Ali almost wrecked her car. “He what?”
“A blow job. You know what that is, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Ali replied grimly. “I do know what blow jobs are.”
Crystal shrugged again. “So I gave him one. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“You gave him a blow job for what, a Subway sandwich?”
“No. KFC.”
Ali could barely believe her ears, and she knew when or if Dave heard the full story, it would totally break his heart.
“I suppose you know what that makes you then,” Ali said. “If you’re selling sex for money or food, you’re a prostitute.”
“Blow jobs aren’t sex,” Crystal asserted. “That’s what the boys at school say-that you can save your virginity for marriage and still do blow jobs now. Just ‘friends with benefits.’ No problem.”
For a moment, Ali was beyond speechless. When she was finally able to reply, she measured her words very carefully. “Some boys will say anything to get what they want out of a girl. But if I were a nice man looking for someone equally nice to marry, a blow-job virgin wouldn’t be first on my list.”
Ali waited for Crystal’s response. When none was forthcoming, Ali glanced in her direction. The enveloping warmth of the vehicle must have affected Crystal because she had nodded off in mid-conversation. With her body sagging against the car door, she sat there with her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open, breathing deeply. Ali realized that she probably hadn’t even heard Ali’s parting remark.
As Ali drove on through the cold winter night, her heart went out to Dave Holman.
In the cold hard predawn darkness, a single vehicle, an SUV, slowed and then rolled to a stop in the middle of the Burro Creek Bridge on U.S. 60 north of Wickenburg. While the driver stayed behind the wheel, two people got out. For a few moments they milled indecisively around on the bridge deck. Finally they went to the rear of the vehicle and pulled something heavy from the luggage area.
They carried it over to the guard rail, hoisted it, and then shoved it over the side, letting it plummet to the floor of the canyon, hundreds of feet below.
The driver honked the horn impatiently. “Let’s go!” he yelled. “Somebody’s coming. We’ve got to get out of here.”
By the time Ali drove back into Sedona, it was already after six. Ali started to drive straight home. Then, at the last minute, she pulled into the Sugarloaf parking lot instead. As soon as the car stopped, Crystal stirred, sat up, and looked around.
“What are we doing here?” she asked sleepily.
The tough-broad act seemed to be working, so Ali kept at it. “You said you were hungry earlier. I’m willing to buy you breakfast, but on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“The people who own this place are my parents. They’re also friends of your father’s. So, when we walk in the front door, I want you to turn right just past the cash register, go straight into the restroom, and use soap and water to scrub that god-awful mess of makeup off your face.”
For a moment it looked as though Crystal was getting ready to argue, but the air in the parking lot was heavy with the scent of Edie Larson’s freshly baked sweet rolls. Eventually they carried the day.
“All right,” Crystal allowed gracelessly. “I’ll do it.”
It was early yet. When they entered the Sugarloaf, only the corner booth was occupied, filled with a bunch of regulars, a crew of construction worker bees who had to be on shift by 7 A.M.
As soon as Ali slipped onto one of the stools at the counter, Edie Larson came over, bringing an empty mug and a steaming pot of coffee. “If you’re not a sight for sore eyes,” she said, pouring Ali’s coffee. “An answer to a maiden’s prayer. And who in the world is that with you, the person who just disappeared into the restroom? She looked like something the cat dragged in-or maybe not even that good.”
“That’s Crystal Holman,” Ali answered. “Dave Holman’s thirteen-year-old daughter. There was some kind of family altercation up in Vegas. Crystal came to see her dad. I picked her up over in Mund’s Park about an hour ago.”
“A family altercation,” Edie repeated. “You mean she ran away from home?”
Edie always seemed to be two steps ahead of everyone else in any given conversation.
“More or less,” Ali answered. “She looked like the wrath of God. I sent her into the restroom to wash several layers of dead makeup off her face.”
“Looked like someone beat her up, too,” Edie observed, then she examined her daughter. “You don’t look so hot yourself,” she added.
“Gee, Mom, thanks,” Ali said. “But why am I the answer to a maiden’s prayers?”
“It’s your father,” Edie said. “He left me a note. He was out half the night on some wild goose chase trying to locate that Bronco of his. I know it was after one before he ever got to bed, so when my alarm went off this morning, I turned his off. I thought it would be better for all concerned if he had a chance to sleep in. With me in the kitchen slinging hash, we’re going to be short-handed out front. I was wondering if you could pitch in for an hour or two-just until your dad wakes up and can drag his tail over here.”
Ali, too, was dead on her feet and ready to be in bed. And this was part of the good news/bad news dynamics of being back home in Sedona-she was always close enough to be called on to help her parents in an emergency-if only for a couple of hours.
“What do I do with Crystal?” Ali asked.
“Does she know how to bus tables or wash dishes?” Edie asked.
“I doubt it,” Ali said.
“There’s no time like the present to learn,” Edie said. “You know where the sweatshirts are. Get one for you and one for her.”
When Crystal emerged from the restroom, her face was scrubbed clean. Except for the still visible bruise on her cheek, she looked altogether better. By then Ali had donned a Sugarloaf Cafe signature sweatshirt and had another one lying on the counter.
“What’s this?” Crystal asked, picking up the shirt as she slid onto her stool.
“Your uniform,” Ali answered.
“Uniform? What for?”
“For working here,” Ali replied. “If you want breakfast, you’d better be prepared to bus tables and wash dishes.”
“No way,” Crystal returned.
“No work, then no breakfast,” Ali answered.
“But I’m too young to work in a restaurant,” Crystal said.
“You’re too young for hitchhiking and a lot of other things I could mention, but that didn’t stop you,” Ali replied. “Now, put on the sweatshirt.”
Without another word, Crystal unfolded it and pulled it on over her head.
“What do you want to eat?”
“French toast. Bacon. And maybe one of the sweet rolls they have back there on the counter.”
“She’ll have French toast, bacon, and a sweet roll, please,” Ali called to her mother, who had retreated to the kitchen to oversee the grill. Ali turned back to Crystal. “When you finish eating, please clear the dirty dishes off the counter and tables and put them in that plastic dishpan over there. Then please reset the tables with clean silverware and new place mats and napkins. When the dishpan is full, please take it back into the kitchen. My mother will show you how to run the dishwasher.”
Several new customers and the Sugarloaf’s other morning waitress, Jan Howard, entered at once, all of them talking and laughing. Leaving Crystal to wait for her breakfast, Ali stood up, collected an order pad and a coffeepot, and headed off down the counter.
In the next little while Crystal wolfed down an order of French toast and bacon, two sweet rolls, a glass of
