AN: Historically accurate representation of white bus travelers staying overnight at business owned by an African-American during the Depression in the Jim Crow South? Not likely. But I wanted Peter in this story and owning business, so reality—as it so often does—can suck it.
Chapter 9
Scarlett didn't know what possessed her, except that she was cold, and the goon was finding a bed for her to sleep on, for whatever reason. And although she felt sure that she would regret everything about this in the morning—or sooner, knowing him—the thought of a bed, even one likely to be hard, its blanket scratchy, couldn't make her care about what his motives might be. She'd think of them later. Which is how she came to be standing under an awning, next to the sign for Peter's Auto Camp, waiting for the goon to come out of one of the little cabins, and hoping he wasn't a dream.
Everything about this was starting to feel dreamlike. She was so tired, everything felt fuzzy. Being out in rain like this was surreal, and Pa would have worried that she'd catch her death of cold, and order her to roast under seven blankets by a crackling fire if he saw her now.
The goon reappeared in the doorway. "C'mon, c'mon, we're all set!" he yelled, his voice attempting to cut across the rain. He waved her over. Scarlett took in her surroundings once more and hitched his coat over her head to shield herself from the worst of the storm. Yes, his coat; he'd given it to her when she walked up the aisle, just after he called her a brat. It had been unpardonably thoughtful.
She crossed paths with the owner of the camp as she hurried over. He greeted her cheerfully. "Good ev'nin', m'am. Hope you and yo' husband rest comfortable now, miss."
Husband! Well, of course he'd have to… But he— ! Oh, what had she gotten herself into now? She stared so long she forgot to respond until he was out of earshot. "Th— thank you." she murmured after his retreating figure.
"Come on, come on, what are you going to do, stay out there all night?" Goon had come to the doorway again.
She resumed her path toward the cabin and the promise of shelter. A little porch protected the front of the structure, and she was happy to stand again instead of hunching over to cover herself with the coat. She stood in the doorway for a second, taking in the scene. He was smoothing out a blanket on the far twin bed. His suitcase lay open on the bed nearest her by the door. He turned around and smoothed out the blanket on his own bed. If he took any notice of her arrival, he didn't show it.
He turned away again, looking fixedly at the wall space between their beds. She looked around, taking in a tiny round table with mismatched chairs, a small stove, and windows hung with decorative, but shabby curtains. Her eyebrow went up of its own volition. She watched as he took a length of rope—procured from heavens only knew where—and tied it around a coat hook on the wall where he'd been staring.
"Darn clever, these Armenians," she noted, looking at her surroundings.
"Yeah, yeah, it's a gift," he replied, as he walked the short distance to the table, and tied the other end of rope around the chandelier (if you could call it that) hanging above.
"I just had the unpleasant sensation of hearing you referred to as— my husband," she began, hoping for an immediate explanation.
"Oh yeah," he said, thoughtfully, "I forgot to tell you about that. I registered as Mr. and Mrs."
Well, she had gathered that much. "Oh, you did."
He hummed in answer.
"Well, what am I expected to do about it?" she couldn't help but wonder aloud. "Jump for joy?" He had turned around again, and begun to take off his jacket. His sweater should have clashed with his tie, and that it did not, made her feel even less charitable toward him.
"I kind of half expected you to thank me," he said, smiling, as he hung his coat off the back of a chair.
"Your ego is absolutely colossal."
Meant to be an insult, he seemed to take her pronouncement as a compliment instead.
"Yeah, yeah." He waved her comment off as he turned to her for the first time. "Not bad. How's yours?" He grinned—he looked just like a picture book pirate when he did that! she realized—and moved toward her. She stiffened, but he only put a gentle hand on her arm to propel her further inside the cabin. Then he shut the door and set about unpacking his suitcase with the most infuriating, smug placidity.
"You know, compared to you, my friend Shapeley's an amateur." His response was to continue taking clothes out of his case. "Just whatever gave you the idea that I'd stand for this?"
At this, he straightened. "Hey now, wait a minute. Let's get this straightened out right now. If you're nursing any silly notion that I'm interested in you, forget it. I'm not a marrying man. And if I were…" his eyes swept up and down her figure in a cold leer. "Well, god help the man who ever really loves you. Anyway, you're off the market. You're just a headline to me."
He was horrid to imply that she had suggested anything like marriage, and his odd little speech about any man who really loved her... what did he mean by that? But before she could think to decipher it, his last words doused her irritation in new, cold worry.
"H- headline! Y- you're not a newspaper man, are you?"
"Chalk up one, for your side." She chewed her lip, scrambling to figure out how best to use this to her advantage. He didn't give her time to come up with anything. "Now, listen. You want to get to Ashley Wilkes, don't you? Alright. I'm here to help you. What I want is your story. Exclusive. A day-to-day account, all about your mad flight to happiness. I need that story." He did seem rather urgent. He was leaning toward her, his large, powerful body almost crowding her against the door. "Just between you and me, I've got to have it." He straightened, and the strange, pressing energy driving him just moments before evaporated. He went back to his suitcase.
"Well, isn't that just too cute. There's a brain behind that face of yours, isn't there?" Why had she said that? Now he would think she had noticed his face. "You've got everything nicely figured out for yourself. Including this." She gestured widely to the surrounding little room.
"This?" he questioned. "Well, that's a matter of simple mathematics. These cabins cost two bucks a night. And I'm very sorry to inform you, wifey dear, but the family purse won't stand for our having separate establishments. Besides, a husband and wife in separate cabins? Preposterous."
Scarlett had heard quite enough. She shook herself out of his coat and laid it on his bed. "Thank you. Thank you very much. You've been very kind." She turned and opened the door.
In front of her, the downpour that seemed to have no intention of letting up. Behind her…
"That's quite alright with me. Go on out in the storm," the reporter mocked her cheerfully. "But I'm going to follow you, see?" She turned back around, looking into his unnoticeable face, dread curling inside her. He leaned against the doorframe nonchalantly. "Yeah. And if you get tough I'll just have to turn you over to your old man right now. Savvy? Now that's my whole plot in a nutshell." He put his hand behind her arm again and steered her into the cabin once more, shutting the door behind her.
"A simple story for simple people. Now if you behave yourself, I'll see that you get to Ashley Wilkes; if not, I'll just have to spill the beans to papa." He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and patted her cheek dry where rain had blown in. She stared silently, a jumble of emotions rendering her temporarily speechless. "Now, which of these beds do you prefer?" Still speechless, but he must have taken her glance as indication. "This one?" he asked, pointing to the far bed. "All right." He turned down the covers for her, and pressed his hands into the mattress. He looked like a pirate again when he grinned. He lowered the shades behind the curtains, and took an extra blanket from his bed and shook it out. Scarlett watched in some amazement as he threw the blanket over the rope he'd fastened earlier.
"That," she said, waving her hand at the slight barrier, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "I suppose, makes everything quite alright."
"Oh, this?" he looked at her over his shoulder. She nodded. "Well, I like privacy when I retire." he explained, as if that was the explanation she had sought. "Yes, I'm very delicate in that respect. Prying eyes annoy me." He finished straightening the blanket along the rope so it would not slip, and turned to her. "Behold, the walls of Jericho. Ah, maybe not as thick as the ones that Joshua blew down with his trumpet, but a lot safer." He leered at this. "You see," he said, pulling at the sleeves and neck of his sweater, "I have no trumpet. And just to show you my heart is in the right place, I'll give you my best pair of pajamas."
He reached them out to her, and when she did not immediately move to take them, he tossed them at her instead. She caught them. She couldn't think of a single thing to say.
"Do you mind joining the Israelites?" She folded her arms, clutching his pajamas, across her chest, and smirked at him, this wretched blackmailing reporter who was not now and had never been her friend.
"Alright," he surrendered to her silent treatment, and began to shrug out of his sweater. "Perhaps you're interested in how a man undresses. You know it's a funny thing about that. Quite a study in psychology—no two men do it alike." He tossed the clothing carelessly onto the bed, where it landed on his pillow. Then he untied his tie. "You know, I once knew a man who kept his hat on 'til he was completely undressed." The tie joined the sweater, and he slid first one suspender, then the other, down his arms. "Yeah, now he made a picture," he continued, as if they were both participating in the pleasantest conversation in the world. "Years later, his secret came out. He wore a toupee." he whispered conspiratorially. Scarlett almost smiled.
He was unbuttoning his shirt now, and Scarlett was… well, if she'd been British, she would have been gobsmacked, but alas, she was American, so stunned will have to suffice. Scarlett was stunned. Not so much by his looks, but the very cavalier way he was simply undressing in front of a stranger—a lady, no less! She couldn't seem to make either her mouth or her legs work.
"You know, I have a method all my own." His shirt was open now, and Scarlett swallowed. He did not wear an undershirt, which for some reason was utterly shocking to her—almost more than seeing a strange man's—or any man's, for that matter—chest. Dark hair covered it, except along two lines: one, a thin white line arcing diagonally down his stomach, and an angrier mark, harsher contours marked by a raised ridge of skin, across the other side. Not that she was looking.
"If you'll notice, the coat came first. Then the tie. Then the shirt," he nodded to his cufflinks, which he was currently unfastening. "Now, ah, according to Hoyle, after that the pants should be next." Then he winked at her. "There's where I'm different," he said proudly, as if it was the greatest accomplishment. "I go for the shoes next." He grinned again. Without his shirt on, she half-expected him to follow this commentary with, "Avast!" But he did not.
"First the right, then the left." His shoes thunked to the floor. "After that, it's, ah… every man for himself."
And as his hands went to the waistband of his pants, Scarlett finally gathered her wits about her enough to scurry behind the blanket.