“Life on the Sunny Side.”
Rory bursts out laughing, causing the baby in my arms to giggle too. I don’t blame either of them. Sure as hell can’t help the smile breaking out across my face either.
Something tells me life is gonna be a lot brighter with her in the Heights for the next few weeks. Even if I have to wait to shoot my shot with her.
SIX
AMELIA
“Listen, I’m not a forensic psychiatrist. All I’m saying is that I don’t think we’re doing the world any favors by naming the worst possible human beings these names that sound desirable to psychopaths. If we’d gone with ‘The Tiny Peened Rapist with ED’ I think the Golden State Killer might’ve stopped right in his damn tracks before any murders were committed. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted to risk another victim embarrassing him by talking about his tiny fucking button mushroom below the belt. But instead, the media glorified him with some name that gives him a sense of accomplishment. He doesn’t deserve that. No murderer should be memorialized on a pedestal or cast in bronze.”
Jynx’s husky voice would’ve been ideal for a career in a smoky burlesque lounge, warming up the crowd, introducing the cast. Her face, body, and effortless charisma could’ve made her a star on the center of that stage, if you ask me. But she chose to pursue telling the stories of survivors, shining light on some of the most gruesome parts of society in an effort to enlighten and empower a generation against becoming victims.
The way her throaty tone floats through my Sprinter van, filling the small space—even as it’s immobilized outside the onlyauto shop in Smoky Heights—sets an entire mood on its own, and I’m thankful she chose this route instead of any others.
“And I’m just saying, Vixens, if they were publiclyshamedinstead of awarded these fucked up names that almostcelebratetheir derangements, maybe fewer psychopaths would have aspirations of getting their own name. If they thought their legacy might be ‘The Cuck Who Had a Foot Fetish’ rather than the Eerie Eradicator, maybe they wouldn’t be so quick to transition from experimenting on roadkill to killing human beings.”
“Hear fucking hear!” I shout back to Jynx, like she can hear me all the way through the vortex of time and space, from Smoky Heights to NYC, now to the years ago when this was recorded.
I started listening toVengeful Vixenswhen an episode from season four shot her to the number one podcast in the country, and then I just kept listening straight through, so now I’m circling back to season one, catching up on all of her earlier episodes I’ve missed out on till now, while I wait for her new season to come out. I can’t believe I was living my life, traveling the country with Van Gogh, foryearswithout knowing she existed. She is an icon.
I mean, she’s really got a point. Whydothese horrific acts of unnecessary violence get awarded names that inspire fear in the population, and give the most vile among us hard-ons for their own claim to fame?
The Beast of Chicago, Jack the Ripper, the Bladed Butcher. The Santa Slayer. A shudder rips through me. These men, their horrid acts, don’t deserve recognition.
The survivors are the ones we should be celebrating.
As Jynx starts to read off ads from sponsors of the show, I turn in my van, hands on my hips, a breeze on my bare tits.
It’s been a few days that I’ve been back home in Van Gogh. After I accepted the estimate from Wyatt, he graciously agreed tomove the van out into his parking lot where he said I could stay, up until he needed to actually swap out the engine and he’ll need the van back.
It’s been enough time that I’ve gotten my bearings in this little town. Not long enough for the pull toward Weston to chill the heck out and flush itself out of my system.
With the way he’s overtaken my thoughts since I landed in this small town, it might take getting laid by a rock star—maybe Josh, the singer of my favorite band, New York Ave (or even better, a sandwich with him and the bassist, Blondie)—and leaving town for my next fresh start for that to happen.
But damn, is it good to be back home. There’s not much that makes me feel safe, but this small van, these walls that have traveled coast to coast with me, they’ve done it.
In my private world, where I’m stashed with everything I need and I never stay in one place long, I’m able to maintain the boundaries and secrecy I need to feel safe.
Got to run out to do my laundry today, a cute little laundromat downtown called Smoky Suds, which is a little confusing because I’m pretty sure the bar I passed on my way had the same exact name. I asked Rory, who was the one who dropped me off on her lunch break and picked me up again at the end of the day, and she just laughed and said it’s being addressed.
Now I’m stuck with my least favorite part of laundry, the part where I have to fold it and put it back away in the drawers beneath my bed in the back of the van. Crawling around under there creeps me out. Which is probably why I’m mostly just staring at the piles of folded crop tees, athletic shorts, skimpy underwear, and the one sweatshirt I own.
Listening to true crime podcasts helps pass the time, keep my mind entertained while I confront the worst task of first world human existence. Washing it isn’t that bad. Drying it isn’tthat bad. But putting it away? Yeesh. When you only have a small capsule wardrobe and have to do laundry more than most, I’m going to go out on a limb and say you grow to hate it even quicker. Or maybe that’s just one of my many personality deficiencies speaking.
Today is one of those days where throwing myself in the dryer on a steam cycle sounds better than dealing with this pile staring back at me. But, hey, that’s just my pessimist half talking. I can buck up, knock this out, and get back to my favorite hobby. Watching Weston work on his car like a creeper who hasn’t gotten laid in way too long. There’s some inspiration for me.
Thanks to analysis paralysis, I still haven’t decidedwhichcrop tee to wear tonight, hence the slight breeze on my nips.
At least I can still live in my van, even if I can’t drive her. The battery packs still work just fine, and Wyatt’s been kind enough to let me plug in as needed and even refill my water tanks from his shop. He’s a gruff sorta guy, maybe not as much of a dick as I originally thought. Nice where it counts, I guess.
Not like theotherGrady, who’s nice inallthe ways and then some. I fight a chill in the room, but my nipples still perk up anyway.
I swear, this set of tits was worth every penny just for the nipples that are always looking up. They might actually be where I get my optimism from.
Sure, it started off as a way to not look so slight, so delicate, give me a little more shape and curve and feel a little bit fiercer, but they’ve come to be one of my favorite parts of myself. That, and the other embellishment I gave them.
My laptop chimes with the familiar electronic beep of an incoming email, and I pause the podcast just as Jynx comes back from the ad break to check it. Hopefully it’s my damn employer coming back with the increase in workload I asked for so I have a way to cover the repairs Van Gogh needs.
