Cut to the Bone (Body Farm 8)

Sometimes Janelle did good business at lunchtime on Fridays — white-collar guys cruising for a nooner; construction workers clocking out early, cashing their paychecks before the ink was all the way dry; family men looking to unwind before heading west to the burbs for a weekend of soccer coaching and honey-do chores. Today, though, Magnolia Avenue was looking like the main drag of Ghost Town, USA. Was there a wreck somewhere blocking traffic? Road work somewhere between here and downtown? Didn’t appear to be. She kept walking east, her back to downtown — her swaying ass to downtown, more to the point — but the six-inch heels on her boots were better for posing than for walking, especially on the broken, glass-littered sidewalks of East Knoxville.

She was on the verge of giving up, heading back to her room for a nap — might as well rest up for the night ahead, when surely business would be better, please God—when she heard a rumbling engine and the quick toot of a horn. The car passed her slowly, then cut into the parking lot of the Dollar store, pulling up right alongside her. A nice ride: an early Mustang—whoa, a ’67, she realized — with no dents or rust. Recent paint job, too, by the look of it, though Janelle didn’t like the garish shade of orange; for her money, black or red would’ve been lots classier. Lots sexier.

The driver looked well kept, too, and maybe about the same age as the car: twenty-five, plus or minus. Close-cropped hair, form-fitting black T-shirt, good biceps and pecs: gym muscles, not ditch-digging muscles. He should be good for at least fifty. Maybe more, if she played him right. “I like the car,” she cooed. “Whatcha got under the hood?”

“A big-bore slant six,” he said, winking to make sure she caught the double meaning.

She raised her eyebrows and smiled, to signal that she did. “And is that an auto-matic, or do you prefer… manual?” She flashed him a naughty smile and cocked one leg out to the side. Play it cool, she told herself.

“You know it’s a straight stick,” he grinned. “You good with a clutch?”

Janelle knew cars, and she could play this game with the best of them. “Baby,” she said, “when my master cylinder starts to working, your hydraulic pressure is gonna go sky-high, and your slave cylinder will explode.”

He laughed. “You win. Hop in, I’ll give you a test ride.”

“Where we goin’?”

“Far as you want,” he said. “How ’bout we go all the way?” The passenger door opened. “Come on.”

She sashayed toward the car, feeling the seam in the jeans cleaving her in a way that he couldn’t help but notice; feeling her breasts swaying in the filmy top; feeling his eyes roaming all over her. She was looking good today, long as he didn’t look at her face too close — the lines and the dark circles were getting harder to hide in the daylight. It had been her experience, though, that most johns weren’t all that interested in her face.

Stopping at the open door, she put one boot up on the sill. The boot came to the top of her calf, and the jeans — tight as second skin — were tucked in, giving her a leggy look that generally made men’s heads turn when she walked down a sidewalk. She didn’t lean down to talk to him; she kept her head above the roofline, so he’d focus on her body. “It takes some cash to fill up my tank. I got to keep the chassis nice and lubricated.”

“How much cash?”

“You want the turbo package, baby?”

“Come on. I’ll give you a hundred — fifty for you, fifty for the car lingo.”

She slithered down into the bucket seat, the jeans forming taut, fan-shaped creases at the crotch as she did. “That might be the tightest pair of jeans I ever saw,” he said. “Have much trouble gettin’ out of those?”

“I don’t have trouble gettin’ out of these,” she said, “I cause trouble.”

“You just don’t quit, do you, sister?”

“Brother, I am only just getting started.”

* * *

He parked the car under the billboard and shut off the engine. She stared out the windshield at the traffic whizzing past on the interstate, then she swiveled in the seat to face him. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Nope. I’m dead serious.”

“This is where you want to do it? A hundred feet off I-40, in broad daylight? No offense, but what the hell, man?”

“I got a nice little love nest right up that path there,” he said. “You’re gonna love it.”

“No, I am not gonna love it. You want me to do it in the woods, laying on sticks and leaves? Take me back. This is some kind of fucked up.”

He opened his door and came around to her side of the car. She reached for the lock, but there was no lock, and she thought, Shit shit shit, as the door opened wide. “Let’s go, darlin’,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Time for you to show me that turbo package you were braggin’ about. You are gonna love my hot rod.”

She slapped at his hand, but he reached in with the other one and grabbed her by the wrist. “Play nice, now.” He folded her thumb forward, down toward the inside of her forearm, torquing her wrist to a right angle, twisting her arm out to the side. The pain made her cry out, and she leaned forward in the seat, then leaned out of the car to ease the pressure. “That’s right, come on out. Unless you want me to break it.” He increased the pressure, and she gasped, expecting a bone to snap. “We’re gonna walk up into those woods together, and you’re gonna act real nice, to make up for being rude to me just now. Remember, darlin’, I am the customer. And the customer’s always right. Am I right?” He gave another quick squeeze, and she whimpered, clenching her teeth to keep from screaming. “Tell me: Am I right?” He bore down slowly this time, increasing the torque with excruciating precision.

“Yes. Yes,” she whispered.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you’re right.”

He was squatting down now so his face was level with hers, watching her closely as he twisted again. Smiling as he saw the agony in her eyes. “Say ‘Yes, sir

, you’re right.’ ”

“Yes, sir, you’re right.” She was starting to cry now, involuntary tears of pain and fury rolling down her cheeks. God, she hated being so helpless to resist, but more than that, even, she hated to cry — hated it for the weakness it showed; hated it, too, because she knew this asshole was getting off on it.

“Get out of the car, nice and easy. Here, I’ll help you.” He added some upward force, and she staggered out, almost vomiting from the pain in her thumb and her wrist. “That’s it. Now up that little path there.” He walked behind her, using the shrieking thumb and torqued arm to steer her, as if her arm were the tiller of a small boat.

Fifty yards up the trail he stopped and turned her to face him. “All right now, show me how you wiggle out of those jeans.” She glared at him, arms at her sides, not moving. He unbuckled his belt — a wide leather strap with a heavy brass buckle — and yanked the buckle. The strap seethed and snapped through the belt loops like an angry snake, then popped free of the final loop and writhed in the air between them, nearly hitting her in the face. “Don’t make me tell you again,” he said. Doubling the strap, he slapped it lightly against his thigh. Hands shaking, she fumbled with the button in her waistband, finally got it, and then unzipped the jeans and began pushing them down over her hips. “Not like that,” he said. “Work it. Make it good. Put on a show for me.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” she hissed.

The backhanded swing of the doubled belt caught her on the right ear and cheek; the force of the blow knocked her to the ground, laying her cheek open and causing her to black out briefly. When she came to, he was dragging her to her feet. “Let’s try this again,” he said. “Show me how you wiggle out of those. Slow and sexy. Put some shimmy in it. You need to put the ‘service’ in ‘customer service,’ sweetheart.”

Her breath coming in jerky gasps, she began to twitch her hips and sway. He kept time with both hands: his left hand flipping the belt against his leg, his right hand rubbing himself to an erection. His eyes feasted on the fear she knew was showing in hers.