Dirty Deeds (Get Dirty 3)

As the chorus begins, he gets louder, and I look over at him, enjoying the mindless way he’s getting into it. It feels like a peek into the real him somehow. Without saying anything, I join in, singing along with the radio and Shane, a trio of voices filling the car.

“I’ve never heard anyone out-sing the original,” I say as the guitar music fades and I wonder if September ever really is going to end for us. “You’re pretty good.” It’s an olive branch, making the first move to break the silence between us and I’m curious if he’ll take it or shut me out again.”

Shane looks over at me, a small smile tilting the corners of his lips. “Dad loved this song. He always thought that even though it wasn’t written about the 9/11 bombings or the Iraq war, that it spoke to him. He never was into what we did there.”

“But he was a cop.”

Shane nods, shrugging. “Dad was more Andy Griffith than Criminal Minds. He was the cop people came to for advice, the cop who’d walk into a domestic disturbance without his gun and get everyone calmed down. He always told me that he saw too much of the evil men could do to each other in Vietnam and he didn’t want to add to it. So the first time he heard that song, it stuck with him.”

It’s not a truce. There are too many questions unanswered for that. But it’s a pause on the inquisition, a recognition that whatever is going on and whoever he is, we can sing along as we run. And that there’s something between us, something building. It doesn’t have to be adversarial. Goodness knows, we’ve all got secrets, and maybe I shouldn’t judge him too harshly considering the one I’m still holding close to my heart.

By dawn, we pull over to check into another sketchy motel. Shane apologizes for the seedy accommodations as we pull in, explaining why. “Folks around here aren’t as likely to remember us and definitely aren’t as likely to talk. They don’t want anyone or anything putting attention on their own lives.”

“Whatever. I just need a clean bed, not a five-star fancy place,” I reply, trying to put a positive spin on things. “So, I guess no free continental breakfast?”

Shane laughs. “We’ll be in bed during breakfast hours anyway.”

My thoughts flash back to this morning in bed and how Shane and I had sex . . . kind of. Wow, was that just this morning? It seems so long ago, time both speeding by like a rocket and dragging like my ass after an all-nighter.

Once we’re in the room, Shane pulls the curtains closed and then plops on the bed, lying back and closing his eyes as he stretches out. “You can take a shower first. I gotta work this tightness out of my back before I do anything.”

He looks yummy as a bowl of peanut butter fudge, and I long to lick the sliver of his abdomen that shows where his shirt rides up. But I haven’t forgotten his earlier words, even if we have ridden in relative civility for the last few hours. “Call your guy.”

He opens one eye, giving me a semi-amused, semi-angry look. “No.”

I cross my arms over my chest, giving him all the glare that I can muster. Which, considering the difference in our sizes, probably isn’t much, but by gosh, I’m gonna try. “Call. Your. Guy. Find out what’s happening back home.”

I can see that he’s trying to think of an argument to get out of this, some way to reason with me, but he settles on being an ass.

“No. Take a shower. I’ll call, and we’ll see what he says.”

Knowing that sometimes, retreat is the finest form of strategy, I acquiesce. “Fine.”

Grabbing the micro-sliver of cheap soap off the vanity and missing even the luxury of tiny bottles of cheap shampoo and conditioner, I stomp into the bathroom, closing and locking the door before turning on the water. Instead of stripping off my clothes, though, I put my skills and my strategy to use, listening intently at the door.

I hear Shane dig around in his bag, and then an unmistakable start-up song as he turns the burner phone on. I can only hear his side of the conversation, but it’s enough for now. “Hey, Chucky. What do you got for me?”

There’s silence for a moment, and I assume Chucky must be giving Shane some type of update. “So, he’s a ghost? Probably wishful thinking to hope he left town straight from the job. What about us? Heard anything about my girl, Ma–Meghan?”

A zing goes to my heart when he calls me that. His girl. I like that, even if I know there’s more to him than meets the eye. He’s hiding something, but at his core, he’s a good guy. I’m sure of it.