“Blythe.”

“Blythe?”

“Yeah, Blythe.”

Why the fuck would anyone want to cart their ass all the way out to Blythe?

“What’s in Blythe?” I hope the unasked part of my question is clear: Why drive out into the damn desert, almost all the way to Arizona? What could possibly be worth that shit? It’s already hot as fuck here, I’m clearly hungover, and I should stop this car right now until you get to explaining what this whole impromptu trip is really about.

“Tyler,” Jolene says as if that’s anything.

“What?” I keep staring ahead, at the road, calculating nearby drive-throughs, and maybe shitters (I feel something violent just starting to brew in a way that could end up threatening later). But I can’t keep my eyes from narrowing to a glare. The last thing my head needs is a new puzzle to solve.

“Tyler’s this guy, ok,” she explains, her voice trilling upwards, which I’m surprised not to find annoying. “He’s an influencer. I’m sure you’ve heard of him, actually. Tyler Groodom?”

“No.”

“No? He’s got a hundred million followers on Instagram.” She twirls her hair, which I could find distracting if I felt more alive and aware. “He’s the reason I came to California. He was taking pictures of me before. You saw those ones with the Cleo cover, right? In the bathing suit?”

“No. I’ve never been on Instagram.”

It’s only half true. In my abundance of spare time, sometimes before turning to porn as a second-to-last resort (I’ll probably tell you about my last resort later), I scan through newsfeeds on a few fake accounts I’ve made on Instagram, Facebook, and Tiktok, which are more or less connected to every girl I’ve ever seriously wanted to fuck. Of course, Sandradee’s pics are always my top priority. I have snipped screenshots of her ass in every outfit, from every angle ever captured, saved safely in a few secret spots on my phone and non-work laptop.

But I wish Jolene hadn’t just said bathing suit, y’know? I mean, if I’m being truly honest, all my fucking perversion within the family has gone to her sister, as well as a couple of my wife’s cousins, a little to my wife’s sister . . . Jolene and Sandradee’s mom. But I’ve never thought of Jolene as a hot young woman worth collecting covert pics of. Is that sad, or happy? I don’t know if I want to start thinking of her that way, giving energy to making her yet another uncapturable prize . . . her sister’s ass holding the solid top spot on that list. I don’t know if I can be bothered. Plus, something about it just seems…

“Tyler’s famous,” she announces, interrupting my thoughts. “And he said he’d…”

“Hold that thought,” I interrupt back.

Finishing up a few calculations that have to do with the space and options surrounding me, I pull into the Burger King parking lot just before the onramp to the 101. It’s all shitty and decrepit, with worn signs on all the buildings nearby, and faded parking lot lines. It’s the kind of place I’d be scared to stop and get out if I wasn’t such a fucking unpredictable oaf in the mind of any wouldbe attackers (just not worth testing, not compared to others). But I don't have to get out. I pull into the line behind a beat-up Buick. “You want anything?” I ask Jolene.

“Na, I brought some snacks for me.” She shows me a red plastic bag covered in some Asian language. I have no idea what it is.

“Ok,” I say as I pull up to the speaker box. 

A mechanical voice crackles through some recognizable words: “Sir, would you like to try our…”

“Just give me eight of those sausage croissants. A big coffee. You guys have those Oreo cheesecakes, right?”

“Yes, the Oreo Pie. It’s…”

“Cool, give me three of those. And that’s it.”

“Did you want your coffee king-sized?”

“What the f…?!” I consider being nice, but then remember I don’t have to anymore (since I’m fixing to die and all). “The fuck? Yeah, big. King-size. Whatever.”

“Sir, that’ll be…”

But I’m already pulling forward, trying to pry my fat-ass wallet out of my jeans and not hit the piece of shit car in front of me.

“All that’s . . . for you?” Jolene asks.

I look over and see this weird dreamy look in her eyes. “Yeah, it’s all for me. I had a hard night last night, ok? I need some grease to…” But I can’t be fucked finishing my explanation.

She laughs. I don’t know why (I don’t find what’s happening particularly funny). But she chortles like a fucking cheerful bird, all alive and happy and shit in the morning. Each ha jingles like a twinkly reminder she hasn’t yet been fucked over by life and bad decisions, and can still afford to disney-fy a situation like being stuck with her ailing (suicidal) uncle in a broken-down fast-food line in probably the dirtiest, most unkind, unyielding, insufferable cesspool city/county in the world (yeah, the county that happens to by my employer, but whatever). “What’s so funny?”

But we’re already at the window, which puts my eyes at torso-height of the young, thin, brown girl working there wearing slacks that sure draw the eyes.

“Your order will just be a moment, sir.” I recognize her voice from the box.

Can Jolene see me all but bending my neck sideways to watch this poor fast-food worker bend and shimmy her way around her tight, hot, confined little area to shuffle together my big bag of fatty shit? Doesn’t matter, I guess.

Hell, I’m sure I’d stay alive for half an hour inside this working girl’s clothes, too. Anyone, really.

She hands me my huge paper bag and coffee, which looks way too small to ever be called king-sized. Our fingers touch for a moment. I conjure up a lightning-fast fantasy of working there with her, squeezing all around her as we tag-team a lunch rush, touching unavoidably, taking breaks together, bonding over shared miseries, retiring to a tiny break room to explore each other’s private parts.

“Uh, you good?” asks Jolene, delivering me from my latest unhelpful fog.

“Yeah, I’m good. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” I wish I hadn’t said it.

But Jolene only smiles more.