Knee Deep in Sugar Read online

  I miss my own car with the remote start and the good gas mileage.

  It's fucking freezing inside the car!

  Maybe even colder than it is outside.

  There's ice on the windshield and not all of it's on the outside.

  This living in the car shit is ridiculous-- what made me head this far north this time of year, anyway?

  But even though I know it was a stupid idea to come all the way up here under the circumstances-- I also know it made the most sense.

  I wouldn't hate the cold so much if I had a warm place to spend the winters. Maybe someone to spend them with.

  At least I have enough gas in the tank to run the engine and blast the heat.

  Thoughts of camping through an ice storm start to crowd into my brain along with all the other crap in there and I realize I honestly have no clue how bad bad weather can get in this place.

  Maybe I ought to just get on the road now?

  The SUV has 4 wheel drive. The tires are pretty new.

  I decide to thaw my quickly freezing toes and let the car warm up and defrost the windows while I do some research on what to expect from the weather and decide if trying to find a better place to tough it out is synonymous with sure death or not.

  Turning the key in the ignition, the engine churns but doesn't start.

  It does this sometimes. The car isn't used to being this cold any more than I am.

  I press the gas peddle a couple of times and turn the key again.

  Again, the engine turns but doesn't start.

  I repeat the process a few more times but I don't get any better results.

  Finally I turn the key back to the "off" position and let my head hit the headrest of my seat with a hard thud.

  My hands are numb even through the gloves I'm wearing.

  Idly, I think that if I licked the steering wheel, my tongue would probably stick to it. Although I can't imagine a reason I'd consider licking the steering wheel to begin with.

  I try the key again.

  Again, the car refuses to start.

  Money.

  I'd lick the steering wheel for money.

  Enough money to not be sleeping in my car in a new spot every week.

  Enough money to hide out on a tropical island instead of the frozen north of the Dakota badlands.

  Accepting defeat, I give up on getting the car to start and on any hope of heat.

  With a weary look back toward the hotel, I can see the warm glow of the lodge's lights mocking me through the frost on the driver's side window.

  Enough money to get a room, I think as the lights seem to wink at me.

  I let my let my body slump forward in defeat and frustration. My forehead hits my hands where they're still gripping the top of the steering wheel and I shut my eyes tightly like I can block out the cold along with the light.

  I'd cry, but I'm afraid the tears would just freeze my eyelids shut so I just sit there and try to find a bright side to the whole mess.

  Maybe enough money to hire a body guard. Yeah, that would totally be worth licking the steering wheel for.

  A knock on the window makes me jump.

  The figure on the other side of the frosted glass is distorted through the ice but it's definitely a man. A tall one.

  Another knock on the glass has me scrambling across the center console into the passenger seat, searching for a weapon on the floorboard.

  "Excuse me, Miss."

  The man's voice isn't familiar.

  Maybe that doesn't make him any safer, but I almost faint with relief.

  "Miss?" The shadow outside the driver's side door is wearing a hat. The hat's voice is deep and strong and kind in a way that convinces me it's safe to answer him.

  "Um...yes?" I open the passenger side door and cautiously step back into the night air, "Is everything OK?" I ask the stranger, poking my head over the roof of the car and squinting into the parking lot light behind the silhouette of the hat.

  "I was about to ask you the same thing," the hat tells me.

  It's not really a cowboy hat, it kinda reminds me of Indiana Jones's hat-- the top is dented in the middle and the brim is flat and not too wide.

  Like a park ranger's hat.

  Oh shit. He's not a ranger, is he?

  I mean...my mind scrambles, my thoughts tumbling over themselves trying to decide if I should be afraid of getting caught by a ranger or not.

  "I'm OK," I lie.

  Well, I mean, it's not exactly a lie. I'm OK right this second. Depending on your definition of "OK," I guess.

  I don't bother the hat with that though. He doesn't need my life story. He just needs to go back to where ever he came from so I can crawl inside my sleeping bag and try to live through another night so maybe I can find someone to jump my battery tomorrow and get the fuck out of here.

  "Doesn't look that way to me." I swear there's a trace of a laugh in his voice. It doesn't come out condescending though, it sounds caring and even a little worried.

  "Looks like you're not making it out of here tonight." The hat has a hand and it taps the roof of my car lightly, "You need a new battery."

  The hat's voice sounds very confident about its diagnosis and I don't know enough about cars or their batteries to argue.

  It's not news I'm prepared to deal with though-- even if it might not entirely be news.

  "What I need is a sugar daddy," I tell the hat sourly.

  It sounds sassier than I feel and I'm pretty proud of that-- all things considered.

  Grant

  I don't know what her story is, but it's pretty obvious things aren't going well for her at the moment.

  "Well I can give you a warm place to sleep at least," I answer with a dry chuckle at her sugar daddy comment.

  She's feisty, I can tell that much already.

  When I knocked on the window, I must have scared her half to death from the way she jumped across to the other side of the car. I thought for sure she was going to come out swinging a bat-- or something worse.

  Instead, she's standing timidly on the passenger side of the car, talking to me over the roof looking like she might jump back inside and lock the doors any second.

  "Um..." Her head tilts slightly. She stands on her toes to get a better look over the car, looking from me to the lodge and back and then scanning the empty darkness on the horizon like she's searching for something, "I'm not...umm..."

  I can see her features twisting in the parking lot light as she struggles for the words she's looking for.

  "I don't know you." She settles on, sounding confident but shaken.

  "I was just grabbing some stuff from my car any way," she tells me as she ducks down and reaches into the back seat, "I'm fine, you don't have to worry about me."

  Her car is covered with ice and I can't see through the windows other than the shadow of her arm as she moves stuff around behind the passenger seat.

  The back seats are folded flat and I get the impression that there's bedding laid down in the back of the car.

  She isn't really grabbing anything, that much is obvious.

  "Here, let me help," I volunteer, making my way to the other side of the vehicle, "the sooner we get you out of the cold, the better."

  "No really, I'm fine, you go ahead and go back inside."

  She says it too fast. Her voice scaling up an octave and her movements going still as I come up beside her.

  Beyond her bent form where she's kneeling into the passenger seat and reaching into the back, I can see the sleeping bag and extra blankets that are spread out over the rear cargo area. Along the driver's side is a small ice chest, a duffle bag with the zipper open and some clothing and toiletries stacked on top, and a small cooking pot with a tiny, single burner stove and propane canister inside it like a backpacker would carry.

  She's not a guest at the hotel.

  During the summer, when tourist season is in full swing and the state and national parks throughout the area are bustling with visitors fr
om all over the world, it's not uncommon for a handful of backpackers and wanderers to take up residence in the resort parking lots.

  Generally speaking I don't hassle them, as long as they're clean and respectful-- and, of course, pouring money into the resort with dollars spent in the restaurant and on supplies from the general store.

  This woman is different.

  It's early February.

  Winter still has us in its icy grip, with temps occasionally falling below zero and the coming storm won't be our last.

  Her earlier remark about needing a sugar daddy rings in my head.

  I thought it was just an offhand comment, the sort of thing people joke about when they're facing unexpected financial hardship-- like a car that won't start in the middle of nowhere.

  As I watch her rooting around in the back of her car like she's looking for something, I realize she's trying to stall. Probably hoping to convince me she's got everything under control and doesn't need my help. Hoping I'll leave her alone and go back to the lodge-- leave alone to freeze to death out here on her own, sleeping in a car that won't even start so she can run the heater.

  Her sugar daddy comment wasn't completely a joke and I know a damsel in distress when I see one.

  "Grab your bag," I reach through the open door and point over her shoulder at the duffle bag with its exposed contents, "and anything else you can't get along without for a few nights."

  It's my boss voice that barks the orders and her body language tells me that she doesn't appreciate it one bit.

  "You can't sleep in the parking lot in this weather," I say, trying to soften the hard edges I hear in my own words, "Get your things and let's go."

  When I first approached her, she'd reacted like a frightened animal assessing the danger it was in and preparing to run or defend itself.

  This time her body stills and her shoulders pull back before she backs out of the cab of the car to stand up straight and look up at me.

  If she still thinks I might be any threat to her safety, she doesn't show it. She's trapped between the cabin of the car, the open door, and me, so she wouldn't have much chance at getting away if she tried to run.

  The look in her eyes and the set of her jaw illuminated by the dimmer than usual glow of the interior dome light is unmistakable as she peers up at me.

  She's ready to fight her way through me if she needs to.

  "I'm fine, thank you," she tells me in a voice that's every bit as boss as mine, "You don't need to hover over me and you sure as hell don't need to tell me what to do."

  The strength of her tone is a contradiction to the mousy exterior of the woman that was huddled in a corner of our lobby earlier. That woman was hiding, trying to fade into the background and go unnoticed, poised to run at the slightest hint of danger.

  The woman glowering up at me now is prepared to stand her ground-- hell! She is standing her ground. Rooted to the space directly between me and the car with her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched in a way that defines the angles of her face.

  Her knit beanie cap is pulled tightly down so that it covers her ears, wisps of dark hair escape from the edges of the yarn and the amber glow of the parking lot lights reflect off her irises, obscuring their true color but giving the illusion that her eyes are made of the same fire I suddenly detect emanating from her.

  My first impressions are shot to hell.

  It's obvious that there's more to this girl than meets the eye and I have no idea what to expect from her.

  Our stand-off lasts more than a heartbeat; with her eyeing me fiercely, daring me to give her an excuse to release whatever energy it is that the she has pent up inside her that has her ready to strike at me like a threatened snake, and me struck dumb by the sudden urge to kiss her.

  "You can't stay out here," I say, gruffly ending the silent show down between us.

  Opening the back door of the car, I reach in and quickly throw as much of her personal things as I can back into the duffle bag and grab it.

  "You can't make me go inside," she snaps as she slams the passenger side door closed and hurries after me like she thinks she's going to grab her shit and get back in her car.

  I'm already half way back to the lodge though, wasting no time now that I've made my decision.

  Even though I'm not sure what my decision is yet.

  I hear her footsteps retreat and run back to her car and I'm momentarily tempted to turn around to see what the hell she's doing, hoping she's not calling my bluff.

  Then she's jogging to catch up to me and finally falls into a hurried pace just behind me.

  "Give me back my stuff," she demands as we approach the front entrance of the lodge.

  At the door, she stops suddenly and watches me as I walk inside.

  Realizing that she's no longer yipping at my heels I turn around and look back to find her on the other side of the glass door, as if she's being held outside by an invisible force-field.

  She stares at me, or possibly at the bag of her clothes that I still have slung over my shoulder, with a look of pain so tragic I feel like I just stole her dog.

  "Look," I tell her after opening the door between us, "it's pretty obvious that your battery doesn't have enough life left in it to get you any further down the road in these temps. I can't keep you from freezing to death in your car if that's what you really want to do, but I can keep you from doing it on resort property."

  Maybe it's the change in lighting, I still can't see the true color of her eyes, but in the vestibule lighting just outside of the lobby the fire I saw in them before has been replaced with a combination of stormy grays.

  "I don't want to stay in this place," she tells me. Her voice holds its strength, but a tremble in her cheek betrays her.

  I suspect it's not a case of where she wants to stay at all and once again, my curiosity about this woman threatens to overshadow my better judgment.

  "Well I don't want to have to call the sheriff out here to haul your frozen corpse out of my parking lot," I inform her, "So I don't give a fuck if this place isn't up to your standards or not, this is where you're staying."

  She looks offended and then she looks defeated and then she just looks exhausted as she reluctantly crosses the threshold of the door I'm holding open for her and steps into the lobby.

  Reaching for her bag, she looks up at me with eyes the color of polished steel, rimmed in deep blue, and shining with the vaguest hint of tears she'd rather not shed.

  "It's a perfectly nice hotel," she says quietly as I hand her back her duffle, "but I can't afford to stay here."

  I swear she's about to head back out side. As she begins to turn toward the door, I stop her with a hand on the strap of the bag hanging off her shoulder.

  "Let's figure that out after you live through this storm," I say.

  "If I do."

  The words are spoken low and to herself. I'm not sure she means for me to hear them at all as she lets me turn her around and lead her toward the elevators.

  I don't think she means the same storm I'm talking about and once again, curiosity-- and something else-- tugs at my gut.

  Cassidy

  The hat belongs to a man that could use a lesson or 3 in personal space. And manners. And minding his own fucking business.

  Still, as much as I want him to go away and just let me get on with my life, when he tells me I can't stay in my car tonight, he sounds genuinely worried.

  Since the hat turns out to also be sporting a very thick, suede barn coat that's far more prepared for South Dakota's winter temperatures than my medium-weight fleece jacket, it's pretty easy for his concern to seep in between the cracks in my self-confidence. This man obviously has a much better idea of how cold cold really gets here than I'm prepared for.

  That's probably why I lock up my car and follow him to the hotel when he takes off with my duffle bag.

  Well, that and because that duffle bag has my life in it and I'll be damned if I'm going to let a strange guy in a hat tak
e off with it.

  And because it's 7 degrees outside and falling and he's right-- I'm not prepared for this shit.

  But I can't afford a room at the lodge.

  I know because I've already checked into staying here. Even with the deeply discounted winter rates, it's just not in the budget.

  With a deep breath, I cave in and walk back into the hotel's lobby while the hat holds the door open for me before he'll give me back my duffle bag.

  The weather system that's moving into the area over the next few days is supposed to be pretty severe and I do a lot of mental math while I argue with the hat and barn jacket.

  I can probably swing one of the cheapest rooms until the weather clears. Except now I have to factor in car repairs that I wasn't counting on.

  If I can finish a few more hobo bags in that time, I should be able to recoup my money soon enough-- I just don't know if I have enough money on hand to pay for the room and the car and if the bags don't sell fast enough...

  There's not any wiggle room.

  I hate not having wiggle room.

  In the light of the vestibule just outside the main entrance of the lodge, I have a chance to add a face to go with the hat and the jacket.

  He's tall. But then, I'm only 5 foot 3, so most people are tall to me. Still, this guy is taller than most.

  The hat is pulled down low, covering his hair and it's even kinda hard to get a good look at his eyes under the brim. They look dark.

  His jaw is square and there's a roughness to his skin where it was probably shaved smooth early in the morning. His mouth is set in a hard line and it's fair to say the whole expression is nothing short of glowering.

  I'm not exactly surprised to recognize him as the man in the suit that was paying entirely too much attention to me when I left the lobby.

  He's probably the manager of the place, judging from the suit he's still wearing under the winter coat and the way he's so damned concerned about me freezing to death in "his" parking lot.

  With a heavy sigh, I follow him all the way inside the lobby and let him herd me toward an elevator while he babbles about the coming storm.

  He's got no idea just how stormy my life really is.