Problem Child (Jane Doe #2) - Victoria Helen Stone Page 0,58
pants up without sullying them. This is why Derrick is in management. He’s a problem-solver.
“Can we go up higher?” I ask as he buckles up.
“Excuse me?” he mutters.
“Can we climb a little higher now?”
“No, it wouldn’t be safe.” He only glances at me before looking sheepishly away. “Let me go down the ladder first so I can spot you.” He starts toward the opening, then stops short to gape at his little Pollock painting of semen. He’s frozen again. Lost.
“That’ll dry right up,” I say. “No worries.”
A blush conquers his entire face, but he eases around the mess he’s made and heads for the ladder.
Now I wish I’d recorded the whole thing. If he’d noticed, would he have let me? Probably the idea would have turned him on even more, but he’d have immediately regretted it, and I’d hate to wrestle him for my phone. He hasn’t even washed his hands yet.
Once I hear him jump the last few feet to the floor below, I head down the ladder myself, whispering, “Goodbye, my favorite turbine,” into the tall space above me. I pat the ladder railing. “I’ll miss you.”
We’re back in the cacophonous buzzing of the base, so Derrick averts his eyes and silently gestures me toward the door, but I hold up one finger. I need a moment to turn in a circle and take it all in. I finally offer him a blinding smile.
“Thank you!” I shout before leading the way out.
I step out into the beginnings of dusk, then I rush down the stairs and the hill so I can turn and see the spinning blades above me against an orange sky, my robot soldier beautiful and still ferocious. Before Derrick can reach me, I take out my phone and snap a couple of pictures so I can keep this power with me forever. In the first one, I capture the top half of Derrick as he walks down the hill, but he’s holding up a hand to cover his face.
“Let’s go,” he says gruffly, all business and no charm now that he’s satiated. Which is utter bullshit.
People always call women manipulative, and I count my skills as a point of pride, but constant manipulation for sex is considered normal for men. Their behavior isn’t called manipulative, of course. Or sneaky. It’s not even twisted or deceptive or plain old lying. It’s just the way it’s supposed to be. They want sex and they’ll do anything to get it.
Sweet talk and falsehoods and affection and such pure fascinating interest in you. You’re beautiful and insightful and promising! This could be something. This could become anything: I’ll make a special visit to see you. We’ll go out. I’ll try your home cooking. This is so fun!
Until they come. Then nothing.
Then: Why is she so clingy? I just wanted sex. Why is she talking to me and making this awkward? Why can’t she just shut up and go away now? Such cruel manipulation, and it’s so constant, it’s considered regular old life. Suck it up, bitch, you knew what he wanted.
I set my jaw and follow him to the truck. He doesn’t open my door. In fact, he gets in first and starts the engine, impatient to be gone.
I lied and used him, but at least I have the goddamn courtesy to keep up the fake politeness afterward. Jesus. Fucking monster.
After I climb into his truck and close the door, he starts backing out before I even have my seat belt on. “Where to now?” I ask in a friendly chirp.
“I need to get back,” he grumbles; then he actually turns up the music to shut me down.
Oh, fuck no, Derrick. This is just outrageous.
Setting my jaw, I let him listen to his music as he reverses down the trail. I let him hold his silence for the last little while of his normal life. I even send him a small, shy smile once we’re on the side road and cruising toward the highway.
But Derrick stares straight ahead, his jaw an unforgiving line.
I just gave this guy the best work night of his gray, pitiful, endless life, and now he’s freezing me out?
I turn down the music as he accelerates onto the highway. He graciously spares me a narrow glance.
“Derrick,” I say hesitantly. I reach out to briefly touch his leg.
“Yeah?”
“I was wondering,” I start, then I exaggerate holding my breath before blurting out the rest. “Do you think we should get married?”