Chasing The Last Road To Stockholm

My White Knight had fucked me over with her, as well. I'd subconsciously felt sorry for her, and remembered that feeling -- below the radar -- when I'd met her again in my slimmer, more confident guise. That sympathy had pushed me straight at her -- although, admittedly, her looks hadn't exactly made me run screaming for the hills.

"You fucking stupid bastard!" I swore at myself. The cabbie looked at me in the mirror, and I hurriedly pretended to be muttering at my phone until he settled back to driving once more. I noticed he did keep glancing in his mirror at me, giving me the stink-eye.

At the hotel, Annie-May was busy booking in a couple and their kids, so I simply waved and went up to the room. In the lift, I began to wonder at the reception I was going to get. Fuck, life was so confusing sometimes!

When I opened the door, Summer was seated cross-legged on my bed. It had been made up to an extent and she was dressed in a long-sleeved jersey and jeans.

"Hi," I said, trying to suss out her mood. I was glad to see her, not knowing whether she would have just headed out on her own. After all, there was nothing keeping her here.

After my internal revelation about my attraction to Phoebe, I really wasn't sure whether Summer being here was a good thing or not, despite my gladness that she hadn't run off without saying goodbye. No matter how I felt, she was dangerous. She was holding secrets that might or might not be potentially lethal. I was going to have to make a decision about her soon, and unless she started to come clean and give me the information I needed in order to make that decision, she would have to hit the road.

Relieved that I'd managed to come up with some sort of plan that made sense, I sat on the end of the bed and gave her a smile. In return she promptly dismantled my resolve.

She leaned forward and took my hand, hers so small in my great paw.

"Bryn, I have to apologise to you. You've done nothing but help me all the way, and in return I've treated you very badly. I wasn't raised to be a bitch. My parents always taught me right."

She sighed deeply, making her chest do interesting things. I kept my eyes firmly on hers, noting that her eyes had become a little wet as she spoke.

"Last night, after you fell asleep, I thought about what had happened and how you handled the situation. And you were right. I've been a selfish, thoughtless bitch, and honestly -- that's not who I am. At least, it's not how I see myself. I have problems, but you didn't cause them. All you did was try and help me as much as possible. You were my knight in shining armour, riding to my rescue."

I felt a sense of panic start to rise in my gut. Had she guessed about the knighthood within me? If so, how was she going to use it against me? Every single woman I'd ever been with -- which was admittedly a very small number and if they all got together, they probably wouldn't be cramped in a taxi -- had seen through me and turned it into a weapon they could use. So what would Summer do with that knowledge?

I tried to keep my face calm and my breathing steady.

"I don't think I did more than any other guy would do," I suggested.

"Bullshit!" she said, those amazingly bright eyes locking mine to her. "You are a really nice guy -- a special person. I think we both know you could have easily taken advantage of my situation. I know I'm small and skinny -- a goblin, as you said -- but most men would still have tried to fuck me. Some would have forced it. I know you're not gay -- not with that reaction I felt when we hugged after my 'shower,' but you still didn't take advantage of me. I was naked and vulnerable, but you were a perfect gentleman.

"You're a rare commodity, Bryn Lake. A good man. So please, accept my apologies and my thanks for everything you've done for me."

My face was blushing. I could feel the heat coming off it, and for a surreal moment wondered whether I could actually toast bread with my cheeks -- and that I was hungry.

Sometimes your mind just skitters around from random thought to an even more random thought. So I simply said, "Breakfast?"

I knew what she was going to say.

"I could eat," she smiled, fulfilling my silent prophecy.

Breakfast at the restaurant was very different affair to the dinner we'd shared the night before. Summer seemed to have broken down some of the barriers she had put up, and we chatted and laughed through the meal, although both of us carefully avoiding any sensitive topics.

Finally, as we shared another pot of coffee, I broached the subject we'd both been avoiding.

"What are your plans now?" I asked.

She looked at me for a moment, and then gave a little shrug. I really liked it when she did that. She still wasn't wearing a bra -- and actually had none to wear anyway, which made the point moot -- and those little marvels did that lovely little dance for me again.

"It kinda depends on your plans. Are you staying here?"

"What? In Wichita? No, I have to head over to Nashville. I have a couple of meetings set up there for the day after tomorrow."

"Nashville, Tennessee," she muttered. "I've never been there."

The hint was as broad as it was long, and I smiled and gave a little snort. She grinned back.

"Then would you care to join me on my journey, then?"

"Oh my. I'll have to think about that," she said playfully. "Getting in a car with a stranger and heading off to the home of country music? You could turn a girl's head with an offer just out of the blue like that. And yes, I'll accept your kind invitation, sir"

She had switched accents and sounded a lot more like Annie-May than her normal Californian. I liked this playful side of her.

"Okay," I said. "I'll settle the bill now then and we can head off when you're ready."

"I'll pack up and get the luggage down," she offered.

Annie-May gave me her bright smile as I approached.

"Good morning, Mr. Lake," she said. "I have the keys for your replacement car here. You can leave the ones for the other car with me and I'll make sure they get back to the rental company."

"Wow," I enthused. "That was fast! And please, call me Bryn. When you say Mr. Lake, I keep thinking that my dad's caught up with me for not tidying my room."

On my way to the meeting that morning, I'd phoned the rental company and complained politely about the antics of the GPS system in their car. In the back of my mind, I had also had the niggling thought that if someone was chasing Summer, then my changing cars wouldn't hurt to throw off any pursuit. It had felt all very dramatic and television-world type stuff, but I'd enjoyed the idea anyway. I hadn't expected such quick service however.

We exchanged keys, I signed the chit for the account and then offered an envelope to Annie-May. She looked at her name on the envelope, and opened it with a puzzled look. Her eyes opened wider as she saw the contents.

"You've given us wonderful service, Annie-May. I wanted to say thank you."

For the first time, she seemed a little flustered. I guess being given a couple of monkeys as a tip for an overnight stay wasn't common, even in America. "Bryn, thank you. That's a very generous gesture."

"No more than you deserve, love. Enjoy it."

I took the keys for the new car and discovered it parked near the entrance. It was a shade of white and looked pretty much the same as most of the other cars there, which suited me just fine. I was never much of a car fan, and for me they were just a way to get from one place to another in comfort. Others enthuse and even name their cars, but for me they're just tools of transport, and my only real concern is that they don't break down. If they do, I'm completely lost.

I'd just unlocked it, when Summer appeared with a porter, pushing one of those little trolleys with all our gear on it. He helped me load it into the car, smiled at the tip, and we were off.

¬¬¬*****¬¬¬

Big beautiful woman, living it large

Shaking that ass, keeping you in charge

Pulling the men, whenever you feel

The need to pose, just keeping it real

(Chorus)

Big Mama, Big lass

Big-wig, Big ass

Big bang, big head

Big talk, big bed.

BBW (B. Lake) 2012

¬¬¬*****¬¬¬

ZERO HOUR +21

The police car blipped its siren, and I reluctantly pulled over to the side of the road.

It was an unfortunate end to what had been a mostly pleasant evening, a somewhat nervous night and a lovely, sunny morning.

When requested, I handed over my passport, international driving licence and the registration papers for the rental. He looked at them carefully.

"What's this about, constable... sheriff... officer. I'm sorry, we've just arrived for our holiday, and we're not used to—"

"'E's an hofficer," Summer interrupted me. She sounded very different. "S'right innit?"

"Officer is fine," the policeman said, looking at my passport carefully and then back up at us both. "So, you're British. Can I see your passport ma'am?"

"Yes, from Buckinghamshire," I said. I resisted the urge to stare at Summer.

"An' I'm from Lunnun," Summer chipped in, peering at him through her sunglasses. She unfastened her seatbelt. "Well, originally I was. Until Bryn and I found each other -- so romantic an' all, and then we moved in together and I got a job near 'is place. Look 'ere, I've left me passport in me case ... in the boot, so I'll 'ave to fish it out for you, orlright? 'Alf a mo!"

"Lovely hair colour, ma'am," the officer commented, seeming very interested in the errant curls that had crept out from beneath her cap.

"Fanks," she replied calmly, settling back in her seat and sounding pleased at the compliment. "I told that woman back at the 'airdressers in Wichita that I wanted summat different, like. I was tired of 'aving to bleach me roots all the time to keep it blond. So I just told 'er I wanted summat completely different to enjoy on our 'oliday. She suggested this colour, and I fought, Sally, why not just go for it. Treat yerself -- you deserve it, innit? So I did. You like it? I weren't really sure wevver it actually suits me, but me friend Sue -- she's me best friend, like, ever since school -- she says it don't 'alf go with me complexion and reckons it's the dog's bollocks. I texted 'er and sent 'er a picture, and she showed it all round in the grocers where I work -- great shop it is, if yer ever in the area and want to pop in for a cuppa char, feel free. Anyway, they all said it was bleeding brilliant! Even me mum liked it, an' she don't often like my choices. We've 'ad words, 'er an' me, in the past an' we don't always get on, especially after our Sharon's wedding, when me Auntie Tracy -- Mum's sister -- said what she did about our Kevin an' our Effie, and we 'ad a bit of a barney about that, that's for sure, but—"

"That's fine sir ... ma'am. You carry on and have a nice day. Drive carefully." I think he just wanted her to shut up. Even I felt beaten down by the non-stop torrent of vaguely-Essex-like chatter. She buckled up her seatbelt again.

"Well, I never! The cheek of it! I fought you wanted to see me passport," she called out to the officer in an aggrieved tone as I accelerated gently away, leaving the man shaking his head and trudging back to his car.

"What the fuck just happened?" I asked after a few long, tense moments as I watched the police car in my rearview mirror, while simultaneously trying to watch the road ahead and not stare at her in astonishment at the same time.

She began to giggle, and then came that laugh that sent out an all-points alert to Mr. Happy once again.

"Where did that awful train smash come from," I said, smiling helplessly. "Did you hit your head?"

"I thought it was bloody good, like," she said. Oh my god! She had gone from a bad caricature of an Essex girl, to a 1950's East End washer-woman to a Welsh accent that would get any comedian booed offstage for being racist.

"Agh! No more. Stop, please! It's like listening to some soap opera about working class slags from fifty years ago, played backwards."

"I'm offended," she said, pouting. "I got the accent from the servants in Downton Abbey, Eurotrash and that Brad Pitt movie, Snatch. I don't know why I did it. I just panicked."

"How did you know he would believe it?"

"I didn't, but let's face it - he's a Kansas cop. What are the chances that he's met that many British people that he would know whether I was from London or Scotland or even Australia or Nigeria for that matter?"

I nodded, guessing she was right.

"Well Netflix has a lot to answer for," I said. "But despite the horrible arbitrary mangling of my home language, it seems it was exactly the right thing to do. Hopefully he has a fix on two gormless British tourists, and not me and some mysterious fugitive running from..."

I paused for a moment, checking the rear-view mirror once again, and hoping she would fill in the blank.

"Nothing to do with you." I felt a wave of cold from her.

I shook my head, frustrated beyond words.

"Look, you're running from something or somebody, and I'm pretty sure by what just happened back there that the police are definitely interested. I'm trying to help you. But I can't if I don't know what to look out for."

She chewed on that luscious lower lip for a few moments. I saw her face sag slightly and knew she'd decided to come clean. The barriers had dropped.

"Okay. My name is Charlotte Anne Kennedy."

There was a long pause while I waited for her to continue.

Finally, I frowned at her. "And?"

"Charlotte Anne Kennedy!" She stressed each word.

After another pause, I shook my head questioningly. "Er... How do you do?"

She stared at me as if I was incredibly stupid.

"Of the Sacramento Kennedys," she expanded.

"Ooh," I said as if that explained everything. Sarcasm to the fore. "The Sacramento Kennedys. Right. Of course. How did I not put that together immediately?"

"You have no idea who they are, do you?" she asked accusingly.

"No. Sorry love, no clue. I've got nothing. You related to JFK? John and Robert?"

She gave a sound of impatience. "No, of course not. They're Massachusetts Kennedys."

I grew impatient. "Look, if I told you I was part of the Duke of Norfolk's family, how much would that mean to you?"

"You're related to royalty?" she asked, her eyes widening a little.

"Absolutely," I replied. "We're all related to each other in Britain. He's my second cousin once removed."

"Really? Wow!"

"No! Of course not! Or at least I don't think so -- I must admit, there have seen some real surprises come up recently when it comes to royal blood links. But what I'm trying to point out is that you know nothing of them, and I know nothing of the Sacramento Kennedys. Up until the time you told me different, I always thought Sacramento was in Texas or Arizona. Somewhere round there. Then you told me you were from California."

"Sacramento is in California."

"You live, you learn..." I sang.

"Okay," she sighed. "My family has money. I'm Charlotte Anne Kennedy."

"You keep repeating that as if you expect precise repetition to somehow give you a different result. That never works. God, it would make my life so much easier if it did. Programming would be a piece of piss."

She looked blank.

"Piece of piss -- really easy," I clarified. Despite her grovelling in the murky depths of the English language on television, she really wasn't clued up on the slang.

She paused for a long time, and when she spoke again, her voice seemed very small. "My parents died four months ago. I'd had a stupid argument with Dad, a really bad one about a date -- an all-night date -- that I'd been on, and then felt really guilty the next morning when I refused to say goodbye as he and Mom left for Washington. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, that I loved him no matter what. So I drove to the airport in a rush but got there too late. I was just in time to see their plane take off -- and then drop into the ground."

She released an awful sound -- full of loss and heartache and terror. Tears streamed down her face, and I silently squeezed her hand for a long, long moment.

"They didn't survive. The last time I spoke to my parents it was in anger, and I couldn't handle it. I went on a drinks and drugs binge, and when I came out of it, I was in an institution."

I nodded in understanding. All of my family were still alive and kicking, so I didn't know the pain, but I could imagine loss with no problem. I could easily remember loss.

"I have a large trust fund..." She let that trail off.

I nodded again. I'd known trust fund babies. To my mind they were normally associated with self-indulgent assholes who thought they bore no responsibility to anyone. Of course, that could be just the ones I'd met. She didn't seem like any of them.

"Over ten million dollars," she said in a tone that seemed to suggest I should be flat on my back with astonishment at her words. I wasn't that impressed. I had money -- not as much as her trust fund -- but more than enough for a single man, and more coming in each month. After a certain point, it's just numbers.

"Uh-huh," I said flatly in response.

She seemed taken aback by my lack of enthusiasm at her announcement.

"That's a lot," she pointed out.

"Eight million pounds," I mused. "Not bad."

"Not bad?" she shouted. "Not bad? Well, it was more than enough to get someone to have me committed, and then moved to a private institution here in Kansas, which effectively hid me from anyone who knew me. And it was more than enough to get me beaten and raped again and again and again as M-M-Murdoch tried to get me completely under his control. I don't think anyone knows or cares that I'm missing, and I don't think anyone will find me if they get me back there. Nobody knows what's going on. I'm not even sure that I do. Oh God, what if it's all in my mind? What if I really am crazy?"

She was sobbing now, her knees drawn right up to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around them.

I placed my hand on her arm. She didn't acknowledge it, but she didn't throw it off.

"Summer, I'm so sorry," I whispered.

"Yeah, well your sympathy and five dollars will get me a cup of coffee."

"Shit, coffee costs that much round here?"

She stared at me for a long moment, and then a weak smile broke through the tears. "You're an asshole, you know that."

Mentally, I breathed a sigh of relief that it had worked. I may very well be an asshole -- my ex-wife would be more than eager to agree with that -- but I had learned something in my ongoing crusade to rescue the wounded. Distraction can sometimes be better than confrontation.

She reached to my hand on her arm, and snuggled her hand in beneath it, holding on tight.

"I don't know whether Kerry, my godmother, knows where I was taken or whether she organised it, or who else is involved. I don't know anything! I can only presume that it's about control of my family's money.

"They kept me sedated a lot of the time, but I learned to slip those damn pills out of my mouth before they dissolved. Last week, when Murdoch came in for another of those fucking nightly 'training' sessions, I was waiting with the tray they served the evening meal on. I swung it at him side-on, and caught him across the throat and he went down, choking. I raged and kept kicking him, but after a while I realised it was more important to get out of there. He'd passed out, and his breathing sounded like a deflating balloon with someone stretching the nozzle wide -- you know, like kids do to really annoy every adult in the room. I didn't have a plan, or even an idea of what to do. I just stole his keys and sneaked out. I managed to grab a shirt out of a laundry trolley that had been left in the passage and a hat off a hook on the wall. I was so frightened I thought I was going to have a heart attack, but wearing something helped just a tiny bit."