Page 201 of Dirty Discipline, Vol. 1

I tell her all I know about him. The sad, the grit, the lust for life and experiences. I tell her how my heart opened more and more until I wanted nothing else than to follow him to the end of the world.

I tell her about the end.

“Oh, baby Summer, I can take care of myself.”

She’s so sweet, but that’s simply not true. She needs me in her life. Possibly forever, and that’s okay. She has my back, too. Emotionally more than practically perhaps.

“I know you can, Mom.”

Tiny white lies never hurt anyone.

We sleep at a seedy motel two towns down, then we keep driving. We don’t have a goal. We’ll find something and make do.

The second night, the motel is nice, even though it’s cheap. We eat and watch the news, then we sit in silence. Mom knits. I read one of Stephan’s books that he lent me. I couldn’t leave it behind.

We both nearly fly through the roof when a series of bangs thud on the door. My first instinct is to grab Mom and hide in the bathroom. Then I’m thinking someone who’s here with ill intent would hardly knock.

I open my mouth to ask who it is, but I never get that far.

“Summer!”

The booming voice, closer to a feral growl than something that comes from a man, slices through the silence. I stumble, then stop flat. My heart jolts in both instant fear and joy, making the eternally aching furnace in my chest flare up to new heights of pain.

I’d recognize that voice anywhere, anytime. Forty years from now, I’d still immediately know it’s him.

Stephan

I burn asphalt. I drink, and I rage. The first night I sleep under a bridge, my head on her green backpack. The night air is frigid. I freeze, I feel filthy, and extremely uncomfortable. I’ve grown used to a bed, a roof over my head, and a warm, trusting woman in my arms. I’ve gone soft.

Thinking about little Summer with barely any clothes, sleeping the whole night in the deep dark woods because I was a stupid fucking dick makes me stay put and freeze. I deserve every goosebump, every bruise and cut.

Two days later and four towns down, I drive past a little motel. A glance along the parking lot, for no reason at all—or perhaps because I’m unconsciously searching for her in every street corner—has me skidding to a stop. The wheels screech, and the bike jerks like a wild horse.

A sun-bleached pale green 1964 Ford Galaxie, the corners of the doors rusty, a side mirror tilted, stands parked at the far end.

I’d recognize that car anywhere.

Revving the engine, I make a U-turn and burn into the lot. Seeing no one, I park outside reception, barge inside, and slam my hand on the bell.

A short girl, a little plump, chewing a gum and looking utterly bored, emerges from a backroom where a TV is blaring.

“My wife and daughter arrived a little while ago,” I say and put on my best smile, hoping I don’t look too much like a bum. “Gracie and Summer Jones.”

She looks dazzled, then she steps into her professional role in the next moment. “Ehhh, they asked for a room for two.”

“They thought I was coming tomorrow when we’ll hit the road again and wanted to save the money. We’re going to Colorado. Experience some snow. Got a new job over there.”

The girl doesn’t look persuaded. She puts her hand on the phone. “I’ll call them to make sure.”

I put my hands on hers, then I lean in and grab the book, flipping it around, quickly catching the room number.

14.

“Hey!”

She lifts the receiver. I pull it out of her hands so hard the cord tears from the phone.

“Dick! I’ll call the cops!” she screams.

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