“Sir,” Madison scoffed. “This is Stella McCartney,” she said, motioning to her dress.
“Okay, not your line of work. No problem. So you want the room for the night, then.”
“I’m not here to book a room,” Madison said with more than a hint of disgust.
He held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t act so offended. You know we’re all prostitutes in this life, baby. We just make our monies different.”
“Says the philosopher of the fleabag motel,” Madison remarked acidly. “Thanks so much for your wisdom. But I’m looking for a Charles Wardell. I believe he’s staying here?” She glanced over her shoulder at the guy on the couch, who was now upright and leaning by the door.
“Ready when you are, darlin’,” he said, leering. It was 11 a.m., and he was already (or still) drunk.
“Oh my God.” Madison clutched her YSL bag closer to her body. “Ew. Can you just tell me where Charlie Wardell is staying?” she said to the owner.
“Room nine,” he said. “I’m Earl, if you should need . . . anything.”
Madison rolled her eyes. He was talking to her breasts again. “Thank you,” she said coldly.
She turned on a heel and almost ran into the drunk. “Hey,” he said. “Aren’t you that girl on the billboard on Sunset?”
But Madison was already pushing past him. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She passed the tattooed man again, who waved, and hurried toward the far end of the building.
Her dad’s room was located between the fire escape and the Dumpsters. Madison knocked on the metal door and waited, feeling uncomfortable and out of place in her heels and short summer dress. She should have tried a little harder not to stand out. Too bad she’d thrown away the clothes she’d brought from Armpit Falls long ago; cheap denim and pleather shoes would have been just the ticket for today’s excursion.
Sometimes she wondered what her life would have been like if she hadn’t run away from home when she was fifteen. Would she still be miserable and alone, a fish out of water? Or would she finally have accepted her hardscrabble existence? If she had, she’d be settled down with one of the guys from the paper mill by now, the mother of at least two little brats and the proud owner of six Ford pickup trucks, only one of which ran.
She shook the thought from her mind and knocked again.
“I’m coming,” Charlie yelled. “I told you I won’t have the money until—” The door flew open and he stopped speaking.
“Oh! Mads, I thought you were Earl.”
“No, not Earl. Nice place you picked out.” Madison looked past her father into the dim, tiny motel room. She could smell cigarettes and bleach. The TV was on in the corner but its picture was blurry. There were two beds, both of them neatly made. She supposed he’d developed that particular habit in prison.
“Oh, where are my manners?” Charlie said and stepped aside. “You want to come in?”
Did she want to? No, absolutely not. But did she need to? Yes. She told herself that she was just trying to find what a therapist would call “closure,” but she sensed there was something deeper involved. Something weaker.
“Sure,” Madison said, and entered the room.
Dirty yellow curtains covered the windows; only a sliver of light came in. The comforters were probably mustard-colored once, but they had faded to a dingy shade that looked like the room smelled. There was a small Formica table and two chairs next to the built-in wooden dresser. The door to the bathroom hung ajar, one of its hinges broken.
“It’s temporary,” Charlie said, sounding apologetic.
“Of course. The Standard must have been booked.” She tried hard to keep the revulsion she felt from being visible on her face. She examined one of the chairs and determined it looked clean-ish enough to sit on.
“How are you?” Charlie asked.
“Fine,” said Madison stiffly. “You?”
“I got a job,” Charlie said, settling himself into the chair opposite her. “Well, I mean I had the interview for the job, and the guy said he liked me. He’s supposed to call later this week.”
“Doing what?” Madison asked. She had no idea how he’d made the little money he had.
“Mechanic,” Charlie said. “I was always good with my hands. Sometimes it seemed like I only had to open the hood and the car would just tell me what was wrong with it.”
“Really?”
“Really. Except for that damn Mustang. I spent years of my life lying under that thing and I never could get it to run right.” He laughed, remembering. “I swear, on a cold clear night you could just hear it rusting.”
A slight smile found its way to Madison’s face. “I remember that car. It was cherry red.”
Charlie nodded. “Yes, it was. Beautiful, but useless. Though I did get it up and running once.” Charlie reached into a Styrofoam cooler beside his chair and pulled out a Dr Pepper. “I took you around the block a few times before it shit bricks.” Charlie shook his head at the thought and popped open his soda. “You want one? I can get you something else, if you’d rather. They got a vending machine. Ice, too.”
“No,” Madison said. “Thank you.” She leaned forward a little and clutched her hands tightly in her lap. It was all well and good to share what few childhood memories they had, but she still needed answers. “Why, exactly, are you getting a job as a mechanic? I mean, Trevor is paying you. Isn’t he? To be on the show?”
Charlie gazed over toward the window, and a shaft of light lit up one stubbled cheek. “Mr. Lord did make an offer, yes.” He took a drink of his soda. “But I wouldn’t take it.”
Madison looked at him in surprise. Charlie had declined money to be on the show? But he so obviously needed it; he was living in this horrible place, and he didn’t even seem to own more than one pair of pants.
“Don’t look so shocked, Sweetpea.” His voice was soft.
“I’m not shocked,” Madison said, although of course she was. “I’m confused. Why did you say no?”
Charlie’s blue eyes met hers. “I told him I wasn’t here to cash in on your success, only to get to know you. Sophie said she didn’t think you’d see me unless it was on-camera.”
Sophie had been right about that, Madison thought. At least at first.
“That made sense to me, because this is your life now,” Charlie went on. “But profiting off it just didn’t seem right. I’ll be okay. I’ll get that mechanic job, find a studio apartment. It’ll be enough. Hell, it’ll be more than perfect if I get to see you and your sister. I’ve waited more than a decade to be able to do that.”
Though she might have been tempted, Madison didn’t ask him what it was that had kept him away so long. (He wasn’t in jail
