Maybe she should stay until evening? Did the devil only come in the dark? She hummed a few bars. That sounded like it had some promise for a song.
Fuck it.
She had done her due diligence.
She was going home.
Angela turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. She tried again. But it was like there was no battery. Not even a hint of an electrical pulse. The engine didn’t grind. The radio didn’t pop. The gas light might as well have been non-existent.
She waited.
Tried again.
Nothing.
She pulled up a leg and kicked the bottom of the steering wheel. Goddamnit. Had it overheated? She shouldn’t have stopped.
She glanced out the window.
It was hot.
Getting hotter.
And she had to pee.
She got back out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, then pulled down her pants, squatted and peed. Then she pulled her jeans back up, straining to close them. Her belly couldn’t have expanded that much in thirty seconds, could it? Maybe it was possible. She didn’t know that much about pregnancy, seeing how she had sworn never to be in this state.
She managed the zip, but left the button undone, pulling her shirt down. It was an old one. From her first concert the Hell’s Bells Tour. Back when T-shirts were longer because manufacturers weren’t skimping on fabric.
Angela got back in the Range Rover. Turned the ignition again. Nothing.
Fine. She’d call for a lift. Surely Fairborne still had a taxi.
She pulled her phone.
No signal.
Goddamnit.
She restarted it. But it wouldn’t come back on. Had she had that low of a charge?
She’d have to walk into town. Get a tow. A new battery. That could take all day, couldn’t it? She gathered her satchel (wallet, aspirin and a pouch of Starburst – though she imagined they had now all melted).
